Page 57 of Lone Star

“Like boring old dating,” she supplied.

“It’s not boring,” he was quick to say, gaze snapping to hers, earnest. He wanted her to know that, she thought: that he wasn’t bored with her, or this little dance of theirs. “It’s…this is the hard part. Getting to know each other. It’s hard to know someone.”

She reached for the bottle again. “You brought me flowers.”

He made an apologetic face. “I thought you might like them.”

“I did.” She took a sip, smaller this time; the first was turning warm in her belly, moving through her veins in hot, soothing trails. “But I didn’t think I put out the ‘girl who likes flowers’ vibe.” She couldn’t remember the last time a man who knew she could drive like a demon had assumed there was anything feminine about her.

His smile was small, sideways, and a little bit sad. “Everyone likes pretty things, don’t they?”

She swallowed convulsively. “Yeah. I guess so.” Voice faint. Her throat was dry. “I guess the women you usually date do?”

His gaze never wavered, and she wished it would. Wished he’d have more whiskey, or turn his head, or give in to their usual awkwardness. “I don’t usually date.” Voice low, and serious. An honest voice; he was a criminal, and he’d done terrible things, but he’d struck her – even from the very first – as someone who told the truth whenever he could, even if people didn’t like it. It wasn’t about impressing people for Albie – wasn’t about being liked. He was who he was, and damn anyone who didn’t like it.

The room felt too hot, too close, suddenly. One of those ever-shrinking moments she always had the urge to leap away from. His eyes were the color of old blue jeans in the lamplight; warmly blue, now, and not the cool killer shine they were out in the sunlight.

She wet her lips. “You moved here for me.”

He could have dodged.I moved here to be nearer to my brother. For new business opportunities. To get away from London, and the memories it held of my awful father.

But he kept gazing steadily at her. His throat jumped when he swallowed. “I did.”

“Shit,” she breathed. “I mean…” Her pulse fluttered. “You just said: we’re still getting to know each other.”

“So?”

“So you don’t move across an ocean for someone you don’t know!”

“Axe–”

She stood up – too fast. The blood drained out of her head, and the whiskey swirled in her stomach, and, whoa, a night cap was a bad idea. “I mean,” she said, and started pacing a tight back-and-forth path along the foot of the bed, “I knew you did. Moved here. To be with me. Iknew that. That first day, at the post office, when I saw you…But I kept telling myself that was crazy. You had four brothers in Knoxville, and all that shit with your dad had just happened, and you got blown up, and who wouldn’t want to get out of London after that–”

He caught her wrist. Gently, but it stopped her in her tracks, and she turned to look at him. She couldfeelthat she was wild-eyed; her breath hitched unsteadily.

His expression was gentle; his thumb found the pulse point in her wrist, and rubbed back and forth over it, soothingly. “Axelle. Love.”

Oh shit. There was no defending againstthat.

“You don’t love me,” she said unsteadily.

“No,” he agreed. “Not yet. But I think I could.”

Just a whisper: “What if I end up not being worth it to you? Moving to the States?”

“I’ve lived alone most of my life. I want to try something new.” His smile hitched uncertainly wider. “A man can’t subsist on furniture alone.” When she stared at him, he added, softer, “I’m willing to take that chance if you are.”

When she could, she nodded, chest tight.

“For what it’s worth,” he added. “I think it’ll be worth it.”

“You’re really sweet,” she said. “It’s awful.”

He chuckled. “I can’t disagree.”

She stood for a long moment, gaze drifting to his hand, where it still carefully held her wrist – that’s what it was, a hold and not a grip. He wasn’t pinning her, wasn’t keeping her, but sayingI’m here, and I’d like to hold onto you, if you’ll let me.

“I hate to admit this,” she said on a sigh, “but I’m…freaking out.”

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