Page 43 of What's Left of Us

His hand trails up to my knee before moving back down, stroking my leg before continuing to massage the tense muscles. “It’s up to you, Georgia. I could use a drink. Maybe a burger, if those aren’t too beneath you.”

Hamburgers? “Why would burgers be beneath me?”

“You’re a Del Rossi. If they didn’t let you trick-or-treat, they probably refused to keep something as lower class as hamburgers around. I’d bet the money I made today that you were used to getting served finger-food sandwiches with the crusts cut off and that nasty tar-tar shit at those fancy galas.”

I go to argue but stop myself short.

He’s not wrong.

He knows it too. “So?”

I look down at where his hand rests on my leg leisurely, not a care in the world plaguing his body. “Just drinks and a burger?” I ask.

He nods. “That’s all, Peaches.”

Right now, I have nobody. Nobody except him. And the thought of getting to know him doesn’t seem so scary.

I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

Lincoln grins. “Come on, then. I’m hungry.”

“Now?” I doubt, watching him stand and offer me a hand up.

“No better time than the present.”

My eyes focus on the palm extended out to me before I let out a small breath and accept it, getting pulled up until I’m chest to chest with him.

His fingers squeeze mine once as his eyes dip to my mouth. They linger there for a moment before he lets go of my hand and steps back. “I’ll let you get ready.”

A funny feeling settles into my chest.

Something light and fuzzy.

And I don’t hate it.

An hour later, I’m on my first date with Lincoln Danforth, who I learn is twenty-four, loves his hamburger bloody, his whiskey neat, and has a dominating personality that should probably frighten me.

It doesn’t.

If anything, I find it attractive.

I findhimattractive.

And that scares me more.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lincoln/ Seven Years Ago

The twenty-one-year-old takinguptemporaryresidence in my bed is far more intriguing than she should be. When I was her age, my only focus was getting fucked up with my friends, fucked by women, and getting out of the Marines in one piece. With every little detail I drew out from her in the course of a four-hour dinner, I realized how different our circumstances were.

My parents let me do whatever I wanted growing up. Even when I screwed up, they didn’t make it the end of the world. Everything was a learning experience that they hoped I would take something from. And most times, I did.

Georgia didn’t have that. In her world, there was no room for error. Everything had to be perfect. Not a hair out of place or downtrodden smile. She sounded more like a trophy to be shown off at the events she talked about than a human being, and that pissed me off way more than it should.

“No offense,” I tell her when I pay the tab and wait for the receipt. “But your father sounds like a dickhead.”

She winces, but I don’t feel bad for telling the truth. I’m sure she’s not used to hearing it because people kiss her father’s ass. I have no intention of doing that.

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