Page 52 of Finding Denver
“Is that really the time?” Helena exhales and takes my hand. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Me neither,” I say, and I really mean it. Helena reminds me of my mom, and knowing I have access to my family’s past in some way … it feels wrong to walk away from it.
“Maybe you could come over for lunch someday?” Helena asks hopefully.
I smile, already knowing I can’t. “Maybe.”
As we say goodbye, Finn shakes my hand this time, but he holds onto it and reminds me he’s always close if I need him. As he goes to pay the check and Helena follows, Colt stays with me.
“So. Lunch with the McEwans,” he says. “And you survived.”
I exhale. “I did, didn’t I? Go me.”
He smiles. “I’ll send you the details for the security firm. Please tell me you’ll call them today.”
“I will.”
The restaurant is quiet, the dishes have been collected, and my coffee is half finished in front of me. I run the tip of my finger around the rim of the cup, focusing on it.
“Thank you again for what you did that night. For not leaving me. I know why you did it, but I appreciate it anyway.”
“And why did I do it?” he asks, and I meet his eye. I don’t need to say it—that every good deed he’s done for me gives me more reason to spare his brother. His brows furrow gently. “Denver, I didn’t do what I did for Wilder.”
My laugh is closer to an exhale. “You did, and that’s fine.”
“I didn’t.” His frown deepens. “Not everyone has an agenda.”
That’s hard for me to believe, given that most people in my life do. Wyatt might have loved me, but there were huge benefits to marrying a Luxe. Ranger lured me in to make me powerful because he wanted to keep me. Ethan was giving information to the police. Lewis is the only person who’s good to me because he wants to be, but I’m paying him, so who fucking knows?
At least Wesson loves me unconditionally. God, I miss that dog.
I focus on Colt’s strong forearms, and his tattoos, the dark, beautiful ink, skeletal fingers grasping at silk, skulls’ mouths hanging open in endless silent screams. When he changed his shirt in the car that night, I noticed he had more tattoos across his back, but I was pressing myself so hard into the door to put distance between us that I didn’t look at them thoroughly. Now, I wish I had.
“So you did it to be kind?” I ask, lifting my gaze to his.
His smile feels genuine. “Is that so hard to believe? That someone would want to be kind to you?”
“Yes.”
His smile fades. “Then Ranger is wrong. It isn’t you that’s not enough.” I inadvertently take a sharp breath in, blush blasting across my cheeks that he remembered me saying that. “It’s him.”
Intimate words from a man that barely knows me. I want to remind him of that—that we’re strangers who shared one night of … nothing. But the words sit on my tongue, they take root there, and refuse to go further, as if pointing out our divide would be cruel given what he did for me.
My phone lights up on the table. A text from “My Husband.”
“I should take this,” I say, standing.
Why was I so open with him the other night? It’s no one’s business what’s happening between Ranger and me, and the last person who should ever know about my marital problems is Colt fucking Harland.
As I go to the exit and read the message, another “When are you coming home?” text, girlish laughter spills into the restaurant as the door opens, and a man appears.
I halt in my tracks.
He’s devastatingly handsome. So much so, he almost gives Ranger a run for his money. He’s tall, with thick, dark hair and a matching beard. He’s in faded black jeans and a wool coat, a gray T-shirt underneath, the red logo long since peeled. Over his shoulder is a little girl laughing hysterically.
The man stops in place, the door closing behind him. Dark green eyes consider me, eyes similar to Finn’s.
This is Ronan McEwan.
