Page 44 of Lucky Strike

My fingers curl at my sides, aching to reach up and touch his face. I glance down at his hands, not surprised at his scabbed, swollen knuckles. “You were in a fight.”

“I’m fine,” he says, but his eyes are angry storm clouds, looking everywhere but at me.

“You’re not.”

“Bria.” For the second time in days, we make real eye contact.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” I beg, letting my fingertips graze his battered knuckles, willing him to just stay here with me.

And he does. He keeps his eyes on mine and takes a step closer, so close I can feel the heat radiating off of him. "Yes, I got into a fight.” He exhales slowly. “It was stupid. It was nothing."

“You're covered in bruises and cuts. That doesn't look like nothing to me.”

He turns his hand over and closes it gently around mine. A current surges from my fingers to my arm to my fluttering heart at the intentionality of his touch. I’m almost afraid to breathe.

“It was a bar fight.” His voice is low, gritty with tiredness. “Some guy was talking trash.”

I shake my head, trying to understand. Tristan was always more of a hothead than Conlan. This seems so unlike him. “But why?”

“It’s complicated.”

The desire to be close to him, to share something other than barbed words, or weighted looks, or even how Liam’s doing, wins. I touch hischeek, his stubble sandpaper-rough against the pads of my fingers. “You should be more careful,” I whisper.

He leans into my touch, his eyes closing briefly. When they open again, they’re full of something I can’t quite put my finger on.

The tea kettle shrieks, startling me. Conlan places my hand at my side and takes a step back, turning for the door. “You should get some rest. I’ll bring Liam up to bed.”

“I will. After I make my tea,” I promise, heart pounding. What just happened?

“I’ll make it for you if?—”

“Bria,” Liam calls from the other room, sounding like he might cry.

Conlan darts out, and I turn to the counter to make my tea.

I’m tired, so tired I can barely think straight, but Conlan looked like shit, too. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he’s probably hungry, so I microwave the last of the chicken soup and make him a grilled cheese sandwich before dragging myself upstairs. My throat’s on fire now, my head pounding.

Damn it, the tea. After all my trouble, I forgot it downstairs. But before I can lament too much, there’s a knock at the door. “Bria, I have your tea. Do you still want it?”

“Oh, thank God,” I call back weakly. “Please.”

Conlan comes in with a steaming mug. He sets it down on my nightstand, along with a bottle of water. “I told you to go to bed, not make me dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” Closing my eyes, I wrap my hands gratefully around the warmth of my teacup and take a sip.

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s fine. Thanks for bringing my tea.”

“You gonna be okay?” He touches my forehead again, sounding a little freaked out. “I could run down to the pharmacy, get you some cold meds. For adults.”

“I took an ibuprofen. I just need to sleep,” I promise, patting his hand so he’ll calm down.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Taking another sip of tea, I lie back down. “Thanks.”

13.Lucky

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