“I do. You were going to ask if Quinn and I ever hooked up.” He pulls back, but only to lift a hand to my face and cradle my cheek. “Quinn has always been like a sister to me. We were raised together. We did everything together.”
I purse my lips. “Reeve Rafferty, have you and Quinn ever kissed?”
“Compulsion doesn’t work on me, but to answer your question,yes. We’ve kissed.”
Why does that hurt?
“On the cheek,” he adds.
Masochistic me asks, “Nowhere else?”
“On the forehead.”
“So, you’ve never made out?”
His nose wrinkles, jostling the slight bump along its bridge. “Never.”
I fish his glasses out of my pocket. One lens is cracked. I wipe the other on a clean part of my T-shirt. I’m probably creating a larger smudge, but surely blurry will beat semi-blind.
As I fit them on his face, he says, “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“You can say life’s knocked the trust out of me lately.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.” He catches my wrist…my fingers. Weaves his through mine.
I stare at our twined hands before stealing my fingers back and stepping away. “I’ll show you to a guestroom so you can wash up.”
Chapter 60
Reeve
Iemerge from a bathroom as beautiful as the one in the five-star hotel back in Boston.
Was it only this morning that I showered there? Dying really screws with one’s perception of time.
“Thank you for the clothes,” I tell Malachi, who’s sitting in one of the two leather armchairs by the picture window, face turned toward the garden in full bloom beyond.
I wonder if Lisa planted it, then wonder if she’s here.
When Electra led me upstairs, the only person I ran into was Malachi. He was pacing the first-floor landing, speaking animatedly in Atlantean on his phone. Electra asked him to show me to a guestroom—and stay with me while I showered.
My black-haired beauty might’ve let me hug her, but I’ve yet to earn back her trust. I’m ready to fight for it, though. For as long as it takes. And not because I owe her my life, but because I want her in mine.
Malachi taps his cell phone against the padded armrest. Whoever decorated this place spared no expense. Even though I didn’t grow up in the lap of luxury, I’ve visited my fair share of fancy interiors to know the glass-and-brass light fixture abovethe king-sized bed costs more than my mother’s ring. The one I spent a full minute scrubbing with soap to rid it of blood.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” I tell Malachi.
He swallows, then gives a sharp nod.
“You weren’t able to…”
“No.” He glances toward the window, running a palm down his face. “How do you feel?”
I comb my fingers through my damp hair. “Alive.”
He snorts, eyes so bloodshot his blue irises appear phosphorescent. “I admire the positivity.” He taps his cell phone twice more on the armrest before standing. “Are you attached to your glasses?”
“I’m attached to seeing.”
