“We can be, if you want.”
I keep flashing smiles; she keeps catching them and blushing. I don’t like it, and like it at the same time.
Some fucking spell must’ve hit me in the head, because I keep feeling like two people at once: one that wants to fuck off and shake himself for making a connection with a stranger—connections are trouble—and the other that keeps doing it anyway.
At this rate I’m going to do something stupid, like ask her for a real number. I need to touch a topic she’ll push me away for. Hit a nerve. Get her cagey and scared, or she’ll charm me to death.
“Your scar,” I say. “What’s it from?”
She rolls her sleeve down by instinct, then stops halfway, considering. “Car accident,” she says finally. “Textbook: don’t stick your hand where glass lives.” A beat. “No one died.”
Fuck. Car accident, huh.
I know something about those.
“What about you?” she asks softly. “Tell me something about yourself.”
I think about it for a minute.
If I were smart, I’d turn away and go home. Turns out I’m not very smart.
“I’m all alone in this world,” I say, smirking. “Just me and the shitstorm outside.”
“Is that right?” she echoes.
“Hell yeah.” I wiggle a brow. “So don’t come too close, yeah? I tend to bring that storm with me wherever I go.”
She cocks a brow, purses her lips into a half-smile, and nods.
Something tells me that the warning didn’t hit as hard as it should’ve.
And it should have.
Experience says so.
But warnings only work on people who want to listen.
Apparently, Rhea isn’t one of them.
Iwake to a world padded in velvet.
An actual, smothering, marshmallowy softness wraps around me. It’s warm and plush andgentle, which is deeply suspicious because nothing in my life lately has been allowed to qualify as gentle.
There is no gnawing emptiness in my ribs.
No simmering resentment curled behind my teeth.
No needle-sharp pain in my shoulder.
Just… warmth.
Cozy.
Safe.
Soft.
Three adjectives my body should reject on contact, and yet here they are, purring through my nervous system.
