Conceal

“No problem at all. Just trying to get to know you better, Willow. What was that last name again?”

“No last names, remember?”

“As if I could forget. You’re a famous celebrity and whatnot. Too cool for a last name. Although I’m a little surprised that your first has two syllables.”

“Hey, there’re quite a few two-syllable celebs, I’ll have you know.”

He takes the tray back from me and lifts it, picking up a piece of something. I can’t tell what it is, but I can see him lift it to his nose as if to smell it. Then his arm is reaching toward me.

“What is this?” he asks.

The smell of the small food wafts up into the air and hits my nose. I can’t tell what it is, but my mouth waters.

Then my stomach growls loud enough for him to hear.

“I have no clue.”

“But it appears your stomach wants it. Here, have it.”

“I’ll take a pass since you touched it already. Don’t know where your hands have been.”

“Seriously? I save you from passing out, and you are going to discriminate against my clean hands? I’ll have you know, they are probably the cleanest hands of anyone you ever met.”

“Yes, probably because you disinfect them in tequila every day,” I retort.

That brings a chuckle. A full body chuckle that makes me laugh too. I’m not sure what it is about Jaxson Price, but it’s easy to be around him and smile. To forget all the shit hovering in the back of my mind.

“How about this. I’ll clean them again—fuck, maybe I’ll just dip this in tequila again, and then it will be sanitized for you.”

“Oh, jeez. Give me the damn food.”

He laughs again and hands it to me. I take a bite, and the moment it hits my taste buds, I moan.

“Seriously, that good? Did you at least save a bite for me?”

“My mouth touched it.”

“Like I care.” He grabs it out of my hand and pops it into his own mouth. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Right.”

“But what is it?” he moans as he takes another bite.

“No clue.”

“I can take chef off the potential lists of things to know about you,” he says, and I pull my gaze away from the food and to him.

“You have a list?” I ask.

“I do.”

“And what, pray tell, is on this list?”

“Well, as of right now, nothing. It says . . . Willow. No last name,” he chides.

“That’s a pretty good list.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

His words have my stomach tightening again because I can’t have him looking into me. I can’t be anyone’s work in progress. I’m too much of a mess to complicate things more with having Jaxson Price around.

We both continue to eat, and neither of us speak. From the corner of my eye, I see Jaxson lean forward, balancing the weight of his arms on his knees.

“What happened before?” he finally asks, bringing up the giant elephant I was hoping he would ignore.

“It was nothing,” I say a little too forcefully.

He turns his head in my direction, and as much as I want to ignore the movement, I don’t. It’s like there is a gravitational pull making me want to look at him.

“I don’t like crowds.”

He studies me, and I can tell he isn’t buying it. But really, how could he? I had a major panic attack in the middle of the party.

“The sound. It scared me.” Although my answer isn’t completely true, it’s the closest I will get.

“Were you scared someone might hurt you?” he whispers, and I nod. Under the dark sky, where he can’t really see my face, it feels good to be honest about something for once. “You should take a self-defense class. I know a lot of friends who live in the city who swear by them. Makes them feel safer.”

I nod my head again.

Because as much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s right.

I need to.

Chapter Thirteen

Willow

Blood.

So much blood.

It drips off my hands, pooling onto the floor.

His blood is on my hands.

My body jerks awake. My heart pounding in my chest like a freight train. Looking down, I see my hands.

They’re fine.

Untouched. Unblemished.

His blood is not on my hands.

At least not literally. His blood will always be on my hands. It’s my fault, after all.

I rub my eyes, trying to wipe the images away. Trying to wipe the fear. The same dream over and over again has haunted me for weeks. Sometimes, I go in the room, and sometimes, I don’t.

The images flash like the flicker of a camera.

Flick.

Flick.

Flick.

Still frames replay. If only I could scrub them from my brain.

He’s looking for me, and I’m running.

He’s supposed to protect me.

Dad.

There’s blood on my hands.

No. I can’t think about this now. It’s already been a few days since the fundraiser, and I have spent them trying and failing to figure out how I will deal with all the issues I have piling up in my life.