She eyed him warily. "For what?"
"Kelsey," he said gently. "What happened to Griffin?"
For a moment, she just stood there. Then she sat down again. "Please," he pressed. "Don't you think it's time to tell me what happened the night of the party?"
21
I freeze a little at his words, and I want to disagree. No, I'd say. No, it's not time. I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it.
But I can't say that. Because even though I'd rather run out the coffee shop door, I know he's right. It is time. And he deserves to know what happened.
"How long have you known?" I ask. "About the night of the party, I mean."
"Technically, no time at all. I'm just making guesses here. But after I met him--after I learned how old he was when he got burned--I put it together. There was an accident that night, wasn't there?"
Frowning, I hug myself. "Accident," I say, the word bitter on my tongue. "That's just too clean a word for what happened."
"Hey, hey." His voice has dropped to the gentlest of whispers, and I don't realize why until he leans across the table with his napkin and gently brushes the soft skin under my eyes.
I manage a watery smile in thanks, and then try to clear my head enough so that I can tell the story. But I'm not having much luck.
"Let's walk," he says, rising and coming around the table to pull out my chair.
I grab my purse and stand, tilting my head up as I do. "Are you taking care of me, Mr. Segel? Or should I call you Mr. Royce?"
"Call me Wyatt, and yes." He takes my hand, and leads me out the door. I expect him to release me once we're outside, but he doesn't. I realize that I'm glad, and it's not because I crave his touch--though it's true that the memory of his fingers on me during the photo shoot keeps teasing me.
No, what I crave is his support. His strength. And even though I know I'm playing with fire, right now I will eagerly cling to him.
As we walk across the parking lot, I expect him to ask me again about what happened to Griffin. But he doesn't. He's silent, his hand firm in mine, as if he's giving me both strength and time.
In that moment, I remember the thing that I loved most about him. The way he'd take care of me and support me. He treated me like I was special. Like my wants and dreams mattered.
All these years, I've thought of him as dangerous. But maybe he wasn't the danger at all. Maybe the danger was all inside me.
We reach Blue, and as we walk beside her, I run my fingers over her waxed surface, then stop and lean against the hood. Wyatt releases my hand and stands in front of me, his hands sliding into his pockets.
"He gave her to me," I say without preamble.
"The car?"
"I call her Blue."
He eyes the Mustang and nods, his eyes bright with amusement. "Not the most original name, but it suits her."
"It does," I say defensively. "It's a perfectly good name."
He holds his hands up in surrender. "The best name. And Griff gave her to you? She's gorgeous."
"He found her in a junk yard, did the restoration work himself, then gave her to me for my twenty-fifth birthday. I--"
I break off because tears are threatening again, and I refuse to cry.
"I totally baby her," I continue when I'm sure I'm not going to start weeping again. "Griff says I baby her too much, actually. That I need to put her through her paces on the highway or in the desert or something. He thinks I need to cut loose."
"Maybe you should. Sounds fun."
"Maybe."