But it’s her bitten smile that comes to mind next. The way she acted annoyed with me last night yet only left my side once. And how she slept so soundly in my arms, like it was the safest place in the world for her.
Her tongue was sweet like cinnamon, and her lips were soft like clouds.
She was worried that she’d taste like beer. And she did. But it was mostly cinnamon. Hot and sweet. And her skin was fucking cashmere. I could’ve touched her all night had she not pulled the emergency brake.
For the hell of it, I stroke myself to the fantasy of what would have been—what will be. Only it’s some kind of boring vanilla version. Regular sex. And just like that, my cock responds in record time.
Before long, I come so hard I have to sit down to catch my breath.
Stumbling out of the shower a minute later, I toss my damp, naked body on the bed and pass out for hours … because I don’t want to think about what this could possibly mean.
Chapter Eighteen
Sheridan
* * *
I’m on my way home from work when I spot KT’s silver Mercedes at a red light.
She’s in the left turn lane on Rosemont, phone pressed against her ear, oblivious. Engaged in conversation with someone who’s putting a big, old dopey grin on her face.
Without thinking twice, I hook a right into an empty battery store parking lot and come out the other side so I can catch the light going in her direction as soon as it turns green.
Only I get stuck behind a garbage truck and a Buick going negative five miles per hour.
When the traffic clears, her shiny little coupe is MIA … until I spot it parked at a little hole-in-the-wall café off Market Street.
Rain drops pepper my windshield, clouding my view as KT makes a mad dash to get inside. Her tail lights blink as she locks it, trotting away in her sky-high heels.
The last several minutes are a blur. I’m pretty sure I cut off a minivan to make this turn. And someone honked, maybe even two someones, but, I was so hyper-focused, every noise had a faded, distorted edge to it, like it was coming from a tunnel a world away.
I park two rows away, waiting and watching like a stalker. Too curious to leave, too paralyzed to charge in and address the woman who promised my father she’d put Mama out of her suffering.
With a death grip on my steering wheel, and the radio playing some melancholy Adele song on low volume, I talk myself into taking the confrontation route because I didn’t drive like a bat out of hell just to sit here like some pansy. I didn’t do all of that just to slink of quietly into the night.
I kill my engine and shove my keys into my bag—just as my father pulls up and parks our family sedan in the empty spot beside her Mercedes. Thunder rolls; angry, booming and unapologetic. Rain pelts harder, bouncing off my roof like marbles on tin. Within seconds, Dad disappears into the cozy café with the beautiful woman.
I start my engine and the dash clock blinks to life—8:11 PM.
He should’ve been at work an hour ago.
I start my car, and as I peel out of the parking lot, my hands are locked so tight on the steering wheel that I can’t feel my fingers. Thick tears blind my vision and leave itchy tracks down my cheeks, and I drive until I can’t anymore.
And now here I am—in the library parking lot at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, bawling my eyes out. Alone. Lungs gasping for air. Weight of the world on my shoulders. My head pounds, fierce with pressure as I rest it against the steering wheel and wipe my tears on my sleeve.
I need to head home and check on Mama, but until these tears stop falling, driving in this rainstorm would be a death wish.
I check the radar, the way my dad taught me. The storm should clear in about twenty minutes.
I mess with the radio for a bit, dry my tears on a wrinkly napkin from the console, and scroll through my phone to kill the time. I’d text Adriana, but we just worked an eight-hour shift together, and she’s probably getting ready for her Bumble date anyway.
Scrolling through my contacts, I stop when I get to ENEMY DEAREST, and, for the hell of it, I read through our old texts. Every single one. By the time I’m done, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror—my mouth is curled up at the sides. He’s crazy. Hot, but crazy. And he’s obsessed with me. Which is also hot. A weird kind of hot but still hot.
And his offer to help my mom is beyond generous—assuming his offer hasn’t expired. Maybe it isn’t from the kindness of his cold little heart because he’s made it clear he wants one night with me. But still. It counts for something, and it was so kind of him to let me sleep in his arms last night.