“If there isn’t one right on the edge—yeah.” I refuse to admit to the man that I sometimes use the tongs to reach what I can’t.
His eyes dip down the length of me before they crinkle at the corners in a smile that threatens to burst with amusement. “Well, that’s something a man’s got to see.”
“Argh.” I hook my mug and brush past him for the still open door. “It’s too early for this. Aren’t you supposed to be on your ride?”
I can tell by how close his voice is that he’s following me. “It’s storming.”
I throw a look back at him. “Wimp.”
Briggs laughs. It does things to me.
I scowl, but deep inside there’s a whole lot more than a scowl happening.
I lower to the couch as Senior arrives at the top of the stairs. He takes his place on the rug closest to me when I lift my feet onto the cushion, sitting sideways to face Briggs. I don’t miss the way Briggs’ eyes drift over my legs as he settles on the patio set.
Is he looking at the stretch marks on my thighs? Can he see them?
I tug at the hem of my robe before I decide I don’t care. I do care, but the lie helps a little.
I shift my cup to my left hand so that I can let my right hand dangle over the side of the sectional to pet Senior. His content sigh is worth everything.
“So, you like storms?” Briggs breaks the silence a moment before thunder rolls.
“Don’t you?”
“I do.” He peers at me. “Most women I’ve dated don’t, though.”
I frown. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, they’re missing out.” Lightning flashes. I shiver in awe. “They’re beautiful.”
There is another booming crack that shakes the bones of the house. It must be directly overhead now. The sky opens and rain falls.
My soul sighs.
Briggs’ voice drops. “You’re beautiful, Lilah.”
My eyes snap to the man. “Wh—what?”
I attempt to cover my stutter with a sip of coffee.
I’m not pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes, least of all Briggs’.
“When you’re happy or you like something, you get this way about you. It’s beautiful.” He doesn’t look even a little bared by the exposing words he says.
What would it be like to have this man’s confidence?
I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t believe me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A probe into my innermost insecurities.
Before I can say anything, he presses, “Why?”
I cast my eyes to the sky that riots with the violence of a dark storm, wrestling with the rising sun. “It’s not that I don’t believe you.”
