Page 49 of Marry Lies
My skin burns under his perusal.
“I wanted some place that I could hide away under a shirt. This way, it’s close to my heart,” I explain, swallowing thickly.
“That night,” he murmurs. “When you asked me if I had a tattoo. Did you have this?”
I nod. “I did. You might’ve seen it if you weren’t being such a gentleman.”
His green eyes bore down into mine, a look of determination on his face as he reaches a hand forward.
“May I?” he asks.
His surly mask is gone, replaced yet again withthat look.The one that makes me swoon. The one that makes me think Miles Ravage is very, very good at burying his true feelings. He looks almost in a daze.
“Go ahead,” I tell him.
Reaching down, he uses his thumb to trace the outline of the small butterfly—about two inches wide. His fingers are curled, and they graze against my bare skin. My pajama shirt is mere inches from falling open completely, exposing myself. With each sweep of his thumb, I try not to gasp out loud. My skin pebbles, and Miles hums low in his throat.
Fuck.
Why is that noise so sexy?
“I think we’re at least a one out of ten now, don’t you think, butterfly?” he asks, his voice almost gentle.
“I–what–yeah,” I answer dumbly, processing his words.
And that nickname…
A heavy, aching stone settles between my legs at the way his gravelly voice enunciates each syllable.
Butterfly.
He pulls away, and when I look back up into his eyes, his pupils are slightly blown out. Licking his lips, he shakes his head as he takes a step back.
I can practically see the bricks he’s placing up, building a wall too tall for anyone to possibly scale.
Clearing his throat, he walks back over to his macchiato, and I pull my shirt together, buttoning it quickly.
“I’m going for a walk in a few minutes if you’d like to join me,” I offer. “Maybe we can have breakfast together. The more time we spend together, the more comfortable we will be in public.”
He scowls as he watches me, sipping his coffee. “A walk?”
I nod. “I go on a walk every morning. It helps me…” I trail off, biting my lower lip. “It keeps me feeling even keeled.”
Cocking his head, he doesn’t say anything, so I continue talking nervously.
“I’ll just go up and change out of my pajamas,” I tell him.
He frowns. “I don’t have time towalk,Estelle.”
My brows furrow. “How do you expect to get to a ten if we never spend time together?”
“What are you talking about? I told you we can have dinner together every night—”
“It’s not enough!” I blurt, cheeks flaming. “And even if it were, surely berating me over cottage pie and spending most of the evening in awkward silence is not the way to befriend me.”
His jaw ticks as he studies me with a scowl. “Fine. Let’s go on a walk, then.” He stalks out of the kitchen, and I swear I hear him mutterinsufferable wenchas he turns the corner.
CHAPTERELEVEN
