Page 133
Kristi had been right about that too.
You don’t love him.
You don’t know what love is.
It had been their worst fight, and they hadn’t spoken for a month after.
She tipped her forehead against the cool glass, willing the thought to follow the rain and spatter on the cement below.
Kristi’s shoulder looked cold, and as Riley passed, she tucked the duvet under her chin.
She brushed Kristi’s hair off her face and fear squeezed her heart in one sharp pulse before she shook it loose.
When she’d collapsed in the club…
They were fine. For now.
Riley slipped out of the room. Cookie trotted up, nails clicking on the floor, and she bent to pet him. “Hi, mister,” she whispered. He thumped her once with his tail and then took up position at her side like a trained guard dog.
The single hanging fixture that illuminated the dining table cast the living room and rest of the loft in shadows. Saint, Aaron and Wheeler were deep in conversation at the table, empty glasses in front of them, and a near-full bottle of scotch sat untouched. They hadn’t noticed her.
She stopped and her stomach clenched tight.
There was a fourth man at the table, half-hidden behind Wheeler. A gasp escaped, and it killed their conversation.
Cookie growled at her feet.
Dead silence reigned as they all turned to her. Saint looked at her, and for a moment, dread flickered in his dark eyes.
Riley went cold.
“Hey,” Saint said and rose to his feet. He crossed the distance to her and then blocked her view of the stranger with his body. “Did we wake you?”
Riley searched his eyes, and they were soft and warm and steady again.
“No, it’s okay.”
Saint smoothed a hand over her shoulder.
“Who is that?”
He looked her over like he was checking for injuries. “Are you tired?”
“No,” she said and leaned around him. He moved with her. “Who is it?”
It was rude to stand and whisper about someone within earshot, so Riley pushed her way past Saint. He finally let her and became a silent wall at her back.
If the guy is that bad, why is he in the house? She glanced over her shoulder at him, but he wasn’t looking at her.
Cookie trotted over to the table and sat, tail thumping gently.
The man looked her up and down, and Riley became very aware that she was in another one of Saint’s t-shirts—with no bra, just up from bed—after a harrowing forty-eight hours.
Excellent first impression.
He didn’t look too fancy himself. Dark circles stood out under coal-black eyes, and an unkempt beard hid most of his face.
A dusty t-shirt clung to his body. He wore the same tactical pants that Saint and Wheeler had at the club, and while he was a few years younger, a head shorter, he reminded her of Saint.
