Page 62 of Beautifully Wounded

“No.”

I can tell he’s biting back a smile. “You’re not going to give me back my hoodie?”

I shake my head. “I’m claiming it as mine now,” I admit, the thought of him taking it sounding more terrifying than the way my body reacted to him only moments ago.

“Fine. You can have it, but can you go a day without it so I can give it to the Doxies to wash?”

What the hell?

“No.” I wrap my arms around myself this time, holding the fabric close. “They aren’t touching it.”

Ringo’s smirk is huge as he chuckles. “Charity, come on now. It’s starting to smell. Surely you can go a day without it—”

“No. No, Ringo. I’m not giving it to them,” I snap, anger contorting my expression as I point a stern finger to the floor.

His brows hitch as his smirk grows and he just stares at me for a few long beats before talking.

“Fine. No Doxies, but what do I have to do to fix this? It smells,” he steps forward and jabs the centre of my chest with his finger, “thereforeyousmell, and not in a nice way.”

Horror takes over my expression. I can feel my heated cheeks and the way my mouth parts in disbelief, even though it was clear I smelled a few minutes ago when JD called me out on my lack of showering.

“I don’t have a hoodie like this.”

Oh, my god… am I pouting?

Given the dimple appearing in Ringo’s cheek, I’m going to say yes.

He finds my discomfort really damn funny, doesn’t he?

“You don’t have a sick hoodie like mine?”

I roll my eyes. “Old men don’t speak like that. Don’t try to act cool, Ringo.”

He beams. “I don’t have to try, darlin’.”

Once again, my cheeks are flaring to life, this time at his endearment, which I’m sure he meant nothing of, but holy crap. Hearing it roll off his tongue directed at me has me reeling.

“Perhaps you love the hoodie so much because it smells like me. Well, it used to.” He teases, and shit, he doesn’t realise how close to the truth he speaks.

“Ew. No,” I gasp, curling my lip in disgust.

Hey. Ten points to me for my convincing acting skills.

“Well, Charity,” he approaches, forcing me to lift my gaze to his looming height. “If it’s not for any of those reasons, how about you tell me the truth? Why are you so attached to my hoodie?”

My lashes flutter as my mind races for a reason, a lie, but as I try to conjure something to tell him, his finger hooks under my chin and lifts, drawing my gaze to meet his.

“It makes me feel safe.” The truth tumbles from my lips before I even realise I’ve spoken, and I expect him to look surprised, but he doesn’t.

He just keeps staring at me like my admission is totally fine.

“What about my hoodie makes you feel safe, Angel? The feel of the fabric? The size of it? The smell of it?”

Jesus, he’s really asking me that?

Biting my lower lip, I consider the lies I can muster, yet when I finally answer in another whisper, it’s with the truth again. “Yes. All of those reasons.”

Ringo nods, like he thought as much, completely accepting my reasoning as if it’s not creepy.

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