Page 86 of Parrish

My eyes widen at his vulgar tongue before narrowing into tiny slits.

“You’re lying,” I accuse.

“I don’t lie,” he volleys.

Judging by the conviction in his tone and the way he stares at me, I believe him.

How embarrassing.

“Lesson one,” he continues. “I’ve got a filthy mouth, and I make no apologies for it.”

“Cocky much?” I question, raising an eyebrow.

His lips faintly quirk as his gaze softens and I realize this man is trouble with a capital T and it has nothing to do with the reaper on his back.

“You love it,” he rasps. “Or at least you did.”

The room goes silent, and the air thickens as he looks down at his hands. For a second, I try to put myself in his shoes and think about how I’d feel if my husband forgot me. I imagine I’d be angry but mostly devastated—heartbroken, really. All the things Jack appears to be.

Suddenly I feel desperate to erase the pain I’ve caused him.

“What else do I love?” I question hoarsely. He lifts his head but remains quiet. The intensity of his stare warms me and oddly, I smile bashfully. “You know, besides your cock and your filthy mouth.”

The corners of his mouth curve ever so slightly and I find myself wishing for a smile. I bet he’s got a great smile.

I bet I love it.

Leaning his back against the chair, he crosses one worn boot over his knee and folds his hands behind his head as he contemplates his answer.

“You love to ride,” he says finally.

Raising an eyebrow, I use the remote control on the side of the railing to lift the head of the bed.

“Is this some more sexual innuendo? Are you going to tell me I love to ride you?”

He barks out a laugh and I realize I wasn’t only right to assume he has a great smile but also in guessing I’d love it.

“I was referring to my bike but while we’re on the topic…” His voice trails as he playfully winks at me.

Lesson two, there is a soft side to Jack Parrish. A side I’m sure he doesn’t let too many people see.

“No way,” I scoff. “The old me never would’ve gotten on a motorcycle.”

“The old you didn’t know how to live,” he retorts, curling his lip. “I’m telling you, you love climbing on the back of my bike almost as much as I love the feel of you wrapped around me.”

“There you go with that mouth.”

“It’s true,” he says with a shrug. “The night before your accident I taught you how to ride,” he adds softly. “It was something you always wanted to learn, and I guess I pushed it off.”

“What changed?”

Staring at me, he swallows. The silence stretches wide, causing me to wonder if I’ve said something wrong.

“That’s a story for another time,” he answers finally.

Deciding not to press him, I nod in agreement, after all, he knows our life better than I do. Maybe there are some things better off forgotten right now.

“Fine,” I start. “So, I love to ride.”

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