Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

“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?”