Page 138 of Savage Surrender

“I’ve got it.”

She watches me fail again. “Please.”

Her fingers slide beneath the knot before I can decide whether refusing would frighten her more. One knuckle brushes my throat, and I trap a groan low in my chest. She has always done this - walked into whatever space exists between us as if there couldn’t possibly be a locked door there. She’s never liked boundaries.

The tie loosens, and I can breathe a little easier if she moves back.

But she doesn’t.

“Jacket,” she says again, softer this time.

I shrug it off. She lays it across the back seat, wets the napkins, and presses them to the middle of the stain against my chest. Cold reaches my skin. Her other hand settles against my side to hold the shirt flat, and my ribs lock beneath her hand. Her tongue sticks out as she concentrates. I look away, not wanting her to see what her touch does to me.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the prob, Bob?”

I can’t tell her the problem is her. I can’t tell her how often I think about her touching me. She trusts me. At least, I think she does. Maybe she understands more than I’ve allowed myself to consider.

“My father will be at the meeting,” I say.

Bianca stops patting at the stain and looks up at me. Her face changes as she fits my father into all the small things she’s noticed about me. She doesn’t tell me I’m being ridiculous to fear him, but it’s been ingrained in me since birth that disappointing him is the worst thing I can do.

“Can you skip it?”

“No.”

“Call and say you had car trouble.”

I look at her. “He would send a car for me.” And then there would be an additional consequence for the trouble.

“Okay.” Her mouth presses into a flat line. “Then we’ll get as much of it out as we can.”

She wets another napkin. Apparently, that’s the end of the discussion. The stain is now something she’s angry with, and she works at it until her brows pull together and a strand of hair falls across her eye. She blows at it once, misses, and keeps going.

She smells like peppermint toothpaste and the shampoo she’s used for years. It’s just Bianca, close enough that every breath brings her further inside.

She dabs at the stain until she’s satisfied.

“Done. That should be less obvious once it dries.” She looks up and realizes I’m already watching her.

Her features relax as she inspects the shirt, satisfied. I want to kiss her badly enough that I have to make an effort not to. The feeling isn’t new. That’s the problem. It’s been growing underneath years of ordinary mornings - the rides, the calls when she can’t sleep.

Her eyes move over my face and catch on my mouth. Maybe I imagine the pause. Or maybe she feels it too, because she doesn’t move away.

I don’t trust myself to decide what any of that means.

I take the napkins from her hand. “You should put your seat belt on.”

Something closes in her face. Hurt, maybe. Embarrassment. I nearly reach for her before I’ve even finished moving away.

“Sure.” She sits back and screws the cap onto her bottle. “Wouldn’t want to make you any later.”

“Bianca.”

“We should go.”