Page 50 of Scatter the Bones

One of the attendants walks up and whispers something in Margot’s ear. Then the two of them turn and stare at me.

Fucking hell. The second my eyes lock with Margot’s, my heart stutters.

Her gaze narrows, anger simmering over her pretty face for a second before she gives me her back and continues speaking with the other woman.

Yup, I deserve that.

I was going to wait until after the service. Be respectful. Give her space. But I can’t take another second of this self-inflicted silent punishment. Every second she refuses to acknowledge my presence scrapes my insides raw. This isn’t the time or place to lay out the whole story—but I have to saysomethingto her.

Excusing myself from the conversation I’d been barely listening to with a couple of bikers from Idaho, I cross the parlor and come up behind Margot. Part of her hair’s caught up in a silver clip, the rest flowing down her back. Desperation to sweep her hair to the side and kiss the side of her neck pulses through me. I curl my hands into fists at my sides.

I step closer and her entire body tenses up as if she senses me looming at her back. The same kind of awareness that’s lived in my bones since the first time we touched.

I lean down, close enough to breathe her in. Citrus, vanilla, a hint of incense. “Can I talk to you for a second?” I whisper against her ear.

Her jaw clenches tight enough to crack teeth. “I’m working.”

Please, please, please, let me fix this.“Margot.”

She drops her head and takes a long, slow breath, then turns to face me.

My face must betray how desperate I am for her. The second our eyes meet, her harsh expression softens. Her fury—which I deserve—cracks enough for other feelings to flicker over her face. Confusion. Hurt. Concern.

“Where have you been?” Her soft voice comes edged in steel. Like if I lie or give her some weak-ass excuse, she’ll never give a shit about my whereabouts again.

Damn.I glance around the room full of bikers loudly reminiscing about past road trips and talking about what a shame it is Whisper died so soon. This isn’t the time or place for us to have such a personal conversation. “I’ll explain. Later, I promise.”

She tilts her head and runs her gaze over me again. I pull my shoulders back and try to dial back the desperation.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I blow out a breath, my heart thudding like it’s been trying to claw its way back to her this whole time. “I am now.” I hate how much that sounds like a line when it’s one hundred percent true. Even though a funeral’s going on around us, the second I stepped into her orbit, the heaviness that’s been surrounding me for days lifted.

Why didn’t I just come back the other night and tell her what happened?

“Margot?” her dad calls from the doorway. “They’re about to start.”

She turns and nods. “Okay.”

After he leaves, she reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I have to?—”

“I know.”

“We’ll talk later.” She raises her eyebrows as if it’s a question.

“Thank you.”

A small, but genuine smile curves her lips. “I’m happy you’re okay.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. She takes off before I come up with an answer. Should I follow or stay put?

The silence she leaves behind is deafening.

A few seconds later, movement ripples through the room. Everyone starts drifting toward the double doors across the hall.

I need a minute.

I grab a golden cookie off the tray and bite into it. It’s dry and flavorless, like sawdust on my tongue. I pour a cup of coffee to wash down the world’s worst cookie.

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