Page 27 of The Beat Match

“I have a second wind.”

“If you’re passing wind, I’ll take a raincheck.”

He barked out a laugh. God, she was funny. And he knew this Annie setting: sarcastic comedienne. He could work with this. “Come on, Anthea. Humor me.”

She stared at him, then strutted ahead.

They walked side-by-side, enough space between them that they didn’t touch. The physical and emotional distance maddened him. He didn’t understand why she’d been avoiding him, or why she hadn’t mentioned her DJ interest. He used to be her sounding board. A job she hated, a new one she wanted, dreams of a West Coast road trip she’d laid out in a scrapbook—he’d heard it all. Now she was keeping secrets. Dating a player like Duncan.

Maybe his deceptions were to blame. His secret identity and DJ life. He’d left her standing in an alley, for God’s sake, rather than come clean about being Falcon. He still hated himself for that cowardly act. He’d probably stonewalled her at other times, insensitive slips, pushing her away without realizing it, all in the name of his alter ego.

“What have you been up to lately?” he asked.

“This and that.”

“Been going out at night?”

“Some, not much.”

Talking to a brick wall was easier. “Did you happen to swap bodies with a moody thirteen-year-old?”

“That’s rich coming from a control freak who still treats me like I am thirteen.” She slammed to a stop, pressed her fingers to her lips. “God, Wes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” Her hand shook slightly.

His shoulders seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. “You don’t ever have to apologize to me. Today’s a rough day.”

Her hazel eyes were all forest tonight. Dense, unreadable. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” She wrapped her arms around her middle.

He shoved his hands back into his pockets. It was either that or pull her into his chest. “Yeah, I’m fine, too.”

He’d driven to the bar from work, had barely taken a break to eat today. Aside from running on his treadmill until his thighs cramped and his lungs screamed, the only non-work activity he’d done in the past five days was see Rosanna.

Since their deal, she’d made an effort to talk when they were out. They’d even laughed some. Yesterday had been their third public date. She’d regaled him with stories of her wild parties, the havoc she’d caused. She had no qualms talking to him about other men. He’d even told her about Annie. No details about his complex feelings for her, but he’d found himself telling stories, laughing, bringing her up often. But he’d never mentioned today’s date and its significance.

“So,” Annie said, awkwardness drifting between them. “I guess we’re both fine.”

“Seems that way.” His old therapist would have had a field day with this level of denial. “But I think you’re lying.”

She snorted. “You’re lying more than I’m lying.”

It was a childish comeback, but she was right. He was lying about Falcon, about that kiss, about his secret DJ life. He was lying to the world about Rosanna, and he’d been lying to Annie about Leo’s death for thirteen years.

“Liar or not, I could use that drink. You still in?” he asked.

Her attention drifted to his left, then dragged to her feet. A beat later, she nodded.

* * *

Annie was tired, emotionally, physically, and the patrons at Sticks and Stones sure put the dive into this bar. The first man she passed smelled like urine, the second like he’d slept in someone’s gym bag, and her heels kept sticking to the floor. She had a sneaking suspicion the pretzels in those bowls had been swept up and reused.

“I knew there was a reason I’ve never walked in here.” She scrunched her nose at a dark stain on the floor.

Wes settled into a booth bench. “Place seems fine to me.”

She gave him a condescending smile. “Says the guy who insists on having his towels laundered daily by his personal housekeeper, ensuring only the softest material touches his dainty hands.”

He held up his hands. “These are not dainty.”

No, they weren’t. Wes’s cuffs were rolled to his elbows. Muscles defined his masculine forearms, veins stretching along his hands. He had big hands. Strong hands. Very non-dainty hands. “Dainty is as dainty does,” she said.