The Darkest Part(60)

“Thanks,” I say, and take a sip. It’s hot and black and perfect. I stare into her eyes. “About last night—”

“Can we not?” The pleading in her voice throws me, and I open and close my mouth a couple of times. Stunned. “I mean. We’re both grownups. Shit happens. We had drinks, the club atmosphere was hot . . . and”—she shrugs—“I’d rather just keep going.”

My brow furrows. “You want to keep going?” I have to ask. For clarity. “On the trip?”

She nods, her lips pinched tightly together.

Fuck. Me.

I rake a hand through my hair and expel a heavy breath through my nose. Look through the windshield at the concrete wall. Think about running my head into it. “Okay.” She wants to keep going on the trip. Not keep going with what happened between us. Understood.

“All right,” she says. “You can shower up and pack your stuff, and I’ll go grab some food for the drive.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. And instead, I watch her walk away. From me. It’s like . . . did we both experience the same thing last night? Did I have any effect on her at all? Not that I’m not grateful she isn’t upset, or angry, or worse than anything, hurt. But, it’s kind of a blow to my ego.

I don’t want her to feel like she betrayed my brother and beat herself up. I’m doing that enough for the both of us. But hell.

All those years ago, everything I felt for her—what I thought she felt for me—was that all in my head? She was young, sure. And I know she truly loved my brother. But last night, I thought I felt something. A connection. The way she was looking at me. And dancing. Shit. I don’t know.

And I won’t even let my mind go where it’s trying to go right now. Nope. Not going to happen. Thinking of Sam comparing me to Tyler in bed is sick on a whole new level. I curse my fucked up brain for even wandering there.

Maybe there’s really nothing between us, on her part—and like she said, she just wants to finish the trip. I’m torturing myself for nothing.

Still, I’m crazy about her. And I don’t know if my sanity will hold out.

However, it’s not worth trying to figure out at eight in the morning in a parking garage in Memphis. So I suck up my wounded pride and hop out of the truck.

After I’m showered, shaved, dressed, and have taken care of business—figured I’d better release some of the stress, or else I’d be in for a long, painful drive—I grab my bag and meet Sam in the lobby. I did note that she didn’t return to the room. At all. So maybe I affected her some. If only slightly.

Either way, I’m ready to leave this city and its new, painful memories behind.

As we’re headed to the garage, Sam says, “We need to find a place for Tyler’s ashes. But I’m not sure where.”

Hell. I actually forgot that part. Now I feel like an even bigger douche. This trip is supposed to be all about Tyler. Not scoring with the girl I lost to my brother back in high school. I need to get my shit together.

“Right,” I say, glancing around, like somewhere special is going to materialize out of the concrete. Then it hits me. “What about the Hernando Desoto Bridge? We’re passing over it anyway, and Tyler had a thing for bridges when he was a kid.” I feel a smile stretch my lips. “He had a shit ton of them for his boxcars.”

Sam’s face brightens. “Yeah. I remember that. Good call.” She smiles at me, and it’s free, unguarded. It almost feels like we’re back to normal. At least where we picked up at the beginning of the trip. It’s not where I want to be. But I’ll take it.

I unlock the truck and slide in, reaching over to open her door. Sam pulls the map from the glove box and traces her finger over the route we’re about to take. “I can’t believe you remembered the name of that bridge off the top of your head.”

Turning the ignition, I check my rearview. “I’ve looked at the map, and I have a photographic memory.” I tap my temple and glance over. And watch her jaw go slack. She stares down at the map, fiddles with her thumbnail, her cheeks reddening and giving away her embarrassment.

My words smack me across the face as realization dawns. Facing forward, I grip the wheel. Shit. Fuck. I pull out of the parking space with more speed then I intend, then peel the tires as I gun it out of the garage.

Trying to make her understand that picturing her half-naked isn’t a bad thing . . . I guess . . . probably isn’t smart right now. So I shut my mouth and drive. It shouldn’t be a bad thing. Not for her, anyway. But for me? I almost laugh.