Page 12 of Hearts on the Line

Sloane exits the bathroom a few minutes later, sheepishly glancing toward me before petting Wally, who’s at her feet.

“Sit down.” I nod toward the chairs at the island across from me.

This apartment has always been small, but with her here, it’s damn near claustrophobic.

I can tell by the way she scrunches her nose that she wants to say something smart, but she holds back. We haven’t had the best start to whatever is happening here, and though I’m doing a piss-poor job of it, I’m trying not to be an overbearing asshole.

The smell of her shampoo fucking kills me. Oranges and roses and sunshine. Bright like her. Her wet hair is hanging down past the middle of her back in a braid. Her smooth skin is tanned, and those lips of hers: lush and berry-stained.

No good can come of my looking at her lips. I spin around, grab her plate off the counter, and place it down in front of her.

“You must be hungry,” I say lamely. I grab the small wedge of Parmesan I have out and grate it over her pasta, ignoring the small chuckle she makes in the back of her throat. I shave a little extra, hoping I didn’t make a grave mistake and she’s a vegan now.

She surveys the plate, then squares her shoulders before sinking into the chair. “Smells real good, Murphy. You know my weakness for cheese. I’ll have some, sure. Thanks.”

Instead of answering, I rip open the fridge and grab the lone bottle of rosé I had stashed. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

I quickly pour her a glass, wincing as I place it down a little too hard against the counter. The glass striking the counter jars Sloane, and she startles, glancing up at me with big, brown eyes, silently pleading with me. I wish I knew what about. I swallow back the urge to reach out and cradle her face in my palm. Instead, because apparently, I have the social skills of a caveman, I stride back to the fridge and pull out an IPA, opening it before I lean back on the counter opposite the island and take a draining sip.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asks, waving her fork at me.

Eat? I can barely breathe.

Finding her sleeping on my couch, curled up under my quilt, was bad enough. I don’t have time for any more complications.

And she’s a big, fucking complication.

“Already ate,” I settle on at last.

“So, what, you just whipped this up for me?”

“Figured it was a long day.”

I fuss with the label on my beer, trying my best to ignore how she’s digging into her pasta with a happy little shimmy. She moans when she takes the first bite, and I truly hate my life right now.

“Yeah.”

She shrugs, twisting the homemade pasta around her fork. The smell of garlic and fresh basil fills my apartment, a little better than the fryer oil that lingers from downstairs.

Best just get this over with, then I can crash for the night and start tomorrow in a few hours.

“Why are you here?”

“Why are any of us here?” She sips her wine, watching me for a beat from the lip of her glass. “I don’t know, if you’re waiting for an answer.”

“I mean, why did I find you on the side of the road in a wedding dress?”

Shit.

She grows quiet and straightens, and I’m worried I’ve lost her. Again, my approach is rusty at best. I mean, I hadn’t seen her in years and just tossed her over my shoulder to haul her into my truck.

Me, caveman.

Sloane finishes her bite, then sets down her fork. It’s quiet between us before she finally glances up. “Listen, I know I’m probably the last person you want to see⁠—”

You’re exactly who I always want to see.