to stop this. Otherwise I’ll go insane. I tamp down the emotions inside me. “Are you feeling okay?”
The amusement turns into a full-on smile, his eyes sparkling, and I notice a dimple poking out from two days’ worth of dark scruff that’s bordering on a full beard. “So you really were worried about me, baby?”
I bite my lower lip in response.
“I’m good. It’s all good.” His voice is low and rumbles inside me, and I almost hate how everything he says and everything he does makes my body react.
“I was worried for a little while,” I confess to him after a minute. “I thought that because . . . that night . . . that you and I . . . you know . . .”
His eyes are back to mine, holding me. “That you and I what?”
I take a breath. “We almost . . .”
He laughs, his eyes drifting to those damn freckles—the bane of my existence—that he loves so much. “We didn’t almost anything, baby. We weren’t even close.”
“Oh.” I shrink back, doing my best to separate myself from him. “I know. I mean, I just thought you were upset at me or I’d done something wrong. But you weren’t feeling well, right? You’re not angry at me?”
“Nah.” I start to relax, until he reaches over and takes my hand, entwining his fingers with mine. I feel the calluses against my palm as his fingers stroke the back of my hand. “You ain’t done nothing wrong with me. I doubt you could.”
I blink at him. “I’m sure I could. I’m always—”
“No you ain’t. What was wrong was with those other people, Penny. I can’t be angry at a sweet girl like you.” He squeezes my hand gently, then pulls it up and kisses my knuckles, his gaze holding mine. “And if we were that close, sweetheart, close like I wanted to be? I wouldn’t have been able to turn back.”
Oh my goodness. I’m undone. Completely undone. My nipples are hard and my sex is clenching, and all he’s done is grab my hand. And part of me wishes I could remember that night in Boston just a little better because the hazy drunk memory of his mouth on my skin barely feels real. It feels as far away as one of my fantasies, almost like it never really happened.
I want to be able to talk about that night. I’ve been dying to. But I haven’t been able to find the words, and he’s always looked like he couldn’t be bothered. Now he’s looking at me, his eyes studying me with intense concentration. Now is the time.
“So that night . . . ,” I start, hoping that his eyes will spark with memory and he’ll finish for me. That doesn’t happen. And I realize I don’t have the words, even now. “Was it . . . what was it?”
One eyebrow cocks up. “I think it was called getting shitfaced.”
Right. That’s all it was. My stomach knots.
“I know. But was it like, just fun, because I was there and we were drunk, or was it . . . more?”
My insides clench as I realize what I said. Oh god. Did I just say that?
His eyes dance playfully. “What did you want it to be?”
I frown. What am I doing? Of course that night meant nothing to him. Of course he makes out with drunk girls on a regular basis. He owns a bar, after all. Lives to be shitfaced. “Forget I said anything. I’m just tired because I didn’t sleep much last night,” I mutter, turning so he won’t see the lie on my face. I slept great last night. Because of him. “I should turn in because I’m sure tomorrow will be busy.”
Soon it’ll be dark, so I pull down the shade to block out the sunset, which would probably make me think the romantic thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking, especially where someone like Luke Cross is concerned. Luke Cross, who lives to be shitfaced, is a thug, loves to fuck, and probably doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.
A moment later, I hear, “Penny.”
Oh, I want this conversation to be over. I can’t be near him when every single part of my body reacts to him. My sex is still clenched from his closeness, and even though I separated from him I can still feel goose bumps on my arm.
A bit after that, more insistent now. “Nell?”
I can’t just ignore him, so I turn, letting out a