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The doorbell rings again and I hurry to open before he walks away. Would he? Crap, that would be the last drop to a frustrating week.
I unlatch the door, out of breath and half-scared it will be someone else—I don’t know, Corey, or a parcel delivery, or someone come to ask me if I know my Bible.
Riot looks back at me, a faint smile forming on his lips. He looks tired. A little frazzled, his dark hair sticking up in all directions.
Gorgeous.
“Come in.” I throw the door wide open, grinning at him. “You’re late.”
“Sorry. Got held up.” His mouth twists when he says that, and not like he’s about to laugh. Rather like he’s angry.
“It’s okay.” I usher him inside, grab his arm and tug when he hesitates. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” His smile returns as I drag him to the sofa and push him down.
“Would you like some wine?”
He sighs. “Do you have something stronger?”
“Whisky? Maybe.” I go to search the kitchen cupboards. “I’m pretty sure Corey brought a bottle once. Hey, I thought you don’t drink when on the clock.”
He grunts. “I’m making an exception tonight.” A pause as I open another cupboard. “Corey?”
“Best friend since school. Ah ha!” I pull out the bottle. “Here we go. On the rocks or straight?”
“Straight. Please.” He’s sitting right where I left him when I return with the bottle and two glasses. He’s shed his jacket, and the flame tattoos on his arm seem to glow. “Best friend, huh?”
“Yeah.” I take in the dark in his eyes and laugh. “You jealous?”
“And if I am?”
I don’t know what to say to that. Can’t decide why there’s heat spilling inside my chest. Why I’m so happy.
I cover it up by pouring us both some whisky. Is there a protocol, or a specific quantity I should pour? Not having a clue, I just slosh inside about two fingers and pass a glass to him.
He arches a dark brow and lifts his glass. “Cheers.”
“To alcohol.” I lift mine, too.
“To you,” he says and takes a big gulp.
The heat seeps into my face. I take a small sip, choke on it and cough. “Sorry.”
He cracks a smile. It’s small and tired. “You okay?”
I nod.
He knocks back the rest of the whisky.
Like, whoa. “And what about you? Are you…?” I frown. He has welts on his wrists. Both of them. Deep, crimson wounds. “What happened?”
He puts the glass down on the low table, carefully, his face blank. “Nothing.”
“But your wrists—”
“Come here.” He beckons and I scoot closer. His lashes flicker, his eyes a dark gray, as he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. “You’re the highlight of my day. Hell, my week. I was hoping you’d ask for me but then realized you were probably busy studying or something.”
What? “You were the one busy. So many appointments. I could never get one with you.”
