Page 4 of Hearts on the Mend

Truth is, I didn’t need much convincing to end up here tonight, and that should worry me more than it does.

She shrugs out of her leather jacket, and her white T-shirt pulls just enough to reveal a string of stars inked across her collarbone leading to a crescent moon on the curve of her shoulder.

“You’re staring,” she says.

I ignore the pressure in my chest as we sit down at a small booth, ignore the looks of everyone from town, ignore the way I grip my thigh under the table when she tosses her head back to laugh at something I said.

She thinks I’m funny?

“What’s good here?” She studies the menu with one hand, her elbow resting on the table, propping her head up.

“Not sure.”

“Wow, that gives me a lot of hope it’s any good.”

“Yeah?” I don’t recognize the teasing in my voice. “Don’t play tour guide often. Never here long enough.”

“I’ll have the burger and fries,” she tells our waitress. “And if you’re still serving drinks, I’ll have a vodka and Diet Coke.”

“Just a burger for me.” I hand off my menu, then it’s quiet again.

She drums her metallic purple nails over the tabletop before she leans forward. “You come home much then?”

“Enough to remember why I left.”

“So, no?”

The soft giggle she makes, that playful smile… well, my dick fucking twitches, and what I’ve been trying to ignore all night is becoming damn near impossible.

“Why, want to change my mind?”

“You always answer a question with a question?” She presses her chin against her shoulder, coy, but I don’t miss that low, sleepy scratch in her voice.

“You always invite strangers out to dinner?”

She tilts her head, then grabs a long fry and twists it through an enormous blob of ketchup. There’s no wedding band on her ring finger. “What are you running from, Mr. Knight?”

I have a pile of fries on my plate; still, I reach across and grab one of hers, taking a bite. “What makes you think I’m running?”

She spins her drink slowly, eyes dropping for just a beat. “Figure I’m wearing the same look.” She waves her index finger around my face, then shuts one eye. “That one. Your eyes scream burned out.”

I shake my head, focusing instead on the mark my leaky water glass is making on the tabletop.

She reaches for the salt the same moment I do. Her fingers land on mine, and neither of us moves for a second before she pulls back. “Sorry⁠—”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

Her eyes come up to mine. Fuck, they’re gorgeous.

The waitress luckily slides the check on the table, interrupting before I can make a mistake and blurt that out.

“Anyway,” she says, finishing her vodka and soda, “just in town for the night. Had to take care of some family stuff.”

“Where are you staying? I’ll walk you back.”

I drop cash on the table, already moving her toward the door. I open it, expecting her to brush past me. Instead, her hand lands on my stomach, as if bracing herself from melting against me.

I swear the heat from her fingertips burns through the fabric separating us. It does something because I’m hard now, and this is about to get complicated.