Again his voice is harsh, and I nearly flinch from the sound of it. "Fuck off," I tell him. "I'm perfectly fucking fine."
He reaches for me, but I sidestep. I don't want his help, and I definitely don't want his sympathy. I'm not a girl who cries, and I sure as hell am not going to start being one now.
My hand is on the back door, when suddenly he grabs my hand. His grip is so tight, I try to yank my hand away from his. The next thing I know, his forehead’s touching mine, his fingers gripping the back of my neck so tightly I can't move and his other hand wraps around my lower back like I belong to him.
I blink rapidly, still trying to hold back tears, when his lips brush mine, and my mind is immediately swept clean. I can’t think of anything beyond the feel of his lips, his breath mixed with mine, the way he holds me so tightly I can’t breathe.
He pulls away too soon.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You probably thought you’d finished with douchebag husbands.”
And just like that, I’m laughing, one of those ugly snort-laughs until I swear I'm half crying, with tears running down my face and my nose all runny.
"I didn't know I was funny," he says.
"Maybe it's the medication,” I say and for some reason I find that uproariously funny as well.
He stares at me as if I’ve gone mad, then finally cracks a grin, and my pounding heart comes to a stuttering halt, mesmerizedby the way his eyes light up. I vow to make it my mission in life to make him smile more often.
Suddenly, someone opens the door to the bookstore, and we jump away from each other. I blink in surprise when I see it’s one of my coworkers. Lenny’s a tall, gangly youth with thick spectacles and a sparse beard, wearing a knit cap, faded black trousers, and one of those funny jackets with leather on the elbows, giving him the appearance of a dirt-broke professor.
“Oh hey, Lenny,” I say, giving him what I hope is a friendly smile. I feel like I’m sort of deer-in-the-headlights grimacing, and that could cause suspicion.
From whom? At this point, damn near anyone.
“Fran.” He blinks at me in surprise. “Heard you were feeling poorly?”
I shrug. “Got into an accident yesterday, smashed my head right good. I really can’t be here long, still on doctor’s orders to rest up, but my mate here needs to do an errand and I do as well.”
“Crap, did you bang up your car, then?” he asks, then before I can answer, he looks at Tate for the first time. At the look of surprise on his face, I look at Tate myself.
Oh, dear.
His eyes glitter with warning, and one hand’s clenched into a fist. Though he wears a jacket, his ink runs up his neck and across his wrist and knuckles. He looks scary as fuck, a full head taller than Lenny.
“You brought a friend,” Lenny says.
I give a nervous laugh. “Oh, right, Lenny, meet Tate. Tate’s taken me to my appointment. Blasted head injury and all that. May need to carry a few things home, so I brought Tate to help.”
Brilliant, Fran. Brilliant.
Tate gives me a withering look, and a little part of me wonders if I keep treating him like a mule, I’ll end up punished like he promised.
I hope so.
Squee!
Tate reaches out one large, rough, inked hand to Lenny, who flinches as if Tate’s going to electrocute him. He eyes him in surprise before he realizes Tate just wants to shake. Idiot. Lenny’s hand is dwarfed by Tate’s, and he winces when Tate gives him a firm handshake.
I bite back a snicker.
We enter the store, and suddenly, this is not a game I’m playing any more. What am I thinking?
What if he finds out I'm the writer? I war with myself, back and forth.
Maybe I want him to.
Maybe I don’t. No, I definitely don’t.
