Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,30

at him and find his dark head tilted back. A chuckle rises from his throat and he lifts a hand to his head, as if to keep the wound from splitting open. He’s grinning ear to ear and holy baby Jesus… “You have dimples.” I dip my own head back and slam my hand over my heart. “Slain.”

His low, rich laughter is beautiful—and contagious.

“Gwenna…Gwen. Fuck.” He lets out another low hoot, then rubs his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.”

His face goes stark so fast I know he must have thought of something painful. He covers it with a radiant, dimpled smile. Pushing my self-consciousness aside, I snarile back.

“Just being honest.” I shrug. “I can see some women taking off their burkas for that.” I nod at him, an objectifying look that’s mean to amuse.

His face goes completely white. He does this weird blink thing—a long blink, like a doll’s blink. Like he can clear the windshield of his brain with that blink. I expect him to turn to me and smile or offer some cover for his strange reaction, so when he stares blankly out at nothing, my throat tightens.

“Oh God, wrong thing to say. I’m sorry.” I clamp my teeth down on my lip. “Like, really. I’m a moron.”

He shakes his head and slowly brings his eyes to me. “No.” He sounds a little breathless.

I see his Adam’s apple bob along the column of his throat. He tries to smile again, and it’s the biggest fail I’ve ever seen. It has to actually hurt.

His left hand goes up to his temple, and I can see the fingers shaking.

My body flushes with remorse. “I’m so sorry. Really sorry. I should be more careful with my big mouth.”

He shuts his eyes again, and I watch his chest rise and fall as he exhales. His gray-blue eyes open.

“I don’t get out enough,” he starts. His voice is full-on hoarse. He turns to me, his eyes deep wells. “You did…nothing wrong. Don’t feel badly.”

My throat thickens and my eyes begin to sting. “I’m sorry. I should go now. I don’t want to keep on messing things up.”

I rush out of the bathroom and hurry through his massive bedroom. As I reach for the doorknob, his hand comes down on my shoulder. The touch is fleeting. As I turn to him, he lets me go.

“Thank you,” he says. His face is grave, his body hard and warm beside mine.

I laugh. “The last thing you should do is thank me.”

I turn and hurry down his stairs.

When I get home, I find a smudge of blood on my left cheek.

NINE

GWENNA

This is stupid. Really stupid. I’m standing on his porch in this long-sleeved Ziggy Stardust t-shirt and a pair of skin-tight jeggings with my favorite casual, retro Jag Timberwolf boots, shivering from cold and nerves and feeling like a moron. It’s late, and he’s probably asleep.

Either way, I’m hoping this will satisfy Helga, who, yesterday, when I arrived for my weekly appointment, knew something was off with me after maybe thirty seconds. I told her the whole sad and sordid tale of my assault on my new neighbor, followed by my trip to emo land while helping glue his head shut, and she said the first thing I should do is come back over and try to smooth things out.

The first thing she did is made me do a mindful breathing exercise. After which we talked about my “evolving self-image,” and then she said I ought to drop back by here.

Because I’m sure he wants to see me.

That’s negative self-talk, I tell myself, clutching the Tupperware container to my chest.

I can’t help thinking, as I reach my index finger out to ring his doorbell once more, how differently I feel today than two days ago.

Helga says she thinks I’m making progress—whatever that means—and I don’t know. Maybe I am. But maybe I’m not. I didn’t tell her about the rust-colored spot I found on my cheek. About how I think he did touch me after I flashed my freakish-looking snarile. And I’m not telling her that I listened to Radiohead’s angsty, angry OK Computer album while I made this chocolate-on-chocolate cake: my least favorite kind of cake, as it happens. Because if I’m going to bake an apology cake for him, why should it be my favorite kind of cake?

He touched my face. I know he did, because I didn’t have blood on my fingers, and when I did, I made