What We'll Leave Behind - Len Webster Page 0,8

tone in her voice confirmed it for him. The twitching in his chest moved to the tips of his fingers, and he knew he was potentially a movement away from their hands brushing.

Taking a deep breath, Julian finally shifted his gaze from the fire to her. It was like she had lost herself in the red and orange flames. Like she had found her escape. Whether or not she was running from something was another question. But as of right now, it wasn’t his place to ask.

“Want to get a drink?” he asked.

Stephanie didn’t reply straight away. She kept her eyes focused on the bonfire for a long moment before she exhaled and said, “Sure.”

“Come along, then,” he said, reaching for her hand.

But she took a step back then raised an eyebrow at him. “Whoa. You all right there?”

She doesn’t like hand-holding.

But I like hand-holding.

He exhaled a bothered sigh. “Sorry. A momentary lapse in brain activity,” he offered.

She let out a hum. “Nice attempt at damage control.”

He bowed his head. “Thank you. I do try my best.”

She laughed. It wasn’t loud or soft. It was medium. It was reserved and sweet. It was perfect.

I love—like. I like her laugh.

His eyes widened. He needed to remove that L-word from his vocabulary and most definitely from all of the dictionaries of the world. It was a word that had been conjured up by a madman for those with faith to believe in it.

“Here,” she said, pulling him from his suffocating thoughts.

Julian glanced down to see that she was holding her hand out. Then he lifted his eyes and met hers. There was a glimmer of different emotions—weariness, confusion, excitement, and wonder. All of them captivated him.

“Sorry. I don’t hold hands.”

Stephanie’s upper lip twitched. Her chest rose as she took a deep breath and then stepped closer to him.

“This is a now-or-never moment,” she warned.

He pouted and let his shoulders sag. “Fine,” he whined.

She held her hand higher. “I’m waiting.”

“You can put it right there,” he instructed, using the index finger of his left hand to point at the palm of his right.

Blondie glared; by far one of the sexiest pissed-off faces he had ever seen, causing the corners of his mouth to stretch.

“I’ll do what?” she asked, annoyed.

“Fine. If you want to hold my hand that badly.” He faked a sigh and quickly intertwined his fingers in hers.

Well, fuck me.

Magic. Witchcraft. The devil. All of them. It was the only way to describe the electric charge that flowed from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes. Hand-holding had just become one of his favourite things a human could do. Skin on skin. Stephanie’s soft palm against his. No one. No other woman had caused such a frantic explosion of anxiety, need, want, and desire.

“So, that drink?” Stephanie pulled at his hand, tugging him towards the bar.

Julian followed, his eyes continuously staring at the perfect way their hands fit and how amazing it felt. When Stephanie broke their contact, Julian’s stare quickly moved to her. They were at the bar. His feet had mindlessly kept up with her.

The lanterns of the bar lit her smile as she ordered. Then she laughed and his heart began to sting. Not in the way a cut would. But the way aloe vera relieved burning skin. Stephanie’s laugh relieved his heart.

What a fucking feeling.

He grinned. Though he shouldn’t, he loved her smile. ‘Like’ wasn’t strong enough. ‘Enjoyed’ didn’t do it justice. But love. Love was both. Love was more. Love was her smile.

“Earth to Julian?”

A slow blink followed by a series of quick ones, Julian looked around and realised that the local bartender was starting at him with a cocked eyebrow.

“Sorry. Sometimes, you bore me enough where I sleep with my eyes open,” he teased.

Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Shut up and order.”

“Aye, captain.” Julian saluted her as the bartender handed her a glass. “I’ll grab a Corona with lemon, please.”

Stephanie held her glass in one hand and used the fingers of her other hand to hold the straw as she sipped. Never in his entire life had he been jealous of such simple objects. But he was. He was jealous of a glass and a straw. Specifically, the straw since her lips were around them—he was wishing they were on him instead.

Various places of his body.

Her lips on his skin.

He groaned and hoped to God that his hard-on backed the fuck off.

Whiskey.

Shit.

Oh, God. I need something stronger than bloody beer.

I could throw myself