Page 28 of Caught from Behind

Something occurs to me then and I cringe, embarrassment a sweeping wave.

“Is Knox who you—” I break off, unable to finish the words.

Fingers on my cheek. Reddened because I’m suddenly wondering…

Well, it’s all twisted and confusing and?—

His hand shifts, cupping my jaw, tilting my head up. “It was just to shut him up,” he says softly. “And maybe I wanted to see if I could shock you as much as you’re always shocking me.”

I study him closely. “Well,” I whisper, “you’ve certainly proved you have shock abilities—the puck, that comment to Knox, the kiss?—”

I break off, not knowing for a second what kiss I’m talking about.

The one in the car?

Or the peck he’d laid on my brother?

I exhale, force myself to keep going. “—and I’m not admitting defeat, but I’m not sure my shock skills can keep up with yours.”

“I think”—his thumb brushes over my cheek—“your shock skills are unparalleled.”

We stand there like that for a moment, and although I’m aware of eyes on us, the conversation is dulled.

My focus is Riggs—and only Riggs.

“Why do you think I drink too much?” I blurt.

It’s a dumb question, literally poking the bear.

I’m not an idiot. I love a drink, love the way it helps me feel loose and more like myself, love how it softens the day, the memories. Plus, I can’t bring all of that shock value, the confidence, the always surprising everyone without it. I can’t be myself, can’t not give a fuck about what everyone else thinks—not without taking the edge off first.

Then it’s easy to turn my attention to the outside world, to fix my clients’ and friends’ problems, to assist them over the bumps in the road. But focusing on myself? On my actions and laughter and the way I hold my hands and how my outfit looks on my body and if my weird cowlick in the back of my hair is showing and if one day, they’ll all see through it and leave me, anyway?

That’s utterly debilitating.

And the way Riggs is looking at me right now—with a complete and utter focus that burns into me, that threatens to see through my walls and tease out all of my secrets…makes me want to run.

“Never mind,” I whisper, now utterly cognizant of the others in the room, playing another round of Ticket to Ride (a round I’ve been excluded from because I kick too much tiny, plastic train ass).

Riggs slants a glance over my shoulder, and for once, the two of us are in perfect harmony when he doesn’t press me for answers.

“Are you tired?” he asks softly. “I can drive you home.”

I’m his focus.

It’s intense and unyielding and?—

“Come on, chérie,” he murmurs, taking my hand, making the decision for me.

The touch is a shock of sensation when his fingers wrap around mine, but not as much as the quiet way he’s called me chérie.

Rough and with a hint of his French Canadian coming out.

I’d forgotten that the taciturn, grumpy man spoke French, and just the way that word rolls off his tongue has me melting a little, my body drifting closer to hers.

“I’m taking Ella home,” he calls to the others.

I blink, look over to the game table, and don’t miss that all of my friends are blatantly staring at me.

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