Page 73 of Best Served Cold

Even if my impulse is to bury my hand in her hair and kiss her again. Kissing her last night had unlocked something inside of me, and I’d known instantly it was a place I wanted to explore and stay awhile. A place that would make music.

But looking at her now, all I want to do is make her feel better. “I’m sorry, Sophie,” I say. “I could make an excuse, but I’m not going to. I should have at least texted.”

“Your face…”

“Is slightly blue and moderately bruised. It’s okay. Dottie accidentally gave me blue hair dye instead of bruise cream.”

Her lips twitch slightly and then she turns serious again. “You know, I was worried about you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Some fire flares back into her eyes, and relief courses through me. “I was worried something might have happened to you. Or your dad?—”

“Something did happen with him, but that’s no excuse. I screwed up. Will you come with me now?”

She smooths a hand over the shorts self-consciously. “I was wearing a blue dress earlier. It was really hot. And short.”

I hold back a groan. I would have liked to see her in that dress. To be completely honest, I would have loved to run my hands up her bare thighs under it. I’d happily forget all about my current dislike for the color blue. But I’m not knocking the view I have now. I like her like this, stripped bare of any pretense. All Sophie.

Shifting on my feet, I say, “And these make you look like you. And still hot. Let’s take a walk.”

She glances doubtfully outside. It’s pitch black aside from the pools of light from a few neighborhood streetlights.

“Or we can sit on the porch for a minute.”

“We’ll walk,” she says, then casts me a rebellious glance before slipping on a pair of Crocs that have seen better days.

“They complete the look,” I say.

That earns me a dagger-eyed stare that lifts my spirits. She’s still got her sassiness. Thank God. If I were the man who took it from her, I’d struggle to forgive myself.

She steps out into the warm night with me. The breeze plays with her hair, and I feel a pulse of longing so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees.

I’d like to be that breeze.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning at me.

“Everything,” I admit as I brush my hair back from my face.

“You wanted to walk?”

No. I want to carry her upstairs so I can sink into her sweet heat and make an honest man of myself. So I can look my brother in the eye and say,Yes, I stole your fiancée, and I don’t have a single fucking regret. You’re going to spend the rest of your life knowing I have what you lost, and I hope it hurts as much as what you took from me.

But it’s a ridiculous thought, and I know it.

“Yeah, let’s walk.”

We stroll side by side on the sidewalk. After a long moment of companionable silence, she says, “Your dad upset you.”

“He always upsets me.”

She gives me a sidelong look, then shocks me by slipping her small hand into mine and squeezing. The next second, she releases me, but my hand remembers. It wants. So when her hand swings close again, fingers brushing mine, I catch it and hold on.

At her sharp inhale, I give her a pointed look. “You’re my girlfriend, right? Watching eyes.”

I know at least one person will be watching, from the little purple house we just passed. In fact, I’m pretty sure I noticed the shades moving.

I have to smile at that. Smile and move my fingers over the stone in my other pocket. Dottie told me to start carrying it again, and I’d listened.

“We should probably know a little more about each other,” Sophie says at last, her small hand still clasped in mine. “Before next Thursday. What’s your mother’s name?”

I glance at her, taking in the way the breeze is still playing with her thick hair. “Patricia.”

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