Page 57 of The Prodigal

Her mouth drops open. “You are unbelievable.”

“That’s what I hear.”

She shakes her head and picks up her fork. “We’re never going to talk about it, are we?”

“After the way you threw yourself at me, I would think you would want to put the whole embarrassing ordeal behind you.”

Finally, she realizes she is playing a game with a master—one she will never win.

“Fine. I’ll save myself from further embarrassment and drop it.”

I fight off a smile and take a sip of my coffee. “It’s what I would do.”

Not really. I almost took off and left her sleeping in that fucking closet.

But I didn’t.

And I still don’t understand why.

She found me in a state that only two others ever have, but unlike them, she reacted differently. She didn’t laugh. Her fingers didn’t wrap around my arm and haul me to my feet. Even when I caught her touching me. I didn’t realize it was her at first. I was still locked in the past that my mind won’t let me forget.

But then she spoke so gently, like finding me on the floor was completely normal. I froze, and then she laid on my chest, and I…didn’t want her to leave.

Maybe I was just fucking tired.

She’s an exhausting creature.

“Okay, so if we’re avoiding the topic of last night, then let’s discuss our next destination. I was thinking maybe if it’s Mississippi or Louisiana, we could stop and take a picture by the river.”

I can’t tell if it’s the questions or the fact that I can see her pebbled nipples through her shirt that makes me snap. “It’s just a river. It looks like—you guessed it—another fucking river.”

“But it’s a big river,” she argues, like that makes better sense.

“My apologies. It looks like every otherbigriver.”

I can’t fucking stand it. Her nipples are making me crazy.

Shouldering off my jacket, I toss it at her. “Put it on. The middle schooler at the counter is about to stab his mom with his boner.”

Her eyes flash to the counter where there is, in fact, a pre-teen boy, but he’s not looking over here at all. “I’ll put this on if you agree to stop so I can look at the river.”

“I’m not stopping.”

She shrugs. “Then I hope you don’t poke a hole through your jeans.”

I nearly jump across the table and bend her over the fucking booth. Instead, I take a calming breath and think of that time I walked in on my parents painting each other’s naked bodies in front of the fireplace. It was more traumatic than wearing khakis.

“Why is seeing a stupid river so important?”

It’s probably something weird, like the pollution smells like home or some shit.

“I just want to see it is all.”

She’s hiding something. I can hear it in her tone.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a river?”

To give her credit, her smile isn’t what gives her away. Her eyes do. Those wide ocean-blue eyes flinch infinitesimally, but it’s there—the pain she hides behind her good deeds and fake smiles.

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