“Which car is theirs?”
“He takes public transportation.” She reaches her good arm across herself to try to unbuckle her seat belt, grimacing as she struggles to reach it, and that pisses me off too.
I pulled too hard.
I pulled too hard on the dress and I didn’t listen to the sounds she was making because I recognized her body and her voice and I knew who she was while I was tugging.
And if it hadn’t been her body and her voice, the pink-and-white lady’s slipper tattoo on her hip was the final clue. Her homage to her home state and its flower.
And I was pissed.
I was pissed that in the one dress shop in the entire city where I had to pick up Paisley’s dress for this weekend, where there seemed to be no one at all in the boutique so I could just grab it and go, that it sounded like someone was beating up a woman in the dressing room, and most of all that it turned out to be Addie fighting herself trying to get out of a dress.
That she’d tried to get into a dress that clearly didn’t fit her.
That there was seemingly no one in the shop to help her.
That I could see all of the smooth skin on her belly. Her trim hips. The way her thigh and ass muscles were straining with all of the effort.
That I nearly popped a boner when I spotted her tattoo.
And I didn’t care that she was grunting and making little gasping noises.
I just wanted to get her out of the damn dress so I could leave and not have to see her any more than necessary, a knee-jerk reaction telling me I’mnotover her the way I’ve insisted I am for the past several years.
And now she’s reinjured her shoulder.
I was reckless and irritated and I hurt her.
Again.
I’m not leaving her alone until I know she’s in good hands.
The sooner we find those good hands, the better.
I hit the button on her seatbelt, earning me a halfhearted glare that fades quickly into a sigh. “Thank you.”
I don’t answer.
I’m already halfway out my door on my way around to get her door for her.
Naturally, though, she’s climbing out herself by the time I get there.
She’s tall—the top of her head is level with my mouth—and absolutely capable of getting out of the car herself. But I don’t miss the way her eyes pinch with the effort.
Shoulder has to hurt like hell.
And there’s nothing like reinjuring the same thing—for at least the third time—to spike frustration.
Her normally smooth chestnut hair is sporting flyaways around her crown, and her thick ponytail is crooked. She reaches behind herself to pat at her back pocket, then cringes again.
“Forget your ID?”
“No.”
I look at her ass and spot the outline of a card in her left back pocket.
The bad side.
