And Sabrina? She had the ability to slice him clean to the bone.
“I mean, we did what…we did”—he waved a vague hand in the general direction of the upstairs—“because ya wanted to test the waters, right? Because, as you put it, who better than your good friend Hew to see ya through your first time since Torres? I don’t think it’s premature to say ya passed with flyin’ colors.”
He winked at her.
He wanted to kick his own ass the instant he did it.
Fuck!
“Right,” she said slowly. “Right,” she said again and firmed her chin. “So, I’ll go get ready?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
Her jaw sawed side to side as she firmed her shoulders. “I’ll go get ready.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets so she wouldn’t see his fingers clenching.
She hesitated another beat. Searching his face. Searching his eyes.
But he’d donned the mask he’d gotten good at wearing back when he was just a kid. In all the years since, it’d become impenetrable.
“Right,” she said for the third time before slowly heading for the stairs. He watched her walk away. Waited for her to turn back.
She never did. And when she jogged up the treads, her footsteps pounded out a rhythm that sounded…final?
He had the sudden, nearly overwhelming, urge to chase her. To catch her up and pull her close. To tell her to forget Martin and?—
He could still feel her, damnit! Under his hands. Under his skin. The touch of her fingertips. The taste of her mouth. The way she’d cried out his name like it had been pulled straight from her heart.
He ran a hand over his head like he could scrape out the memory of her and all they’d shared.
But she wasn’t going anywhere.
Except for out with Martin.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
34
Tired.
Cranky.
Confused.
Sabrina was all those things four hours later as she crossed the blacktop stretch from BKI’s front gate to the front door of the old menthol cigarette factory.
Sweat slid between her shoulder blades despite the sun finally tapping out. What was left of the big, orange orb sent long, lavender shadows crawling over the compound. And the humidity in the air clung to her like wet denim.
Winter in Chicago could be miserable. She’d expected that when she’d first moved from Charleston. But what she had not expected was for summer to be so…summery, for the heat to compete with the sultry southern sun she’d lamented her whole life.
Don’t wish your life away.
She’d read that somewhere. But here she was, dreaming of autumn. Dreaming of falling leaves and cool breezes, scarves and hot chocolate and evenings out by the fire pit in deep conversation with Hew.
Hew…
It always came back to him, didn’t it? Although at the moment, she had no desire to converse with him and every desire to whack him upside the head because he was the cause of the current state of her tiredness, crankiness, and confusion.
