I gasp. “Are you going to pick me up?”
“Yes, Freckles. Now, arms.”
I comply, and his other hand slides under my knees. He lifts me like I weigh nothing at all until I’m snug against his chest, my head resting on his shoulder.
“Okay?” he asks, his breath warm against my temple.
I nod, settling in as he walks. His steps are measured and steady, and with his cologne—warm and woodsy—and his steady heartbeat, it’s the most comforting combination.
And God, is he pretty up close. He was always pretty, even back in high school when most boys were gross and awkward. With that lazy smirk that got him out of detentions, the way he’d lean back in his chair like he owned the room, boots propped on the desk. The rumpled uniform shirt he never bothered to button properly, and the chain around his neck he wasn’t supposed to wear. He wasn’t the sweet, safe kind of handsome—he was the kind that made you want to break rules. But now? His jawline is sharper, his brows fuller, his lips… hislips. He’s more than just pretty—he’s perfect.
The corners of his mouth curl up. “Hi.”
“I don’t care what everyone says. You aresopretty.”
He hums. “Did someone say I’m not pretty? ’Cause they’re lying.”
“No.” I fidget with the collar of his sweater, relaxed and warm in his arms. “It’s just… it makes no sense. People should know you’re good. Nobody this pretty is bad—ever.”
“Makes sense to me.”
Of course it does. Rafael is too pretty, on the inside and the outside, to be anything but good. Anyone who doesn’t see it is just… stupid.
“Theo thinks you’re the murderer,” I say. Something tells me I shouldn’t say this to him, but I guess whiskey makes me honest.
“He does, huh?” He chuckles. “Well, if I were, I’d probably kill him for saying that.”
I trace the black lines at the base of his neck. “The chief of police might think so too.”
That gets his attention, because he looks down at me, his face inches away from mine. “Doyou, Scarlett?”
“No,” I spit out, as if the thought alone is insulting.
“That’s all that matters.”
I bask in the joy of being so relevant to this man, but I know he’s not saying the whole truth. It bothers him that everyone thinks ill of him. “You know,” I say, still staring at his mouth, “I like this.”
“Hate to break it to you, but everyone loves drinking until they’re hungover.”
“No, not drinking.” I wave a lazy finger between us. “This.”
His hand, holding the spot behind my knee, tightens slightly. The motion is so subtle that I shouldn’t notice, but I do, and it makes my stomach flip.
“I like it, too. Very much.”
“What you said about pushing people away—maybe I do that. Maybe I’ve done it with you, because I’m scared.”
“I know,” he says simply, looking ahead. “You’re afraid I’ll disappoint you.”
I fidget with the top button of his shirt. “No. I mean, yes, but no. Everyone eventually disappoints you. People change, sometimes without meaning to.”
He keeps walking as he waits for my next slurred words.
“I’m not afraid you’ll disappoint me. You’re sweet, Rafael. You’re caring, thoughtful, charming.”
He slows to a stop under a tree, its sprawling branches casting dappled shadows on the ground. “Really? Keep going.”
“If you think you need to prove something to me, you’re wrong. I already know who you are. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you.”
