Page 53 of The Wrong Heart

My scowl meets her soft gaze as I release her arm, but she doesn’t step back, and neither do I. It’s like we’re both standing at the brink of a battlefront, but I’m the only one ready to fight.

“I’m done breaking, Parker,” she finishes, letting out a breath that sounds like surrender. “It’s time to rebuild.”

A grumble escapes me. “You can’t build something from nothing.”

“No one has nothing.”

“That’s a bullshit, privileged answer.”

She surprises me by reaching for my own wrist and tugging it to her chest, and I’m too startled by her boldness to pull away at first.

Then I’m too curious.

Her heartbeat thumps beneath my palm as she presses it to her breastbone, making her point. It feels warm, like her skin. Like the color of her eyes.

Like the way the sunlight plays with her hair in a way that is gravely captivating.

It’s evident insanity has possessed me once again because I make zero fucking effort to move away or tell her to back the hell off. I just stand there like a fool, my hand a centimeter away from groping her tit, while we stare at each other in the suicide support parking lot.

Why am I not moving?

Why is her heartrate quickening?

Why is my dick getting hard?

Fucking hell.

I think the only thing that pisses me off more right now is the fact thatshepulls back first. A look comes over her, something almost panicked, and she flees, fumbling for her car door and leaving me rattled.

“I hope you like the cupcakes,” she mutters, her voice unsteady, her eyes avoiding mine. “They’re chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and a caramel drizzle.”

Pretty sure my dick gets harder.

Melody spares me a final glance, her cheeks flushed pink, then escapes into her Camry. “See you next week.”

The slam of her car door makes me flinch, but I still just stand there as she reverses and pulls out of the parking lot with squealing tires. I don’t even have time to process that fuckery when a familiar voice has me spinning around in place.

“You like her.”

Amelia hovers beside her own car, all creepy-like, probably getting ready to go haunt something, and I hold back an eye-roll. “I like her as much as I like Ms. Katherine’s hairy forehead mole that resembles the state of Rhode Island.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” she snickers, her teeth almost looking yellow against her snow white skin. Then she sighs, leaning back against the trunk. “You must really like that mole.”

“Don’t you have something better to do? Occult rituals? Blood sacrifices?”

“Way to stereotype. I actually enjoy crocheting and listening toFleetwood Mac.”

“Cool. Go do that. Send my love to Pumpkin Spice.”

“Nutmeg,” she corrects.

I raise my hand in a “fuck off” kind of a wave and whirl around, heading towards my truck.

“You know, Parker… you don’t have to be here.”

My eyes roll up again when her voice meets my back. “There’s someone who wants me to be here.”

“Yeah,” Amelia replies softly. “But I don’t think that someone is who you think it is.”

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