Page 33 of My Darling Mayhem

She crossed her arms again but didn’t drag the sweater with her, so her tits pushed up. My eyes remained on them, and I openly stared, not giving a shit. She had a fucking fantastic set of tits, almost as glorious as her ass.

“Then tell me, Archer. We were supposed to do five questions.”

I started laughing and shaking my head.

“Now you want to know about me?”

“I never said I didn’t want to talk,” she argued, shaking her head.

“You did. You said just because the boys were friends didn’t mean we needed to be, and cherry on fucking top, you said I was unsafe for Cruz…so, please do me a favor and go home.”

Her face looked like I’d slapped her. Red filled in the space under her eyes and across her nose. Her lashes fluttered as if she were about to go for another argument, but she stopped and shook her head before turning toward the gate.

“For what it’s worth, I know I’m messed up.” She pointed at her chest as the wind picked up pieces of her hair, and her voice caught. “I’m broken and can’t be fixed. There’s this wall around my heart and practically every part of my life. I guard what I can for my sake and for Cruz because I can’t let someone in that might hurt us. What I consider safe where you’re concerned has nothing to do with physical safety. I think you’re dangerous for us because of how much we both like you…or could have liked you…but?—”

I stepped closer, erasing the space between us. I wanted to tell her she wasn't broken. I wanted to say I understood why she was so guarded, but I knew she wouldn’t really hear it from me. Not right now. Instead, I focused on the last part of her sentence. “The idea of liking me scares you?”

She searched my face, tipping her head back.

“It terrifies me.”

“Why?” I held her elbow lightly because I didn’t want her to leave even though I’d just told her to.

Her pink lips parted as she pulled her arm free. “Because…you could just—” She blinked as if she wanted to say one thing but decided on another. “I just don’t want that in my life right now.”

My hand returned to her elbow, pulling her close again as I whispered, “What do you want?”

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, searched the ground, and then shifted on her feet. “You’re drunk.”

I smirked, tugging her again. “I’m buzzed. Now tell me.”

She scrunched her nose with a sigh, looking off to the side. “I want…a fairy tale. Something that doesn’t exist.”

“Why doesn’t it exist?”

She shrugged, shifting again. Her eyes flicked over to the fence, and I knew she wanted out of the conversation, but my mind was churning with ideas about why this woman, hard and rough around the edges, seemed to only want a fairy tale.

“That’s the point of a fairy tale, isn’t it? To dream up Prince Charming coming in and sweeping you off your feet, of being called darling and other ridiculous things. To have someone obsessed with you so they say things that feel like midnight against your skin. Like all the stars exist just for you, and they were the one to put them there. That’s not realistic…it doesn’t exist.”

I tilted my head, seeing her in an entirely new light.

“So you settle for hookups with colleagues?”

Her amber eyes held my gaze, steady and unfaltering. “I settle for human touch; I just need some sort of connection in any way I can get it.”

“But the idea of settling on friendship with me was too much?” I raised my brow at her in challenge.

“Archer.”

“No, tell me because you made an assumption based on my club, and it’s not fair. I can be more than that, I can be?—”

I stood staring at her dark lashes, her pink lips, unsure what else I wanted to say…maybe that I could be charming. I could be the fairy tale she wanted, but I had to stop myself. She didn’t want me, and I shouldn’t want her. She was more than a flingor a one-night stand. She was the complete package, one I didn’t and wouldn’t have access to at any point in my life. Still, I had to say something. She was so close to me; her breaths were shallow, her lashes dark, and her hair silky. My mouth parted right as the sound of someone smashing through a fence had us both snapping our heads to the side. Thistle had driven his motorcycle through Wren’s fence.

“Fuck.”

Wren pulled her elbow out of my hold and glared at me. “Right, and this is supposed to be safe for my son?”

With a shake of her head, she darted toward the fence and ran back to her house.

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