Page 82 of Famous for a Living

Now it’s my turn to pause. I twist the mug in my hands.

Not really sure if this is something I want to say.

In fact, these are words I never say.

“No. My life the past thirteen years has been all threats and failed attempts. My life before that wasn’t so lucky.”

A crease forms between his brows as Zaiah’s eyes darken.

I halfway expect him to jump in, asking me what happened, begging for details. But he doesn’t. He just leans against a barstool beside the bistro table, watching me, a look of patience on his face as if he has all the time in the world if I want to share. Or don’t.

A light turns off, signaling it’s officially time to go.

I don’t know why, but I feel compelled not to leave him hanging. To tell him the rest of the story. So he knows. This is me. This is also me.

And what do you think of that?

I turn my head and pull back my curls from behind my ear. Run my finger down the smooth scar falling along the back side of my scalp. The thin, raised scar never grew hair back. It’s almost invisible to the untrained eye, even when I put my hair up. But here, now, I pull the part up just right so he can see.

“How did that—?” he begins.

“Beer bottle. My father has impeccable aim,” I say wryly. “I was all the way across the room, and yet . . .” I shrug. “Not quite fast enough that time. A friend got my call and took me to the hospital. I took the bus to New York from there. Never went back.”

Storm clouds churn in Zaiah’s eyes. His hand releases the mug on the table. He shifts and takes a step forward, getting a better look.

As he does I take in a breath of him, the sudden scent of something beyond just cold and pine. Something distinct. Something that tickles my nose.

Cologne?

Zaiah put on cologne tonight?

I feel a tickle along my spine as his hand touches my hair, pulling it back.

His face hovering inches above mine.

That hard, handsome face of his is cold as steel as he traces the wound that required thirty-two stitches, following it all the way down to the nape of my neck.

Something catches in his throat as he finishes. The whisper of a growl in his chest. The rising of anger. Fury.

He clears his throat.

There’s something about his breath this close to me, his concern hovering over me, that makes my knees threaten to quake. “Terry never knew?” he says quietly.

I raise a brow. “Do you honestly think he wouldn’t be in jail right now for murder if he did?” I laugh lightly. The air crackles a little with Zaiah standing so close. It’s making me feel a little dizzy, actually. A little bit like my feet are having a hard time finding the floor.

My mouth opens, searching for something—anything—to say.

And whereas I feel myself loosening, Zaiah’s fingers tighten around my curls. His hand clenches, fingers sweeping the back of my neck momentarily, before he lets go.

Takes a step back.

And there it is. Fire in his eyes.

“That’s a horrible thing to have experienced, Cat. I’m so”—he swallows, his Adam’s apple running down his throat—“I’m so sorry.”

“You weren’t there. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

It’s surprising to see him like this. So affected. Such strong emotion running across his face.