Page 91 of Catching Sparks

Spreading the wallet open, I swallow my surprise at how few cards there are in the slots. There’s the black card in question that I’m terrified to touch, his ID tucked in the clear slot, a gold credit card, another bank card that I can’t bring myself to snoop at, and a loyalty card for a grocery store that I don’t recognize.

In the back flap, there’s a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, a couple of receipts, and a small square photo. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I slide it out, holding it in front of me.

My stomach bottoms out when I see the family photo. It looks old, judging not only by the yellowing of the edges but also by the age of the boy between his parents. He’s got to be about thirteen. I’d recognize him anywhere, regardless of age. He hasn’t changed that much over the years.

Having seen photos of Reggie, I recognize him next. The woman is a new face who must be Garrison’s mother. She’s beautiful. Dainty too. So at odds with her giraffe of a son.

I glance out the window again and snatch the black card out of the wallet before tucking it into my purse and scrambling out of the booth. Garrison’s nose to nose with Kyle, his hand in the air, finger pointing at the truck he drove here in. The odds of him knocking Kyle out aren’t exactly tipped in my favour right now, so I move quickly to find the waitress and settle the bill.

She gives me an odd glance as I slide the card into the machine and input the PIN but doesn’t say anything. We’ve already put on a big enough show for the entirety of the staff. I’d like to leave without another.

As soon as the payment is confirmed, I move as quickly as my heeled feet will allow. Every step that brings me to Garrison feels like an eternity, and once I’m close enough to notice the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders and the painful clench of his jaw, I’m stepping between him and Kyle.

Laying a hand against Garrison’s chest, I ignore the buzz beneath my fingers and narrow my eyes on Kyle. He’s definitely not a fighter type. To be fair, I thought he’d have taken off by now.

“Please, just go.”

It’s an ego thing, the way he takes advantage of me separating him and Garrison and uses it to try and have the last word.

“Once you’ve had fun with soft hands here, hit me up and I’ll rough you up a bit,” he sneers, speaking to me but looking at the man behind me.

“You’ll stay the fuck away from her.”

Garrison’s snarl sends Kyle taking a step back. And another, until he’s able to hop into his truck and lock the doors behind him, as if we’d bother chasing after him.

There’s a soft touch on my shoulder that drifts over my bicep before finally stilling on my breastbone. I swallow the emotion clogging my throat and focus on not collapsing against the hard, familiar body pressed to my back.

“He never should have been within ten feet of you.”

“You don’t get to have a say in that, Garrison,” I whisper.

“What if I wanted one?”

I shut my eyes, tuning out the atrocious rumble of Kyle’s truck and focusing on the steady sounds of Garrison’s breathing. His other hand circles my hip and remains there, just holding me there against him. I tip my head back, resting it against his shoulder.

“Then I’d say you better start grovelling.”

32

POPPY

Garrison looks far more comfortable behind the wheel of the sleek rental car than he ever has the one in the farm truck. I can’t help but stare at him as we drive, greedy for more of him after suffering this past week.

He’s upset beneath all the nonchalance he’s attempting to portray. The corners of his mouth pull down every few moments before he remembers to readjust them into a firm line, and while he may be trying to concentrate on not tensing his jaw, I’ve spent too much time staring at it not to notice when his control slips.

I’m used to seeing his hair styled to perfection with a perfect front swoop and not a stray hair out of place, regardless of the circumstance, but there’s no swoop today. He doesn’t look like a mess, but I’ve spent enough time with him to notice when he’s not himself.

The radio plays softly, and the dark leather seats hug me in a way that only comes from luxury options. There’s a screen bigger than any I’ve ever seen in the centre of the dash with the GPS open to a map of the area, but no location locked in or directions loaded.

“Where are we going?” I ask, not recognizing the road we’ve turned onto.

My car was left behind in the parking lot of the restaurant. Garrison told me it would be taken care of and brought back to Cherry Peak, and I believe him, even if he could very well be lying in order to get me to forget about the damn thing until it gets towed away. He did a crap job of hiding his disgusted expression when he did a full inspection of it the first time he saw it, and if I didn’t feel the same way about the old thing, I’d have given him a mouthful of attitude for the judgment.

Maybe he’ll buy me a new one in an effort to gain my forgiveness.

“We’re going somewhere I can grovel,” he says, glancing over at me.

I frown when his eyes remain hidden beneath the pair of black, thick-rimmed sunglasses he slipped on when we slid into the car. He’s ridiculously attractive with little effort but even more so with those sunglasses on. Paired with the dress shirt that he’s rolled up twice over his forearms and left partially unbuttoned to expose the first few inches of his chest, it’s beginning to feel impossible to stay upset with him.

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