Page 6 of Price of Angels

She was still staring across the bar, watching Holly dash at her eyes before approaching her next table, when Mercy returned. “I thought the spacing out part came later on in the pregnancy,” he said, waving one long hand in front of her face.

She swatted him away and faced their table again. “I was just thinking about something.”

He looked extra beautiful to her tonight, with his hair unbound, the jagged ends brushing the tops of his shoulders, framing his narrow face in a way that made the sharp angles look even more masculine and unforgiving. His dark eyes were bright with blended mischief and happiness. He was so happy these days, so excited about the tiny life growing inside her and the secret-free future that lay ahead of them.

He raised his brows as he looked down at her. “About…”

“That girl Holly. The one with the boobs you always look at.”

There was a wicked curve to his smile. “Is this you telling me you want a three-way?”

“No.” She gave him a murderous look that made him laugh. “I just noticed, is all, that she’s been crying ever since Michael left.”

Mercy sighed and shook his head. “She’s got it bad for that weirdo. No accounting for taste. Maybe he finally gave her the brush-off.” He drew up indignantly, one hand braced on his hip. “And I don’t always look at her, you know.”

“Really,” Ava said, dryly.

“I don’t. What the hell do I want with some waitress?”

The funny thing was, though he was still joking, she could see the gleam of seriousness in his eyes. He wasn’t the kind to play the field just for the fun of it. There were too many demons in his head for him to be satisfied by the thrill of strangeness. He needed his comfort, that trust, the relaxation that came from totally knowing a person.

But Ava shrugged and said, “What everyone else wants, I suppose,” as she got to her feet.

It was still early – twelve weeks – but she already felt ungainly and heavy in the middle. Psychosomatic, probably.

Mercy picked up her laptop for her, closed it and slid it into the shoulder bag she used to carry it. “Sounds like someone hasn’t been getting enough attention,” he said, sending her a meaningful look that finally got the best of her composure and made her laugh.

“You do nothing but pay attention to me. I can’t believe Dad hasn’t fired you yet.”

“Fire me?” He pressed a hand to his heart, his dramatic taken-aback expression stage-worthy. “I’m his favorite son.”

“Can’t argue with you on that one.” She made a face on behalf of her brother, Aidan. He was probably sitting in the clubhouse right now, feeling sorry for himself, about this exact issue.

She reached for her bag and he slung it over his own shoulder with a little headshake. He’d be carrying it.

“Ghost and me, we’ve come to an understanding,” he continued, pulling out his wallet and peeling off enough cash to cover his dinner, their drinks, plus a more than decent tip. “He was just telling me today that he understands, what with us newly married, that I need to be spending a lot of time at home with you right now.” He grinned. “In bed, mostly.”

“The day my father says something like that is the day we check him into the mental health ward.”

Mercy laid the money down on the table, not waiting for their check, and extended a hand for her, pulling her up lightly to her feet. “Okay, maybe he didn’t say it with words,” he conceded, drawing her up against his side as they headed for the door. “But I could see it in his eyes. We’re connected like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Within the warm circle of his arm, she buttoned up her wool coat and popped the collar against the chill that awaited them outside. “And this connection you have with him. It’s the reason you’ve been getting off work so early this week, right?”

He grimaced. Ghost had asked him to work overtime the last four days in a row. Ava saw nothing of him during the daylight hours, unless she went by the bike shop, and even then, her father would try to shoo her away, insisting they had a backup of import bikes that needed Mercy’s delicate touch.

“Dad,” Ava had said in reprimand, not buying the excuse.

“What? The man takes nine weeks off from work, I’ve got shit for him to do when he gets back.”

Either way, she’d enjoyed having dinner with her hubby, even if she’d been too green to eat anything herself.

His arm was around her shoulders, but somehow that wasn’t enough. She slid her arm around his waist, inside his cut and jacket, around the hard lean middle of him, pressing herself into his side. She heard his light breath of a chuckle through his nostrils, felt his fingers tighten on her shoulder, the little signs that he marveled and delighted in her intense affection. Her sweet boy. Her sweet, broken man.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked quietly, pausing as they reached the door, his free hand on the push bar.

“Better,” she assured. “The ginger ale helped.”

He pushed through the door, towing her along with him, and Ava gasped at the sharp punch of December air as it blasted her face and tunneled down into her lungs. “Damn.” She turned her face into Mercy’s shoulder as they stepped out onto the sidewalk and the warm bright comfort of Bell Bar was cut off behind them with a metallic clang of the door falling back in place.

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