Really hard.
Unexpectedly hard.
“This is like an underground bunker.” Her eyes flick to the chrome loungers. “I mean, it’s amazing.”
“Yeah.” My hollow voice echoes in the thin space.
I stuff my hands in my pockets, angry with myself for not wanting to reach out and make love to her on the lounger instead of letting feelings I long thought I left in my past resurface.
The growing fear as weeks turned into months of barricaded doors, scanning every shadow, sleeping with one eye open, had nearly consumed me then. And overhearing one conversation, I feel all the painful emotions rush back hot and sharp.
Shay touches the edge of the glass ashtray in the middle of the table. “I wish I had my camera. I would capture everything.”
“Yeah.”
Shit. I’m ruining the mood.
“You okay?” She steps closer, and her hand brushes mine.
She doesn’t grab.
She doesn’t demand.
She just reaches.
I stiffen slightly, and she notices.
Double shit.
I scrub my hands over my face. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” She smiles at me. “C’mon.” She takes my hand. “Let’s sit.”
We stretch out on the thick striped cushions on either side of a small, round side table.
The vinyl sighs under our weight, and air whooshes out.
She lifts a wide-brimmed ‘50s hat from the edge of her lounger and plops it on her head.
“You like?” She angles the rim low over her eye. “Instant glamour.”
I nod, trying to ignore the memories scratching at the back of my skull.
“You want to talk about it?” Her voice is patient, her face soft under the wide brim.
“No.” I say it too sharp—maybe.
Fuck.
“Okay.” She leans back, and her shorts ride up the sides of her legs.
Bare skin.
Sun-kissed.
Close enough to touch.
Damn, I wish I were in the mood. Wish my mind only wanted to slide on top of her right now. Kiss her. Touch her. Make her laugh like I’ve done so many times.
