Her Dirty Bartenders (Men at Work #5) - Mika Lane Page 0,36

to hide my residual wooziness. So much for sounding badass and intolerant of thugs.

“Slow down,” Cab said, grabbing my hand.

We looked at his hand holding mine and then we looked back at each other.

I couldn’t do this. I wouldn’t do this. I started to pull away, but he held my hand tighter.

“Will you sit back down?” he asked, pulling gently. “Just for a few minutes?”

I didn’t like the look in his eyes. It was contrite. Too contrite. And the problem with that was if he asked for forgiveness for what he’d done, I’m not sure I could tell him to go fuck himself.

The tough girl in me, such as it was, had fantasized so many times about this moment, where I could give him a piece of my mind, and hurt him back just the way he’d hurt me. I’d deliver a litany of words, which ones I wasn’t even sure, that would take him down a notch and that he’d never forget. He’d realize what a mistake he’d made, and regret it for the rest of his life.

My words would be a metaphorical knife right to his heart. Because that’s what he deserved.

Disappearing on me, the very day after he’d popped my cherry.

Yeah, I don’t think so, buddy. You don’t get away with shit like that and live to tell about it.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I was getting pissed.

But I sat back down anyway. Damn him and his light blue eyes. I was weak. And I hated myself for it.

Besides, I didn’t have much choice with the way he was holding my damn hand. I could have yanked it out of his grip, kicked him in the shin, and run, but as much fun as it was to imagine that, I knew I wouldn’t. His hand felt good on mine. Warm. Safe. Caring.

Jesus, I needed to have my head examined.

“You know, Cab, this kind of reminds me of how we ended up together last time, back in your parents’ pool house.”

He pressed his lips together and something I was pretty sure was regret washed over his face.

Good.

“Stell, I want to say I’m sorry,” he started, but his voice cracked.

Oh, brother. I was a sucker for a sensitive guy, but I wasn’t falling for this bullshit.

“Words are so insufficient to make up for what I did.” He looked down and shook his head.

Well, damn. I can’t say that didn’t pull on my heartstrings a bit.

I wanted to let him make me feel better. But I also wanted to tell him to go to hell. These conflicting feelings whiplashed through my head without mercy, pulling me in opposite directions, rather than offering comfort.

I didn’t want to hear his excuses. And yet I did. The contradictions swirling around both amused and disgusted me.

Were they signs of weakness or strength?

Did it really matter?

“Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about you,” he said.

Oh Christ. He was wearing me down.

He put a finger under my chin and turned my face to him. I obviously knew what was coming—I wasn’t an idiot—but my heart raced nonetheless, and I wondered if he’d like kissing me like he had years before.

Only one way to find out.

25

Stell

I leaned my face toward his and closed my eyes, holding my breath for our first contact. And when our lips met, it was like nothing bad had ever happened between us. He was firm and demanding like he’d always been, devouring me until all thoughts of resistance disappeared. I was flying, yet moored by his strong hands, which wove through my hair to pull me closer.

“You are so beautiful. I’ve missed you,” he breathed. “I hope you can someday forgive me. Until you do, I can’t forgive myself.”

I looked away, needing to avoid his gaze to organize my thoughts. “It… was rough, Cab. I’m not gonna lie.”

An hour before, I never would have admitted that to him out of fear of giving him some sort of sick satisfaction. But now I realized he was anything but satisfied with the choices he’d made.

He was living with years of regret.

I’d been hurt, but I’d done nothing wrong. In time, my heart had healed. Mostly.

It was a different story for him.

And then I realized, I could have compassion for him, and for myself. Forgiving him wasn’t letting him get away with it, and there was no need for me to punish him endlessly. He’d been punishing himself.

I squeezed his hand. I couldn’t say it. I