Page 66 of Fly Back to Me
His chest lightly bounces through a laugh, rugged fingers now wrapping the white cloth around one of the tap nozzles. “I think you assume too much,” he says.
My cheeks heat, the anxious rush sending my hand through my hair. But just as my chin angles with the motion, my eyes bore into his elevated forearm.
His left forearm.
Hisblemishedforearm.
A few thick veins crawl over his sun-kissed flesh, my bellypitching at the sight of the white brand on his skin.
Long, thin, and raised.
“Where did you get that scar?”
The question sprints from my mouth before I can shove it back down my throat. My eyes snap to his face just as his body tenses, the extrapolated silence beating on my lungs as I wait for his next words.
His hand moves to the next beer jet, eyes never abandoning the task. “I got it in a tussle with a guy quite a few months ago.” I swallow thickly as my gaze remains unblinking, my stare bolting to the somber glow that’s hypnotized his eyes. “He attacked this woman. He had a knife.”
My lungs swell, and I swear I witness our hearts kissing before me. They finally meet, bursting a tender warmth around us. Stowed away feelings braid together, binding us with every weave of every emotion we’ve endured since that night.
Fear.
Grief.
Anger.
Hope.
His scar tells the story ofus.
He took wounds that were supposed to be mine.
“Thankfully, I was there just in time.”
Cade’s voice slaps me from my trance, his body half-turning to toss the rag. “Thankfully, there are men like you,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.
“I don’t know about that,” he murmurs, sliding back up to the counter. “I think a better man wouldn’t have let you in his brewery after closing. Especially when he’s tied down.”
“Why did you?”
“Because when I look at you, I see everything I want.”
Our locked eyes suspend in a paralysis, waiting for a gauntlet to be thrown down on the polished concrete.
A challenge to his heart, provoking it to surrender.
But his jaw screws tight, icy-blue eyes sealing with regret before he walks off.
“Where is she tonight?” I ask, my uneasy stare trailing his movement.
“Working overnight at the hospital.”
He swipes up a tray of glassware, journeying with it to the end of the bar. My face tenses, eyes wandering around the reclaimed brick when I feel the barrier he’s building between us. “What’s missing?” I blurt out.
As soon as he sets the tub on the counter, he peeks his head over his shoulder. “What?”
I swallow thickly. “I don’t know, I just get this feeling. Maybe you want to talk about it?”
He crouches to stock the glasses on the shelf under the bar. “I’d rather not discuss this with you. Better yet, there’s not much to discuss anymore,” he answers, his tone clipped.
