Page 51 of Fighting For You
I’d always thought so. I’d forbidden myself from truly taking it in when she’d been sick—it’d felt wrong. But now she was well, and she was waiting for me…
If only that meant what I wanted it to mean. If only she were waiting for me to sit down and buy her a drink and talk softly to her until we couldn’t stand it anymore and left to find somewhere quiet, somewhere we could explore the decade of tension that’d been building between us.
I shook out my hands and slowed my breathing as I approached.
“Wait long?”
She turned toward me, that stunning face sending my stomach to the floor. Dark lashes over darker eyes, a straight nose and full lips that made me want things. Minimal makeup I detected better now that I’d seen her bare-faced at the cabin. Soft-looking skin and despite her intensity, a kindness in the way her lips naturally tilted up and in the friendly arch of her dark, expressive brows.
“Only a minute.”
She nudged the tall bar chair next to her and I slipped into it. My knee brushed hers as I settled in.
“So… you said I could ask you anything.”
“No small talk then, huh?”
She shot me a look. “Why would we small talk? We’ve never done that before.”
“Fair enough.” I didn’t want to talk weather with her either. But I’d regret cutting this night short with saying the wrong thing, especially if this was all I’d ever get.
She reached for the glass in front of her—a delicate flute filled with something sparkling. “Drink?”
It shouldn’t have hit me like this, but it felt almost flirty. Like maybe she wanted to sit here and sip on cocktails and pretend we weren’t secretly watching each other’s lips when they touched the rims of our glasses.
The bartender arrived then with brows raised asking the same question.
“Whiskey neat. Your choice.”
Everything they served here was good, and I knew this kid, Brandon, wasn’t about to pour me one of Julian Grenier’s thousand dollar a bottle pours. He recognized me from around town, and the lounge had a reputation which they wouldn’t keep if their bartenders were pouring overpriced drinks.
“I tried getting into whiskey a while back but I justcouldn’t. Bourbon, whiskey, gin… it’s just not my thing. I can do vodka if I can’t taste it and I love a good margarita, but that’s about it.” She raised her glass an inch. “But the bubbly?” She tipped the glass to her lips and closed her eyes as she took a drink.
“Pop.” It came out a little wistful, especially as I recalled learning her nickname.
All of us garnered nicknames during our assessment and selection. It came from any number of things—sometimes something funny, sometimes a character trait, sometimes a play on the person’s name. Wilder Saint’s nickname? Saint, originally enough, both because of his last name and because he had this compulsive need to do the right thing on a mission.
Bruce had Jaws because he gave shark eyes when he got intense. Kenny earned Barbie because his name is Ken and he looks like a Barbie doll, plus he’s plucky as all get out which fit the name. Cookie’s undying love for cookies meant Jean-Luc very rarely got called by his name—though when he did it was Luc. Someone had tried to float Picard for him, but apparently that got shot down when he admitted to never having seen Star Trek.
I’d been named Beast because I am a large man with a gruff personality, and Jess? Well, she loved champagne, her last name was that of a fairly well-known champagne maker in the US (reportedly no relation), and she had energy. She had this thrumming, bubbling need to get the job done, and her peers in assessment recognized it.
Her eyes fluttered opened. “Yeah. I guess it’s no secret.”
Brandon delivered my drink, and I sipped it, then held it up halfway between us. “To the truth.”
Her eyes hooked into mine. “To the truth.”
She drank, but the placid state of things between usslipped away and the edge returned as my sip of whiskey burned a hot, oaky trail down my throat.
“Go ahead.” I might as well get it over with and deal with the fallout. See where we landed.
“When did you know?”
I swallowed hard, pulse instantly a riot, though my façade stayed calm. “Know about Kurt?”
She nodded.
“I didn’t know until I caught him in the act, and I reported it immediately. But… he used to be pretty aggressive. And the day we met you, he set his eyes on you just like he had others. When it turned into a relationship instead of a one and done, I thought it meant he’d changed.” Regret laced through me, followed by a familiar ache.
