Page 40 of Sweet as Sin (Bad Habit 1)
His face did a funny thing then. It was part flinch, part disgust, a bit of something I would have sworn was pain. But he closed off his expression so quickly it was almost as if it hadn’t happened.
But it had. And it scared me. And because my verbal filter had been disabled by alcohol, I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Oh dear God please don’t tell me there’s an ugly story involving rape in your past.”
Had it been physically possible, Nico’s gaze would have incinerated me. But if his eyes were fiery, his voice was the opposite: ice, ice cold. “That’s what you think? That I’m capable of that?”
Not only was his answer evasive, but also it was one of those turn-it-back-on-you questions I absolutely hated. One of my exes used to wield that weapon with particular effectiveness. I stared at him a moment, trying to rein in my temper. “No.”
He looked relieved. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.
“But . . . ”
His relieved look vanished, replaced with wariness, and he stiffened.
“There’s a story there, right?”
After a silent moment spent combing his fingers pensively through my hair, he nodded. “It’s not my story, though,” he added when I began to pull away, alarmed. He gathered me back into his arms, and rested his temple against mine. He spoke softly, his warm breath caressing my cheek. “That’s not me, Kat. I would never . . . I could never do anything like that.”
He was sincere. Or at least he sounded sincere. Into my mind, Grace’s voice made an unwelcome comment. Pathological liars are really good at that kind of thing.
I was bummed that my pleasant buzz and the earlier sweet, sexy mood had evaporated, but I wouldn’t be deterred. “Okay . . . so are you going to tell me whose story it is?”
The tension returned to his body. That didn’t make me happy. I withdrew again, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Look. This whole trust thing has to go both ways. I know you had a life before me, and I don’t expect a laundry list of all the things that happened in it. Strike that—I don’t want a laundry list. Your past is your own business. But you’re asking a lot if you expect me to take every strange thing you say on faith. Mystery is great. Mystery
I can take, because mysteries eventually get solved. But secrets?” I shook my head. “I’m not so good with those. If we’re going to get closer, you’re going to have to let me in. That’s part of the deal.”
Seeing his stricken expression, I softened a bit. “Amazingly romantic gestures like a yard full of flowers and mariachis notwithstanding.”
He stood there breathing shallowly. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or not, until he pulled me against his chest and gave me a hard kiss, edged with desperation. He broke away suddenly. “Fuck. I’m not good at this. Please don’t be mad at me. I just don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’ here.”
A pang of pain speared my chest. “Doing here? You mean, with me?”
“No! God, no, that wasn’t what I meant! I mean this—” he squeezed me—“us! I’m not a relationship guy, Kat. I’ve never done this shit before.”
Shit? Our relationship was shit?
He saw my expression, and groaned. “Christ. She’s thinkin’ too much again.”
“Stop referring to me in the third person!” I was so mad, I could have stomped my foot. I wanted to stomp his foot.
Suddenly he loomed over me. Large and intimidating, he grasped my face and held me inches from his own. “Listen to me!”
That got my attention. He began speaking in a rapid-fire, urgent voice.
“I’m gonna say a lot of shit that doesn’t come out right and I’m probably gonna do a lot of shit that pisses you off because I’m a stubborn motherfucker who’s used to answerin’ to no one and doin’ whatever the fuck he wants, whenever the fuck he wants! But I’m into you, and you’re into me, and we’re gonna give each other the benefit of the doubt until one of us fucks up, and then we’re gonna talk about the fuckup and move past it! Because I’m not gonna let the girl of my dreams walk away over some stupid shit like my dumbass ways or her need to overanalyze every little thing!”
Ouch. That stung. Mostly because it was true: I did overanalyze. I could spend half an hour in the shampoo aisle at the store trying to decide which I needed more, moisture or shine. But then I forgot about that part and rewound, disbelieving what I’d heard.
I whispered, “Girl of your dreams?”
He shook his head, amazed by my ignorance. “You think I fly in the best mariachi band from Mexico for every crazy broad I know? You think I regularly buy jewelry for women I haven’t even fucked? You think I’d stand here in the street with that old lady glarin’ daggers at my back—” he jerked his head. Through her living room window, old Mrs. Lewis was indeed glaring daggers at his back—“lettin’ you cross-examine me, if I didn’t think you were the girl of my dreams?”
The sweet, sexy feeling was making a reappearance. I decided the cross-examination could wait until tomorrow, after all the alcohol had worn off. “I’m guessing . . . no?”
He said gruffly, “You’re fuckin’ right, no!”
Behind us, the mariachi band ended the song with a flourish. Grace and Chloe clapped enthusiastically, and Chloe squealed something that included the word “love.”
