Page 74 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

“No, it’s out on the bar. You?”

“On the bar too.” I run my hand against the plastic wall until I find the opening. And then I extend my hand out in front of me and come in contact with Jack’s abs.

“Whoa, Ms. Walker. Buy me dinner first,” he says, torso flexing against my hand.

I pull my hand back immediately. “Sorry! I can’t see anything.”

“I’m kidding,” he says with the tremor of amusement in his voice. “Touch me anytime you want.”

Oh.

There’s a beat of nothing until suddenly I feel his hand on the outside of my shoulder and his fingers slide down my arm to my fingers, folding ours together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But it doesn’t feel at all natural. It feels electric. New and thrilling. Like something I don’t have the vocabulary for—and it’s just his damn hand.

“Why…are we holding hands?” I ask him, and I could swear I hear his smile curl his lips.

“Buddy system. If we’re holding hands while we walk through this dark creepy bar, the bogeyman can’t get us.”

“This feels like an excuse to make a pass at me.”

We’re on the move now. He’s leading us cautiously through the bathroom. The door squeaks and he shifts to hold it open with his back while I walk through, hands still linked together like we are two people who need each other.

“Emily, you should know by now that if I was making a pass at you, you wouldn’t have to ask to confirm that’s what I’m doing.”

“Charming asshole.”

“Oh—I’ve been upgraded tocharming.”

He walks beside me for a beat until he’s taking the lead again. And for some reason, I easily let him. In fact, I enjoy being able to focus all my attention on where our hands are joined. And I couldprobably blame this heightened attraction on the fact that it’s been awhile since I’ve slept with anyone. But I’m almost certain it has more to do with the fact that I’m falling head over heels for Jack Bennett.

“All right, we’re at the bar,” he says into the dark. “I’m going to let go of your hand to feel for our phones.”

“I don’t need the play-by-play. I’m not scared,” I say in a snippy tone because if there’s anything I dislike more than needing someone, it’s someonethinkingI need them.

“I forgot you’re never scared. Just like you never throw tantrums.”

I would pinch him if I could see him.

We’re side by side blindly feeling around the counter for anything that feels like a phone. “I can’t find mine. You?”

“Nothing.” Another crack of thunder hits the room, followed by an empty silence I don’t like. Maybe that’s what leads me to say, “I’m not scared of storms…but my brother is.”

“Noah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m having trouble picturing it for some reason. Did he have a bad experience in a storm or something?”

“You could say that. Our parents were killed by a storm when we were kids.”

I feel his body go still. It’s easier to say it in the dark—when I don’t have to see the pity on his face. It’s the look every single person gets when I say those words. And I understand why; it’s only natural. It’s a painful, difficult thing to imagine happening to anyone, let alone a child. But I still don’t like to see it. Because every damn time, it rips open the wound. The wound that won’t heal. The wound that sits dormant under my skin until I twist uncomfortably from time to time and it’s raw again.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that happened.”

“And here I thought you read minds all this time.”Jokes, jokes, jokes.They’re what keep my Treasure Chest of Doom locked.

“How old were you?” Jack says, facing me now.

“Eight—second grade.” I’ve memorized the script. I recite it now with a monotone delivery, zero pauses and emotionless accuracy. “They were adventurous, my parents. They went hiking and camping in Colorado like they’d done countless times before, but a storm came that time, and they didn’t have enough warning to get off the mountain. Doctors suspect it was lightning that struck their tent.”

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