Rafe (Inked Brotherhood 5)

My heart booms in my chest as I rise to my feet and offer my hand. “Then let’s go.”

When she takes it, slender fingers wrapping around mine, I know something irrevocable has just happened—time stretching and arching like a bridge into the unknown, and as she trustingly looks up at me, I know without the shadow of a doubt I’d fucking do anything for her.

Anything at all.

Chapter Seven

Megan

The black Mustang is parked by the side of the street. When I emerge from the coffee shop with my purse slung over one shoulder, my eyes finally dry and my chin held high—screw you, boss, it’s not as if I initiated any of the “indecent displays” you’re so pissed off about—I see Rafe leaning against the trunk, arms folded over his chest.

My heart does a wild little flip in my chest. He wants to celebrate my birthday with me, and in the midst of the chaos that is my life, on the heels of losing my job and realizing Raylin isn’t coming back, it makes me feel warm.

I went into her room yesterday, found a handwritten note on her bed. Have to go. I won’t be coming back. Take care of the kitty and yourself. Love, Raylin.

She left a few things. Her brush is on the bedside table, a pair of old shoes under the bed. A calendar with tropical beaches hangs on the wall. Florida. I don’t even know where she’s from, or where she went to.

Christ. I’m furious at her. Scared for her.

And right now, I don’t care, because she left, and Rafe is here.

I drink in the sight of him, his muscular shoulders stretching his jacket, the shaggy blond hair catching the lights of the coffee shop. He smiles as I slowly walk toward the car, flashing those sexy dimples, and I almost miss a step.

His smile does it to me every time.

It’s stopped snowing, I realize, as he pushes off the car and offers his hand again. It makes me want to giggle, because he’s so badass with his jeans and biker boots, the tattoos peeking under his sleeves, the messy hair and earrings, but this move is so… gallant. Gentlemanly. Belonging to a life spent in the lobbies of luxurious hotels and villas on the lake shore.

Which in its turn makes me wonder about his childhood. I need to find out more about him. His hand takes mine again, derailing my thoughts, sending jolts of electricity down my spine as he walks me around the car and opens the door for me.

What am I doing? This is nuts. This guy pulled away from me time and again, made me feel he regretted touching me every time.

But I can’t keep away. His pain, just like his smile, is breathtaking and tugs at something deep inside of me. He reflects my fears like a mirror. When he hurts, I hurt with him, and it’s as if… as if taking away his pain will take away mine, too.

If we shared our pain, would it become easier to bear?

His hold on me is firm, and when I slide into the seat, he doesn’t release me immediately. He’s looking down at our entwined hands, brows drawn together, as if trying to figure out some complex equation. It somehow seems to be the closest we can get, this handholding, strong fingers pressing mine against a callused, warm palm. His cat-like eyes narrow, then lift to my face, and his lips part on an exhale.

He’s so handsome it hurts my soul.

Finally letting go, he gives his head a small shake and closes the door, then jogs around in the snow to the other side. He folds his tall frame into the car and snaps the door shut.

Quiet. His car smells like him, smoky and spicy. He has a dog-eared paperback stuffed by the seat. I pull it up slightly as he revs up the engine. Dante, Inferno. I push it back down.

The sole of my shoe crunches on something and I lift a broken drumstick.

Rafe grunts and takes it from me. “Sorry for the mess.” He throws the stick in the back seat and pulls away from the curb. “I don’t often have girls riding with me.”

Interesting. I file this bit of information away for further examination. Every tiny detail I gather about him is precious. He doesn’t give it away freely.

“Hard to believe,” I say and grin at him.

“Well.” One side of his mouth curls up, showing one faint dimple. “Not pretty ones like you.”

“Oh come on.”

“I’m fucking serious.”

Crap, he thinks I’m pretty. Sure, I’d felt the reaction of his body before, but men’s bodies are easily aroused. I heard say they can