Page 36 of A Favor Owed
“It’s really not.”
She still has that look on her face, and I swear to God her eyes look like they’re tearing up. We’re apparently having some big moment. Unfortunately, I don’t have a clue what it’s all about.
“Your mom must have worried about you a lot,” she says, making an effort to get herself under control.
You have no idea.“Yeah. That’s a big part of the reason I’m in law school.” I took the LSAT just to show my mom what a bad idea law school was, but I ended up scoring high enough to get into some of the best schools in the country. Who knew? In any event, there was no talking her down after that. Law school it was.
“I always wished my dad was a cop or a firefighter or a high school teacher,” she says softly. “Someone who did something good.”
For the first time since I got involved in this whole mess, I stop to think what it’s like for her. Maybe the whole foster care story isn’t meant to make people feel sorry for her. Maybe it’s to avoid acknowledging who her parents are. Maybe it’s to forget where she comes from.
“My biological dad, I mean,” she adds quickly, her eyes sharpening as she realizes she slipped up.
“Is that why you want to work for Legal Aid? Because of your dad?”
“My dad, um, my biological dad, hurt a lot of people. I guess I kind of want to make up for that.”
That statement throws me for a loop. It’s starting to seem possible that the foundation of my feelings toward Angela is built on a little bit of knowledge and a whole lot of assumptions. And it’s turning out that a few of those assumptions are maybe…slightly off the mark.
Easy there, Brady. Look where she comes from. Lying is in her DNA.
But I can tell when Angie’s lying. She studies her nails or her phone and her voice gets bored and offhand, like, who cares that I grew up in foster care and have no family? Who cares that I got through college on a scholarship? But she was passionate and straightforward when she was talking about rejecting her dad’s business and doing work that helped people.
That doesn’t fit in with anything I know about her. I need to keep my eye on the ball.
Check, please.
“Thanks, Brady,” she says after I hand the server the signed receipt. “That was really sweet of you.”
“No problem. I promised you a real first date, right?”
“And you delivered.”
“I always deliver.”
We walk out to the rocky beach. The air is cool and makes Angie shiver in her thin, barely-there dress, providing the perfect excuse for me to wrap my arm around her. Her arm comes around my waist, and she leans in to me, her head resting against my shoulder. I can smell her coconut shampoo.
“Don’t you ever have a sweater?” I ask, trying to keep myself in check. The truth is, I’m seriously turned on. The more messed up my head is about her, the less confused my body is.
“Sorry, Mom.” She smirks up at me, all traces of nervousness gone. She knows what we’re doing out here, and it’s not exchanging biographies. “Besides, what do I need with a sweater when you’re around?”
The look in her eyes—sexy, flirtatious, bold—makes my face heat up. That’s something else that Angie can’t hide. She’s into me.
“I think I could do a better job of warming you up than I’m doing right now.”
We come to a dead stop. She presses her body against me, wraps her arms around my waist, and angles her face up toward mine.
“I think you could, too,” she says, and before I know it, she’s standing on her toes and her mouth is on mine.
There’s nothing romantic about this kiss on the beach. It’s wild and hungry like the breeze that’s kicking up and the waves that are crashing near us. The wind is blowing her hair and making goose bumps rise on her arms, but I can’t let her go. My hands grip her hair, pulling it away from her face a little harder than I probably need to. I feel more than hear her groan as her hands grasp the back of my shirt.
I could kiss her forever. Pressed up against me like this, she’s not a problem or a mystery, and she doesn’t owe me shit. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, with a mouth that doesn’t quit and a body that I want to explore every inch of. Tall and smart and quirky, she’s my dream girl wrapped up in a total nightmare.
“I’ve got to get you out of here, Pines,” I say, my hands on either side of her head as I look down into those eyes that I desperately want to see without their disguise. “Or we’re going to end up with sand in very awkward places.”
“It’s your show, Brady,” she says.
The hotel is starting to seem like a really good idea, but I don’t want to come on too strong. When we head up the stairs to the street level, I lead us straight to the valet stand. I stand behind Angela with my arms wrapped around her waist, in part to keep her warm while we wait for the car, but mostly to breathe in the scent of her hair and her neck. I feel a shiver run through her that I know has nothing to do with the breeze.
