Page 157 of Fearless

Ava expected something cocky, some eyebrow twitch, a suggestive comment. What she got was this truly delighted, boyish smile, like he couldn’t believe she was there, and was thrilled about it.

That was her undoing, his honest excitement.

“Ava Rose,” he said, scratching at his wet scalp, coming to stand in front of her. “When did you get into town?”

She swallowed. “You know that old saying? That the clothes don’t make the man? It works for women, too.”

“Hey, I don’t care about clothes.” He splayed a hand across his chest, fingers overlapping the tattoo of her teeth. “But you do. And you’re happier when you’re dressed like that.”

She lifted her chin, tipping her head back so she could maintain eye contact as he stepped in even closer. She could feel the clinging heat of the shower coming off his skin. All his bare skin, right in front of her. “You’ve seen me for five seconds. You don’t know if I’m happy or not.”

He grinned again, with the same exuberance. “Yeah, I do.”

She stretched, reaching up to meet his kiss as he leaned over her. It was sweet. Slow. Like he hadn’t bent her back over a desk yesterday. She laid her hands on his wrists, felt the hard thump of his pulse against her palms.

But then he pulled back, his hand suddenly under her chin, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip. With their noses overlapping, he said, “You look real pretty,ma chérie.”

She was blinking back tears as he sat down beside her, hooked a heavy arm around her waist and pulled her up into his lap. Her arms went around his neck on impulse, careful of the wound; she tucked her face in against his throat and his hand came up to cup the back of her head, holding her there, helping her burrow. She had missed the shape of him so dearly, the way her body fit against his.

She could just see his chest tattoo from this angle, and she passed her fingers across it, tracing its lines with the slow precision she hadn’t been afforded last night. “You had a bandage, that morning I came and was going to tell you about…” The baby.

“Artist in South Carolina did it for me.” His voice reverberated through his chest, through her, low, deep, Cajun-flavored.

“Was that your plan all along? When you had me…” Bite you?

A warmth came into his tone. “Yeah. Why, you don’t like it?”

“No. No…I like it.”

His fingers knotted through her hair, the tips stroking the back of her neck. “I…” Slight catch to his voice, little breathy show of nerves. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

As strong as he was, he’d never been the silent type, but the emotion in his voice now did things to her insides, made her almost nauseas with regret.Why did we lose five years?she wanted to ask him.Why, if you were afraid I wouldn’t come, did you ever turn me loose?The waste of it all, the ridiculous loss, made her want to scream.

She slid off his lap and put her back to him. He clung to her shirt, pulling backward gently at the fabric of her tank, urging her back, but she shook him off and went to the overnight bag, found the paper sack inside it.

“I’ve gotta dress your neck,” she said, her own voice full of little cracks. She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Or did you want that backrub first?”

She didn’t trust him anymore, and he knew it, and he looked devastated about it. But he said, “Rub first, if I get to choose.”

She pulled a bottle of lavender massage oil from the bag and turned to face him, her stomach quivering. This was different from their fast crashing together yesterday. This was deliberate, slow, and therefore more intimate. This was stilted movements and hesitant questions.

“Come sit here,” she suggested, turning the chair away from the desk so its back was to her. “To start with. Then you can lie down while I do your lower back.”

He moved to comply, his shoulder blotting out the lamplight for a moment, and he stepped over to lock the door before he dropped down into the chair before her. Ava’s heart leapt at the soft sound of the tumblers clicking.

She flicked open the bottle with her thumb, and the lavender scent unfurled beneath her nose, strengthening as she poured a healthy dollop into her palm.

“What’s that?” Mercy twisted to see, and she didn’t miss his grimace as the movement pulled at his wound.

“Lavender. For relaxation.”

His blade-edged nose wrinkled. “It smells like flowers.”

“That’s what it’s made from.”

“Oh no. Don’t go rubbing some hippy flower bullshit all over me.”

“Shut up,” she said, sweetly, setting the bottle aside and working her hands together. “It’ll feel good.”

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