AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“’S okay, we can still have fun in your car,” I say, my mouth happily flapping away without any real control from my brain. “Maybe you’ll finally let me take a look.”
His mouth opens and closes. “A look at what?” he croaks, and I frown, not sure why his face is turning red.
“Your palm. I want to read your palm for you.”
Duh.
Also, I totally wouldn’t mind putting my hands on his chest again. Say goodbye to his solid pecs and hard abs.
After reading his palm.
He shakes his head. “Dammit, Kay. I’m not letting you read my palm, or spread the cards for me, or… Shit.” He runs his hands over his face, lets out a sigh and reaches for me. “Let’s just fucking go.”
“Okay, fine. Jeez.”
He takes my hand, his big fingers wrapping around mine, and I follow him through the bar, fighting not to stumble as the room tilts with every step.
Fine, I won’t read his palm. You’d think I was asking him for the moon or something. It’s okay. If only he didn’t seem so… off. For Ocean, that is. So not happy.
Sad. And angry. And so confusing.
***
He keeps his hold on my hand as he leads me out of the bar, and despite my confusion, I can’t deny it feels good. His palm is hard, his fingers callused, his skin so warm. He’s shrugged on his jacket, and as we step outside and the cold night air hits my face, I wish we were back on the dance floor.
With my arms around his neck.
With the heat from his body seeping into mine.
God, what was in that beer I drank earlier? I teeter on the sidewalk, and he shoots me an undecipherable glance over his broad shoulder, then, seeming satisfied I’m not about to faceplant, keeps going, his strong fingers wrapped around my hand.
Steering me down the street, past car after car until I think we’re going to walk back to my apartment or something.
Then he stops in front of a beat-up Chevy truck parked at the curb and produces a jingling set of keys from his jeans pocket.
Oh. Driving it is, then.
I squint at his truck. Despite patched up parts where the paint is a different hue, a dent in one of the doors and an even bigger one in the back bumper, it’s clean and waxed, buffed to a shine. It gleams in the light of the street lamps.
A guy car. Big and tall and robust. The car of a guy who doesn’t have much money, I suppose. Who doesn’t own much and looks after what he has.
Another piece to the puzzle that is Ocean. A puzzle I’ve been trying not to think about for some time and which hit me square in the chest—or in the back, rather—today.
Impossible to ignore him now. Not when his six-foot-two frame looms over me and his scent keeps teasing my senses. When those intense eyes are looking at me.
“Hop in,” he says and sneaks an arm around me to open the door. “Need help?”
Oh, yes, please. “I’m okay.” Tearing my gaze off his lickworthy face, I climb into the car with minimum damage—knocking my forehead against the car frame doesn’t count, okay?—and settle in the creaky seat.
As Ocean closes the door and walks around the truck, I stretch my legs out and inhale the musty-smoky scent of the interior, a hint of plastic seats and a light smell of earth and dead flowers.
Uh, wait a sec… Am I imagining the smell?
Twisting in my seat, I find a couple of dead flowers littering the back. Lilies, I think. Okay, then.
But why is he carrying dead flowers in his truck? I open my mouth to ask as he climbs inside and settles behind the wheel, but he beats me to it.
“Are you all right?” he asks as he starts the engine and pulls off the curb, strong hands tight on the wheel.
