“Hit and run?”
“Robberies.”
Her eyes go wide.
“They were going to knock over this armored truck at one of its pick ups, and for some stupid, fucking insane reason, I told Declan I’d be his getaway driver.”
I almost don’t want to continue, only because I don’t want her to look at me in that light. But then, she needs to know this.
And so I do. I tell her about that night. I tell her about Silas stopping me, and the crash. I tell her about the pain, and the regret, and the way life sort of shattered apart for a while back then.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers into my chest, hugging me close.
There’s no judgement there, no second glance at me like I’m some sort of criminal. There’s something just so sweet in the way she opens herself to hearing this shit.
There’s something inside of me that breaks in the face of that sweetness, as I sit there and tell her about the night everything fell apart.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again, squeezing my hand.
I shake my head. “It was a long, long time ago, and really, I’m fine with it.” I glance down at her. “I mean that. I like who I am, and what I’ve got. This?” I raise my arms. “I know this isn’t much, but it’s mine.” I laugh. “Well, someday, if I ever pay that parasite back.”
I kiss her again before I gingerly stand. “C’mon, I should take you home.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve gotten you dirty enough tonight, that’s why.”
“Rowan…”
I glance down at her again. “Look, this — this isn’t how I wanted this to go.”
“What?”
“Your first time.”
Eva blushes, raking her teeth over her lip before she reaches up, cups my jaw, and leans up to kiss me. “Believe me, it was memorable.”
“It doesn’t always come with a fist-fight afterwards.”
She makes a face. “No? Shoot, talk about letting a girl down.”
“I’m sure there are enough people in this town who’d jump at the chance to hit me. I’ll ask around for next time.”
Her cheeks flush as she glances up at me. “Next time, huh?”
“Believe me, angel,” I whisper into her ear, making her shiver. “There’s no way I’m done with you yet.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Evangeline
I like sex. I like sex a lot, actually. And as it turns out, I like sex with Rowan Hammond a whole lot.
So much so that I can’t stop thinking about it. So much so that the wicked, sinfully wonderful things we did up in his apartment two nights before have me stumbling through the days lost in dirty daydreams, and tossing and turning in my bed at night with even dirtier ones.
And I want more. I crave more.
It's the physical, of course. It's the visceral, physical reaction even being near him brings out in me. But there’s more than that. And that’s the part that scares me. It’s the part that actually honestly enjoys being around him — and not just the sex parts, but the in-between too. The knowing looks, that roguish grin of his — that uncanny way he has of finishing my thoughts out loud before I even say them.
And I am completely aware of how freaking silly all of that is, knowing what this is, and know who he is.
…It doesn’t seem to stop me from thinking them, though.
“Hotdog?”
I blush crimson, my lips curling at the sound of his voice in my ear.
“No, thank you,” I say primly.
“You sure?”
I can feel him press against me — subtly, almost unnoticeable.
I notice it though. I notice it and resist the urge to push back into him, because then everyone else will certainly notice it.
Everyone else being, the huge barbecue that Reverend Hammond and his wife are throwing for all the workers and volunteers for the Center, currently being hosted in the backyard of St. Ann’s – the Catholic church with the far bigger backyard and kitchen down the street from Reverend Hammond’s Congregationalist one.
But Rowan standing behind me at the condiments table is one thing. Me pressing back into him and shivering against that hard, wicked, sinful body that does all sorts of wonderful things to me would be downright scandalous.
“Quite sure,” I whisper over my shoulder. He reaches past me for the ketchup, his arm brushing over the outside of mine and making me suck my bottom lip between my teeth.
“You’re sure you’re sure,” he growls, and this time, he eases his hips against mine, and my breath catches at the feel of the thickness in the front of his jeans pressing into my butt.
“Are we still talking about hotdogs?”