The Dirt on Ninth Grave(34)

"I seriously doubt that." No woman in her right mind could forget the likes of Reyes Farrow. Of that I was sure.



I glanced up at the thermostat. It read fifty-five, but it had to be at least seventy-five in the room. My bones were finally beginning to thaw. "I think your thermostat is broken." 



He didn't answer. He didn't even look at it, and while I loved the attention he showered upon me, I had places to be and people to save. Fingers crossed.



"Well, thank you for letting me warm up." I stood and tried to hand him the towel. He stood, too, but didn't take it, so I draped it over the back of the chair I'd been sitting in. "I have to get home."



"I'll drive you."



"It's one block."



"It's seven degrees."



"I'll be fine."



"You'll be frozen."



I didn't dare let him drive me home. I would attack. I knew it as surely as I knew the sun was going to rise at dawn. Being in his presence here was bad enough. But get me in a car with him, a warm one with soft music and mood lighting from the dashboard, and I'd be a goner. A goner with a criminal record once Reyes filed charges against me for assault.



It was so time to leave. I put my hand on the doorknob then turned to say good-bye. He stood right behind me.



He was so unimaginably warm. I'd never felt anything like it. Heat drifted over me, saturated my soaking-wet shirt, penetrated every pore on my body.



I started to open the door, but he reached over me and pushed it shut. Before I could question him, he took the bag of sandwiches from me and draped a jacket over my shoulders. A thick leather jacket that weighed more than I did. It swallowed me. Cocooned me in him. His warmth. His scent.



"I can't take your jacket."



"I have another," he said, turning me to face him so he could zip it up as I threaded my arms into the sleeves. I watched as his long fingers tugged at one side and fastened it. The muscles in his forearm bunched and flexed with the effort. As did the ones on his chest and stomach. It took every ounce of self-control that I had not to reach out and slide my fingertips over them. He did the same with the other side, and I realized the jacket was adjustable.



Unfortunately, it didn't help much. It still swallowed me, and I no longer had shoulders or hands, but that was okay, too. The length would keep my fingers from turning into flesh-flavored Popsicles. He curled the cuffs, but only once. They still hung past my fingertips.



After a moment, I realized he'd stopped and was staring down at me. I looked up into the glittering depths of his mahogany irises. A soft line had formed between his brows as he studied me, and I realized for the thousandth time I could not read him. Not like I could most people. I felt emotion roiling within him, but it was jumbled, chaotic, a mixture of desire and concern and regret.



His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I wondered just how many drinks he'd had. So I asked.



"Just how many drinks have you had?"



"Not enough," he said, his voice oceans deep.



"Not enough to forget her?" To forget the woman who still haunted him? The jealousy that spiked within me did nothing to boost my self-esteem.



"There isn't enough alcohol on the planet to make me forget her."



That stung. He was clearly hung up on his ex, and I was standing there like a schoolgirl hoping to be asked to prom. A foolish schoolgirl.



Humiliation burned beneath my skin. "Please excuse me," I said, grabbing the bag and jerking open the door. I rushed into the frozen air again. The jacket helped, but it wouldn't have mattered either way. I ran as fast as I could without slipping on the ice, embarrassment and a devastating sense of loss driving me forward.




 

 



I didn't realize until I locked the door to my apartment and leaned against it, panting, that my cheeks were covered in frozen tears. I was such an idiot. And my heart hurt. Bad. Every beat sent an ache rocketing through my body. I was having a heart attack. Or, more likely, my heart had just broken.



Either way, I realized my mistake  –  my attention was not where it should have been  –  when a man walked up beside me and grabbed my arm.





8





A lot of people are alive because

I shed too much hair to get away with murder.

-INTERNET MEME



My heart lurched and lodged somewhere in my esophagus as I tried to karate-chop the intruder. Sadly, I didn't know karate. And he was very well versed in escape and evasion. He easily sidestepped my blow and ducked past the next one.



"It's me," he said, catching my arm again.



I jerked out of his grip. "What the fuck, Ian?"



"Where have you been?"