Page 65 of Heroes & Hitmen
“Fine, give me a minute to change,” she mumbles, scooting off the edge of the bed and heading for the walk-in closet.
I try not to look too smug in my victory when she emerges from the closet a minute later in a dark hoodie that swallows up her slender frame, hands stuffed in the front pocket and a pair of crisp white sneakers on her feet. Her legs are still bare, the edge of her lounge shorts just barely peeking out beneath the hem of her sweatshirt, and my gaze locks on them as she struts in my direction.
What I wouldn’t give to have those legs wrapped around me again.
She stops in front of me, arms crossing, chin lifting in that defiant way that drives me insane. “Don’t make me regret this,” she sighs.
A feral grin stretches my lips. “Life’s too short for regrets, babe.”
She rolls her eyes and bumps her shoulder into mine as she brushes past, leading the way to the door.
Five minutes later, we’re outside, heading in the direction of the lake. This part of the city is quieter at night, the usual honking and chatter replaced with distant sirens and the soft hiss of tires over wet asphalt. Since Miley’s obviously made this trek many times before, I let her set the pace.
She walks fast, head down and hands jammed deep in her hoodie pocket, but not like she’s in a rush. More like she’s trying to outrun whatever’s gnawing at her brain.
Chronic over-thinker, that one.
It isn’t long before we reach the public beach, and even though the weather-worn sign clearly indicates it’s closed at this hour, we blow right past it without breaking stride. Our feet sink in the loose sand as we trek out across the vacant beach to claim a spot, dropping down to sit side by side.
The sand’s still warm from the heat of the day, the moon bright in the sky overhead. The dark lake laps gently at the shoreline in front of us, the city at our backs.
Miley draws her knees up to her chest, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands as I turn to offer her the bottle of wine.
“Want me to open it?”
She glances at the bottle, then at me, a perfectly plucked brow arching. “You didn’t bring a corkscrew, did you?”
I press a hand to my heart, feigning offense. “What kind of neanderthal do you take me for?”
She just blinks back at me.
“Okay, fine,” I admit, the corners of my lips quirking up. “I definitely forgot. But don’t worry, I’m a man of many talents.” Wedging the neck of the bottle into the crook of my elbow, I twist off the cap with a flourish, presenting it to her. “Ta-da.”
She takes the bottle, holding it up to inspect the rim. “This is a screw top, Ares,” she deadpans.
“Still counts as impressive,” I reply with a wink.
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the flicker of a smile before she lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a cautious sip. She immediately sputters, coughing once as she swallows.
“Wow,” she chokes, grimacing. “Tastes like sour lemon and regret. With a hint of gasoline.”
I chuckle as I lean back on my elbows, cracking open a beer. “Only the best for my mate.”
It can’t bethatterrible, because she immediately goes in for another sip, the two of us sitting in silence as we drink and watch the moonlight ripple across the water. I know she’s not really here for the wine, anyways. She needed air. An escape. And if sitting next to me under the stars gives her even a moment of peace, I’ll take it. Hell, I’ll give her a thousand more.
“So,” I say after a while, flicking her a sideways glance as I crack open another beer. “Do you always study this much, or are you just inventing excuses to avoid me?”
She takes a slow sip from the wine bottle, then wipes the corner of her mouth with the pad of a thumb. “School’s important to me,” she replies with a shrug. “I want to do well, which means I’ve gotta put in the work.”
“Yeah, well you’re the hardest worker I’ve ever seen,” I say, half teasing, half in awe.
“I highly doubt that,” she scoffs, lowering the wine bottle into the sand.
“I’m serious,” I say, turning toward her, gaze steady. “You’re sharp as hell. Tough, too. Tougher than a lot of the guys I know. You’ve got grit, brains, and the balls to speak your mind. That’s rare.”
“Stop,” she mutters, chuckling uncomfortably as she tries to deflect the compliment.
“It’s true,” I say, taking a long pull from my beer before lowering it to dangle loosely between my fingers. “So… why journalism?”
