“Five minutes,” she said softly
, her voice breaking. “Five goddamn minutes. Let me just…”
“You can take more than five minutes. You can take…” I stopped myself before I said anything stupid. “Take all the time you need, Kara. I got you.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know, baby.”
Her breathing was uneven, her chest rising and falling fast. I was expecting her to cry, but there were no tears.
We sat in the parking lot for a quarter of an hour. I didn’t dare move, just in case she was asleep again. I didn’t want to wake her up but realized she was awake and was just quiet.
“What’s your last name?” she asked randomly.
I knew hers was Hawthorne.
“Saint Laurent,” I answered.
“You’re no saint though,” she laughed softly, teasingly. It sounded so feminine that I wanted to kiss the tip of her nose.
“Sometimes I feel like one,” I said.
I had a feeling she rolled her eyes at me. “Middle name?”
“Jeremiah.”
“Jeremiah,” she repeated. “That’s one of the prophets in the Bible. He’s an ass kicker.”
She pulled away. I could still feel the imprint her body heat had made on my arm.
Her voice was soft, whispery. Like we were talking in candlelight.
“You look like a Jeremiah,” she added. “Not Jerry though. Jeremiah.”
My lips wanted to twitch. “What’s yours?”
“Cammilla.”
I said her name in my head a hundred times.
“Doesn’t it sound like a stripper name? Don’t obsess too much on it though.”
This time, I smiled.
“We’re still waiting for some of the parts on your motorcycle. Just letting you know, in case you’re wondering.”
I shrugged. As long as she had it, she was bound to me. It was more than fine if she kept it for a while.
It seemed she was getting nervous, filling up the silence with chatter. I wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking—about that moment she rested her head on my arm.
“Tell me what you like,” I said.
She stilled at my question. I heard her breath hold for a moment, a split second before it released. I frowned.
“You have a way,” she said.
“What way?”