Page 38 of Let the Light Shine Through

“So?”

“Still want that date, cowboy?”

If only she knew.

Gia

For some reason, I’m not entirely sure of, I tell Roz to go to my dad’s pizzeria. Since it’s a weekday, my dad should be home and in bed already, leaving the place to us. I’ve been here after hours, of course, but usually to clean, or prep for a big event, or take inventory, but never for a…date. Is that what we’re calling this?

What a weird-ass day.

First, I woke up thinking about Roz. After weeks of trying to forget about the guy, he was literally all I could think about. I found myself wondering what he was doing, if he’d washed my lip print off his truck yet, why he hadn’t returned my underwear already. He didn’t have my number, but he had my address. He could’ve brought my clothes by any time in the last three weeks. At least I thought he would.

I hoped he would.

Ending up in the park near his house after a long ride around town wasn’t intentional per se, but I wasn’t exactly avoiding it either.

Then, he showed up. Just materialized in front of my face as if my overactive thoughts alone summoned him. And I knew instantly why he hadn’t dropped off my clothes. Roz had been torturing himself—again. I don’t know what he’s been up to for the last few weeks, but I know what he hasn’t been up to and that’s being a part of the beautiful, complicated world we’re lucky enough to temporarily inhabit.

I could’ve told him to fuck off. I probably should’ve. It’s weird how much I think about him. Worry about him. Dream about him.

But I didn’t. And now look at us. Me, with a possible broken rib, and Roz, thinking we’re out to a romantic date.

I just wanted to push him a little. I wanted to see if he had it in him still—the drive, the will, the life. He does. He so fucking does. Roz is choosing to waste it though.

I deactivate the alarm once we’re through the front door of Al’s, then give Roz the abridged version of the tour since I’m keeping most of the lights off anyway.

Guys dig candlelight, right?

A snort escapes me before I can stop it. Good gawd, what is happening? I never try this much.

In the walk-in cooler, I dump a handful of ice into a bag before swiping a prepared calzone on my way out. No idea what’s in it, but I’m starving. That skunk earlier was the worst of the worst and gave me the munchies without any high whatsoever.

The pan is pried from my grasp as soon as I enter the kitchen and Roz motions to the chair in the corner, telling me to sit down.

Doing as I’m told—seriously, what the hell’s happening?—I take a seat, watching Roz fumble with preheating the industrial-size oven. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s the wrong temperature but how bad are burnt edges, really? As long as the cheese inside is melted all the way through, I’m good.

While the oven heats, he sets the pan aside to squat in front of me. His eyes go straight to my shirt and I know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth, so without wasting either of our time, I grip the hem, ready to remove it myself.

Roz shoots a hand out to stop me though, saying, “I’ll do it.”

Carefully, so fucking careful, he lifts the material up and over my head. The room is dimly lit without the usual brights on, but I know he can see everything. I keep my gaze on the floor, wishing he’d get it out of the way and just ask. It’s not like he hasn’t already.

All he says is, “Show me where it hurts.”

Gluing my eyes to his, I point to the general area, then he starts feeling around my rib cage, trying to pinpoint what might be the cause. My rising hiss is cut short by the oven’s ding, letting us know it’s at temp.

Roz puts the calzone into the oven before returning to the spot in front of my chair and, using whatever medical degree he must think he earned somewhere along the line of being a professional snowboarder, he continues poking until we find the most tender spot. To reach the injured rib just under my sports bra, he slides his fingers under the band, applying more pressure. I gasp out a string of curses but Roz doesn’t ease up one bit. Just as I contemplate shoving him and his imaginary doctorate off, his touch finally softens to gentle skin-deep circles, allowing me to release a choppy breath.

“Nothing’s broken. It’s just bruised.”

“Yeah, now it is,” I scoff.

In a slow descent, he leans forward to replace his fingers with his lips, then the word “sorry” is murmured against my skin, making my eyes close.

A whisper of my own comes out. “Six.”

“Six what?”