I growl and take a step toward him. Ethan laughs and walks away with a wink. Not a creepy wink but the kind that makes you want to giggle like a debutante behind a lacy fan. I don’t own a fan, and I don’t do giggles. So I snarl at his back, ignoring the warmth pooling low in my stomach.
With an exasperated huff, I strap my tray of vile, cancer-causing goods around my neck like the peanuts guy at a ball game and contort my face into a cheek-paralyzing smile. I need todraw customers, not chase them away, to quote my greasy manager.
I sell the cigarettes and cigars on autopilot while my mind mimics a gravity-defying carnival ride. Ben is dead. My breath catches when I remember his mischievous smile as he swiped a fry off my plate. But I shove aside the grief threatening to engulf me.
Did he get too close on a case? He was an incredible PI. He wouldn’t have been sloppy enough to get made. Then what? Something personal? I exhale through my teeth. This is pointless. I’m not keeping Ethan around for the fun of it. I need him to fill me in.
My shift drags like it’s anchored in wet cement. When I finally make it to the crowded bar, my eyes zero in on Ethan as though he has a spotlight shining on him. Or does he exude an inner light? I snort despite my apprehension at being able to pick him out in one second flat.
He’s staring down at the beer bottle gripped in his hand, his grief written in the lines of his hunched shoulders. Or is it a defensive posture? Is he being followed? I scan his vicinity, adrenaline flowing, and sense no immediate danger.
But there are about eleven women and three men of varying ages—and a platinum blonde seraph, glamoured to hide the white wings folded behind her back and to dampen her otherworldly beauty—all undressing him with their eyes. I’m relieved to find that I’m not the only one until an unfamiliar instinct kicks in.
He’s mine.
What the fuck, Sunny? He isnotyours. I’m fine. It’s nothing. I just don’t like having other people lusting after him, even if I’m doing the same thing. Is that what I’m doing? Is this electric, jittery heat inside melust? I honestly wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt anything like this before.
Well, it doesn’t matter what I’m feeling, because I’m not going to act on it. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop glaring at the assholes staring at him. Ireallydon’t like it ... so I’m going to make them stop. The good thing about being a nomadic loner who gives zero fucks is that I can do whatever the hell I want, when I want. No excuses necessary.
Lust has nothing to do with it when I take off in a run toward Ethan. He spots me a second before I proceed to smack loud kisses on his face, his head trapped between my palms. I try not to notice the woodsy musk of his scent but find myself breathing him in instead. His arms wrap around me like bands of hot steel and tug me close. I squeak and plant my hands on his shoulders to steady myself. I’m immediately distracted by the feel of his muscles bunching and shifting under his shirt, and my kisses slow and linger against his jaw as I surreptitiously spread my fingers and dig them into his skin. There’s hardly any give, like he’s carved out of marble. A shiver runs through me.
I feel the tremor of his laughter but don’t understand the reason behind it until too late. The last thing I see before he kisses me squarely on the mouth are the crinkled corners of his eyes. I know he’s just playing along with my ruse, but my lips part against his on a sharp inhale. He stills for a split second, then deepens the kiss, swirling his tongue inside my mouth. I bite back a moan, arching into him. His hands flex against my back as he spreads his legs to pull me flush against him. He tastes bitter and hoppy, and I want to drink him in like he’s my lastbottle of IPA. I want the worlds around me to fade away, so I can lose myself in this kiss.
The thought stops me cold. I don’t ... I can’t ... I push against the hard wall of his chest, and he releases me, his hands skimming my waist and hips as they drop to his sides. His expression is guarded as he searches my face. I arch my eyebrow in a way I hope conveys sardonic amusement. I might’ve ruined the effect with my heaving bosom.
“They’d never buy your act without a proper kiss.” His tone is dry and easy, but his eyes linger on my lips, which feel swollen. I fight the urge to brush my fingers across them.
“You’re welcome,” I say, plopping down on the stool beside him. The indignant huffs and stomping feet tell me the lovers’ act worked. An act. That’s all it was.
“Your usual.” The bartender sets down two shots of tequila in front of me, giving Ethan a hostile look. The burly redhead is probably assessing whether he could take Ethan out if the need arose. I did him a small favor a couple of years ago, and now it seems he’ll protect me with his life. Humans and their sentimentality.
“Thanks, Ford.” I pound both shots and suck the tangy juice from one of the lime quarters. Ethan’s taste still lingers in my mouth, even after the tequila and lime. “That’s it for tonight, though.”
The bartender cocks his head but clears the empty glasses without any question, throwing one last glance at my companion. Ford is built to bulldoze through a crowd, all barrel chest and tree-trunk arms. But Ethan is covered in lean, corded muscles that speak of speed, strength, and agility. It wouldn’t be easy for either of them to get the better of the other. Good thing they won’t need to go at it.
“How many shots do you usually have?” Ethan sips on his nearly untouched beer.
“Two at the beginning of my break and two before I get back on the floor. It takes the edge off so I don’t knock anyone’s teeth out.”
“What are you doing here?” He sweeps his hand out to the busy casino.
“Can’t you tell?” I say, bristling. “It’s my calling.”
He tousles his imaginary head of hair again. His frustration tic.
“Tell me everything you know,” I say to preempt any unsolicited lecture. I’m one hundred thirty-two years old. He doesn’t know that, but I don’t need anyone giving me advice on how to live my life.
“It’s been eight years.” He ignores my demand, moving on to yet another subject I don’t want to discuss. “You look exactly the same. How? It’s like you’re still twenty.”
“The last time you saw me, I was twenty-one,” I correct him, even though age is meaningless to me.
From Ethan’s perspective, I’m in my late twenties, but no one would buy that. I can pass for midtwenties at most. For flexibility on how long I remain in one location, I revert back to being eighteen years old every time I move to a new city. How old is Vegas me again? Twenty-two, I think. In reality, I actuallylookeighteen because that’s when I stopped aging—the same time I left Korea.
But no one needs to know about my eternal youth, especially since the why of it has me thoroughly stymied. My mother was a powerful gumiho, but I saw the fine lines around her eyes deepen and the streaks of gray in her hair multiply as the years passed. So why not me?
“Now stop stalling, and tell me what I need to know about Ben’s ... case.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I scowl. “Or I might change my mind about helping you.”
“Ben was looking for you before he died.” Ethan stares at me as if expecting a reaction. I keep my shock to myself. “He got close, and I picked it up from there. I can’t believe you were only a few hours away all this time.”
