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“So you grew up here, in Madison?”
“Yeah.”
“And went to school with Zane and the other guys?”
I nod. “And you grew up in Philadelphia?”
“Lived there most of my life. Left a year and a half ago.”
“Running away from your mom’s ex-boyfriend, because you testified against him.”
She stops cutting up her burger into bite-sized squares and gives me a level look. “And now he’s sent someone after me.”
“If that’s the case, why hasn’t the stalker done anything yet? If he was sent to rough you up, what is he waiting for?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, could this be something different? Are you involved in anything else that might incite a criminal to trail you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I rub a hand over my face, wondering if this constitutes normal conversation for a birthday evening, and why I can’t seem to find anything light and fun to tell her and make her smile. Dammit, making her smile was supposed to be my mission tonight, and I’m wandering further and further away from my goal.
“It just doesn’t add up,” I say tiredly. “And I want you to be safe. If I don’t know everything, if I don’t understand what’s going on, how am I gonna protect you?”
“Maybe you can’t. You can’t save everyone, Rafe.”
Startled, I look up and study her face. Fear lurks in her eyes, but also determination and courage.
Damn. I’ve tried fighting it, but I’m intrigued by this girl. She’s so delicate-looking, with her pretty face and sexy clothes, and yet she’s hiding a dark past.
That alone should send me running as far away as possible. I have my own shit to deal with. Can’t take more. But something draws me to her. Something tells me maybe she can understand me like nobody else can—and it sets off every alarm in my head.
Proximity alarms. Getting too close to her, too close to feeling good. I should walk away from this, from her, right now.
Only it’s her birthday. Giving her a good evening out is a small thing, right?
It would seem so. Easy. Steal her away, go down on her, take her out to dinner. Only an idiot could fuck this up.
But I am fucking this up. She’s poking at her burger and fries, looking unhappy. Damn, she didn’t like her food. Such a simple task—take a girl out and show her a good time—and I’m doing a damn fine mess of it.
“Listen…” I reach across the table and catch her hand before she pokes one more fry with her fork. “Why don’t you order something else?”
Her brows lift. “Why?”
Confused, I give her plate a pointed look. “You haven’t touched your food, except to cut it up in little pieces.”
She frowns, glances down. “Crap.”
Then she drops her fork on the table and laughs. It’s a delicious sound, free and unrestrained, rich and warm like everything she is
.
Contagious.
I let out a bark of laughter, something painfully twisting in my chest.
“I’m not difficult with food, I swear,” she says, breathless with laughter. Her eyes shine. “If I was, I’d have starved. I’ve been cooking for me and Mom for as long as I can remember, and I even inherited these cookbooks from my grandma and my good-for-nothing Greek dad, but my cooking’s crap, and…” Her expression twists, and she looks away. “God, I wonder how Mom’s doing without me.”
