Page 37 of Texting Mr. Stranger

“It’s better if you don’t know,” I growl, my voice going fierce.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BELLA

When he tells me it’s better if I don’t know about his work, his tone gets even more savage. I half-expect him to pull the car over and tell me to get out, which, considering we’re on the very outskirts of the city, probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

My leg feels like it’s glowing from where he touched it. It was so casual and matter-of-fact as if he’d done it countless times. Neither of us commented on it, but it was searing hot. When he began to slide higher, I almost wanted to let him. Let him touch my sex, press down, rub my clit, make me as crazy in real life as he does in my fantasies.

Whenever he looks at me with that fiery expression, it’s like he’s trying to get me to guess something. Maybe about his work? I saw him get violent …

I don’t let my mind go there. I just want to focus on this night owl adventure for now. Is that cowardly? Is that because if I know the truth, I might be forced to choose?

Soon, Matt takes a left into a small national park. The parking lot is empty at this time of night. He stops, switching off the engine and leaving us in darkness.

“Less light pollution out here,” he says after a pause. His tone is suddenly slightly withdrawn. Maybe all that work talk killed his vibe.

No more nerves… I silently yell the words in my head as I reach over and touch his hand. “What are we waiting for then, huh?”

He looks down at my hand touching his and then up into my eyes. “Good point.”

After we climb out of the car, he offers me his hand again. Each time feels like a big moment. There’s this weird energy between us since, technically, we’re not involved romantically. There’s also something—Can I think it?—magicalabout how easy it feels. Natural.

I squeeze his hand, feeling his warmth as we walk toward the deeper darkness of the trees. Twigs crunch beneath our feet as we stick to the path, snippets of stars and moonlight shining our way.

“For somebody never accused of being romantic, you sure picked a good spot,” I say. “Or maybe you’ve found the perfect place to bury me!”

Okay. Bad joke. He spins and glares down at me. His ordinarily stoic eyes are suddenly wild with emotion. “Don’t even joke about that,” he grunts.

“Okay, sorry.”

He sighs tiredly. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just not funny.

Well, this is a pretty serial-killerish spot, I almost say, but honestly, I’m touched by how offended he is by the very suggestion.

“Shall we keep going?” I ask.

He squeezes my hand. “Sure.”

The park is peaceful, with critters chirping from the brush. Soon, we emerge from the trees into a clearing. Matt leads me to a bench, and we sit down.

“Look up,” he says in a husky voice that sends tingles dancing all over me.

The stars are so much clearer out here, not quite as clear as outside the city. Yet there’s enough darkness for a gorgeous sky to beam down on us. Matt wraps his arm over my shoulder. He does it slowly, almost nervously, like he expects me to move away from him, but I don’t.

If I were feeling melodramatic, I’d even think Ican’t. Instead, I do what feels natural. I move closer to him and rest my head against his shoulder. He hugs me even closer.

“You keep proving the whole not-romantic thing wrong,” I murmur.

“Maybe you just bring it out in me. Wait, you’ve got a twig in your hair.”

“I do?”

I look up as he gently removes it, then slides his hand through my hair again. His big hand is surprisingly tender as he takes a bunch of my hair—not grabbing it, more holding it in place—and stares into my eyes. Deeply. It’s like he’s never stared at anybody before.

“You’re so beautiful, Bella,” he groans, almost like he wishes it wasn’t that way, almost like he resents me for it, knowing this will end badly, and he’d rather not get started to begin with. Maybe I’m letting the moment flood me with too much emotion. My thoughts skip from place to place.

“Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

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