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I wish I could quickly take a photo, capturing her like this, with so much acceptance in her eyes.
“I could drop you off?” she asks.
“I’d be grateful for that.”
At her car door, she laughs gently.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
She lowers her voice, mimicking me.“I’d be grateful for that.You sound like you’ve just agreed to juggle knives without training. You know, so it’d be really bad.”
“Iamgrateful.”
“But?” She raises her eyebrow, sassy as can be. “And don’t tell me,Who said there’s a but?There definitelyisone.”
“You’re so beautiful when you get sassy like this.”
I claim her hips, push her against the car, and kiss her again. She melts into the kiss but then breaks it off. Our lips are still close, breath caressing, joining.
“You don’t have to be ashamed,” she says gently, reading me with her not-so-naïve eyes. “I want to help you.”
“It’s the last thing you should want.”
“I know. The past and all the stuff you’re not telling me. Maybe I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not. You’re smart, independent, impressive, and beautiful. You’re everything a man could ever want in a woman.”
“You know, some women might say all these compliments are a convenient way for you not to give me any answers.”
I try a smirk, but it feels forced. “Flattery will get me everywhere. Is that it?”
She frowns. “There’s this voice in my head, Jamie. It’s been there ever since we had our first conversation. It’s telling me to stop. It’s telling me I’m making a mistake. Nobody will ever understand this, whatever this is.”
Whatever this is.
I almost tell her it’s everything, what we’re building here, a relationship people usually only dream about. Then I’d start talking about marriage, kids, a life.
“Maybe not,” I say, voice weak.
“Maybenot,” she repeats, shaking her head. “If I asked a hundred people on the street,Is hooking up with my father’s killer a good idea?What do you think they’d say?”
I grit my teeth and laugh darkly. “You’ve got me beat there.”
She sighs. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Okay, but I’m driving.”
She smiles and tosses me the keys. It’s impressive how we can flit between moods like this, pushing away the ugliness and the unanswered questions. When I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine, I can almost trick myself into believing I’m just a boyfriend giving his girlfriend a ride: no guilt, no darkness, no pain lurking in the background. I’m just a man spending time with his lady.
“Do you think this mystery person will send somebody to the house again?” she murmurs after a few minutes of driving.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, glancing at her.
She’s got her hands clasped in her lap, biting her lip softly. It’s like she doesn’t know how feral the lip-biting makes me. It’s thewayshe does it, as if it’s completely subconscious, a reflex just like her hips bucking when we were intimate last night. My balls ache thinking of that. My shaft is solid and filled with tension. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself. There’s something so vulnerable about it. I want to hurt every bastard who’s ever caused her pain.
“If you’re worried,” I say, “I should stay with you again. We can swing by Tommy’s place and pick up a few things.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
