Salvation by Noelle Adams Page A
Authors: Noelle Adams
projects now?”
See, when you know someone well enough, there are things you know you shouldn’t say. Certain things you skirt around by habit because you know it will hurt them or make them angry or raise their hackles.
There was no excuse for me here. I knew this was one of those things I just couldn’t say to Gideon because I knew how he’d react. And stupidly I said it anyway because I was uncomfortable with the way he was looking at me.
As soon as I’d said the words, I knew they were wrong. I knew it even before I turned around and saw his expression.
“What does that mean?” he demanded, all of the warmth on his face closing down in a frown.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, hoping to take it back. “It was just a silly joke. Sorry.”
He wasn’t going to let it go, though. He put a hand on my shoulder to keep me standing in front of him, since I’d started to step away. “What did you mean by that, Diana?”
“I said it was nothing.”
“You said you were a project.”
“It was a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t a joke.” His body had gotten as tight as his expression, and I knew he was troubled by the implications. All along, I knew he would react this way, which is why I never should have said it. “You meant it. You think you’re my project ?”
Now I was upset and uncomfortable in an entirely different way than I’d been the minute before. “Why are you making a big deal about it? It was just a random thing to say.”
“Except it wasn’t. You really think it. How can you think you’re just my project?”
I should have just said I was sorry and closed the conversation down. He would still have been bothered by it, but it wouldn’t have had to go further. But I was too upset now in too many ways to reason this out in my head. Instead, I just burst out, “Because I am . I am your project. You’re in this to fix me. You feel guilty or responsible or something, and you’ve gotten it in your head that fixing me is the way you can make things right. We both know that’s true.”
I was clinging to the edge of the counter with one hand as I stared up at him, breathing heavily.
Gideon was a beautiful man—with his strong jaw and strong forehead and well-cut cheekbones and expressive mouth, with his broad shoulders and lean hips and long legs and well-developed arms and thighs. He could have been a Greek god with his light brown hair and blue eyes. He was beautiful. Like a work of art. And he was full of strength and humor and deep emotion and kindness at the heart of him.
And he was impossibly distant, too far away for the person I’d become to ever reach, even as he stood right in front of me in that kitchen.
“That’s not true,” he said at last, a hoarse edge to his voice. “That’s not true.”
“It is true. Maybe you’re not even consciously aware of it, but it’s true. It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for me because I really, really do. But I know what I am to you.” I had to look away because the expression in his eyes was too painful to process. “I’m a project. A thing to be fixed.”
“That is not what you are.” He sounded confident now, almost angry. He must have figured out a plausible way to deny what was plain as day, staring us both in the face. “You don’t get to impose that on me. I care about you, so I want you to heal. It’s not about being a project.”
It was a good answer, but I didn’t believe a word of it. But this conversation suddenly felt dangerous, so I needed to take immediate steps to end it. With a little shrug, I said, “Okay. Good. Whatever.” Then I turned around to walk out of the kitchen.
Gideon caught up to me near the table and grabbed my arm, swinging me back around to face him. “You’re not a project to me, Diana.”
I shook my arm out of his grip. “I said fine. I get it. Let’s let it go.”
“I’m not going to let it go. So, all this time, you’ve thought that I saw you as nothing
See, when you know someone well enough, there are things you know you shouldn’t say. Certain things you skirt around by habit because you know it will hurt them or make them angry or raise their hackles.
There was no excuse for me here. I knew this was one of those things I just couldn’t say to Gideon because I knew how he’d react. And stupidly I said it anyway because I was uncomfortable with the way he was looking at me.
As soon as I’d said the words, I knew they were wrong. I knew it even before I turned around and saw his expression.
“What does that mean?” he demanded, all of the warmth on his face closing down in a frown.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, hoping to take it back. “It was just a silly joke. Sorry.”
He wasn’t going to let it go, though. He put a hand on my shoulder to keep me standing in front of him, since I’d started to step away. “What did you mean by that, Diana?”
“I said it was nothing.”
“You said you were a project.”
“It was a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t a joke.” His body had gotten as tight as his expression, and I knew he was troubled by the implications. All along, I knew he would react this way, which is why I never should have said it. “You meant it. You think you’re my project ?”
Now I was upset and uncomfortable in an entirely different way than I’d been the minute before. “Why are you making a big deal about it? It was just a random thing to say.”
“Except it wasn’t. You really think it. How can you think you’re just my project?”
I should have just said I was sorry and closed the conversation down. He would still have been bothered by it, but it wouldn’t have had to go further. But I was too upset now in too many ways to reason this out in my head. Instead, I just burst out, “Because I am . I am your project. You’re in this to fix me. You feel guilty or responsible or something, and you’ve gotten it in your head that fixing me is the way you can make things right. We both know that’s true.”
I was clinging to the edge of the counter with one hand as I stared up at him, breathing heavily.
Gideon was a beautiful man—with his strong jaw and strong forehead and well-cut cheekbones and expressive mouth, with his broad shoulders and lean hips and long legs and well-developed arms and thighs. He could have been a Greek god with his light brown hair and blue eyes. He was beautiful. Like a work of art. And he was full of strength and humor and deep emotion and kindness at the heart of him.
And he was impossibly distant, too far away for the person I’d become to ever reach, even as he stood right in front of me in that kitchen.
“That’s not true,” he said at last, a hoarse edge to his voice. “That’s not true.”
“It is true. Maybe you’re not even consciously aware of it, but it’s true. It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for me because I really, really do. But I know what I am to you.” I had to look away because the expression in his eyes was too painful to process. “I’m a project. A thing to be fixed.”
“That is not what you are.” He sounded confident now, almost angry. He must have figured out a plausible way to deny what was plain as day, staring us both in the face. “You don’t get to impose that on me. I care about you, so I want you to heal. It’s not about being a project.”
It was a good answer, but I didn’t believe a word of it. But this conversation suddenly felt dangerous, so I needed to take immediate steps to end it. With a little shrug, I said, “Okay. Good. Whatever.” Then I turned around to walk out of the kitchen.
Gideon caught up to me near the table and grabbed my arm, swinging me back around to face him. “You’re not a project to me, Diana.”
I shook my arm out of his grip. “I said fine. I get it. Let’s let it go.”
“I’m not going to let it go. So, all this time, you’ve thought that I saw you as nothing