Page 102 of The Risk Taker

“Asshole,” she growls.

Chase throws a palm out innocently. “What did I do?”

“You laughed,” she accuses.

I snicker and then rise from my seat. “I’ll be at the bar, getting a refill, if you want me.”

“Sure,” Chase grumbles, “launch the grenade and then leave me to clean up the mess.”

“It’s your job now, remember?” I throw that over my shoulder as I’m walking off. But he’s already too busy sucking up to my sister to respond.

I lean against the bar as the bartender replaces my old glass with a new one, filled with ice and a fresh pour.

“Come here often?” a familiar voice purrs over my shoulder.

I shift until I’m welcoming Mads into my space. I take a sip of the bourbon and eye her over the rim of the glass. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat and the dancing.

“Often?” I murmur. “No.” I reach out until my fingertip is trailing along her collarbone. Her skin pebbles beneath my touch. It’s good to see a few weeks hasn’t diminished her receptiveness to me. “But I think coming here was definitely worth the effort.”

“Oh, yeah?” she says somewhat breathlessly. “And why is that?”

“Because anywhere you are is where I want to be.”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” she says, her eyes searching between both of mine.

“You weren’t around much the night before I left.”

Those ocean eyes divert to the side.

I dip until she meets my stare again. “What was that about?”

“I didn’t know how to say goodbye.” Her voice is so low that it emerges like a whisper.

“It wasn’t goodbye,” I argue softly. “It was more a see you soon.”

“It didn’t feel like that at the time,” she admits. “You were mad at me.”

“I was,” I agree. “I’m going to get angry sometimes. Probably a lot with the way you’re always pissing me off.” She narrows her eyes, and I smirk. “That doesn’t automatically mean goodbye when we argue.”

“But you don’t do messy,” she argues.

I can tell she wants me to counter her argument. She wants me to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s different. That we’re different. And we are. I guess this is her subtle way of asking for reassurance. For the first time, I’m ready to give it to her. Because even a few short weeks away was more distance than I ever want again.

“I didn’t do a lot of things before you came along.” I tip my glass for another drink. “But you seemed to blow all that to shreds this summer.”

I set my glass on top of the bar and take a step closer, brushing her hair behind her shoulder. Her eyes are wide as she stares up at me. She looks so innocent and so beautiful. She looks like … mine.

Something loosens inside my chest.

“What do you want?” I murmur.

“What do you want?” she counters.

If she needs me to say it first, to take that leap for both of us, I will. “I want you.”

Three words.

Two breaths.

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