“This is a tall truck,” I pointed out, trying to find a sense of calm that didn’t exist anywhere inside me when it came to Cole.
“It is.”
His lips twitched. They were so close.
With care and attentiveness, he eased me to the ground. He made sure my foot wasn’t twisted against the running board, then lifted one arm still wrapped around my waist. His other hand came up and smoothed my hair back where it had gotten caught on the top of the door. My ponytail was now lopsided, afact that would’ve embarrassed me more if I could get enough air into my lungs to care.
But I could barely breathe. My thoughts were a muddle, hazed with this sudden, unrelenting desire. Cole’s presence short-circuited my brain.
“Anybody ever tell you how beautiful you are, Adele?”
For a second, I thought he was teasing. But when I met his gaze, there wasn’t even a flicker of humor in his expression. His deep blue eyes were dark and sincere.
Once again, I tried to suck in a breath. I swallowed hard. “Well, actually, no,” I answered, honestly.
“Well, now that’s a shame,” he said, his tone low and reverent. “Because you are.”
Just like that, the old insecurity sliced through me—sharp and fast, a blade forged from memory. That insecurity had always protected me, kept people at a distance. It was the sword I wielded to hurt myself before anyone else could.
“I have a nasty scar right down the center of my chest. More than one,” I offered.
Cole’s gaze didn’t waver. “Why are you saying that?”
“Because maybe youthinkI’m pretty. But trust me, you won’t when you see those scars.”
“Scars don’t bother me.” His voice was steady.
Something came over me. Maybe it was adrenaline, or maybe it was pure recklessness.
Even though the space between us was close, almost too close, I reached up, caught the top two buttons of my blouse, and swiftly undid them. I pulled the fabric apart.
“See?” I ran my fingers down the line of the scars that tangled together.
I knew every inch of it. There were only so many places to cut when you had to crack someone’s breastbone open to reach their heart. The surgical team had to reach mine more than once.
Cole didn’t flinch. His hand slid down from my hair and lightly nudged my fingers out of the way. He trailed his fingertip over the line of the scar—gently, reverently—his touch never dipping below the button line. “Was that supposed to bother me?”
The concern in his eyes twisted my heart—my faulty heart, etched with real and invisible scars. I suddenly felt confused by my own reaction. “I don’t know,” I whispered.
His hand dropped away, and he curled his fingers under my chin, tilting my face up.
“You’re still beautiful. Your scars are beautiful. They’re just part of your story. Part of your strength. I’m sure you know scar tissue is stronger.”
I stared up at him. My heart kicked so hard, it almost frightened me.
He moved slowly, like I was something wild that might bolt. I couldn’t have looked away if I tried.
I blinked just as he whispered, his mouth a hair’s breadth from mine, “I’m going to kiss you right now, Adele. Unless you tell me not to.”
I couldn’t have told him not to if my life depended on it.
In that moment, I was caught in a current of need and curiosity that ran deeper than anything I’d felt in a long time. I wanted to know what his mouth would feel like against mine. I wanted more.
It felt like a thread snapped taut between us. He waited long enough, I suppose, for me to say something, anything. I didn’t.
Instead, I placed my palm on his chest, spread my fingers wide, and leaned in, closing the distance. His lips brushed over mine once and again. He whispered something against my lips—something I couldn’t even process—before he tilted his head, slid his hand into my hair, and fit his mouth over mine. The hot shock of his kiss nearly buckled my knees.
But he held on tight. His strength was sure and solid, grounding me as his mouth moved over mine, teasing and testing. His tongue swept in to meet mine in a slow, deep exploration.
