Page 36 of Wild Eyes
“Skylar, what are you looking at?” His voice rolls over my skin, coaxing me back toward him.
I swallow and dig in, too embarrassed to meet West’s eye. “I think I saw something in the trees.”
“Was it your ability to lie fleeing the premises?”
Fucking intuitive motherfucker.I suck in a sharp breath through my nostrils, the scent of pine cooling me from the inside.
“I’m not a good liar, okay? I don’t even want to be. But I’ve been unknowingly living a lie for…” I swallow. I can’t saymy entire lifeout loud. That’s too heavy. Too real. “For years” is what I settle on. “Iam a lie.”
“Hey.” His harsh voice lashes through the night air. I start, and he reaches for my chin, showing zero hesitation to touch me. “Look at me, Skylar.”
I tip my nose higher but shake my head subtly. I don’t want to look at him.
His fingers tighten, and he turns my face to him anyway. Then his eyes are on me. Seeking. Searching. It feels like he’s digging right under my skin. “Nothing about that story is palatable.”
I clamp my teeth and stare back up at him defiantly.
His hand moves, giving me a soft shake. “And you are not a lie. You are brimming with personality and humor and important things to say. And your relationship status just might be the least interesting thing about you. I’ve known you for one day, and I already know that.”
“What’s the most interesting thing about me?” I whisper, feeling the pads of his fingers firm against my jawbones as I speak.
He smirks, and his eyes drop to my mouth. “The way you lick your lips when you stare at my thighs.” I huff out a laugh. “You look like you should carry a Chihuahua in your purse, but instead you have a bird that swears like a sailor.”
Cherry. That makes me smile.
Then, I watch his expression turn more thoughtful as he quietly adds, “And the way you inspired a little boy who never talks to anyone to introduce himself to you. That’s something special.”
The urge to touch him overwhelms me. The tip of my pointer finger finds that hole in his tee and trails a circle on his bare skin. His rough hand lands at my waist. Gripping me. Making me wish not so many layers of clothing separated the feel of his fingers on my skin.
My heart pounds in my ears. And maybe it’s because I can’t hear myself think over the beat of that drum. Or maybe it’s that I don’t think at all.
But in one sweeping motion, I push up onto my toes, press a hand against West Belmont’s chest…and kiss him.
I hear his surprised intake of air and feel the barbs of his stubble against my cheek. He doesn’t kiss me back, though. Even when I move my lips against his…again.
He doesn’t press his body against mine. Instead, he holds my hips, keeping me a respectable distance away from him. When I try to push closer, the right angle of his arm holds me at bay.
It has me drawing back.
My first reaction is confusion. People always want this from me. Men are always pleasant to me with this kind of payoff.
I don’t think I’veeverbeen turned down.
The fact that West is standing stiff as a board, borderline pushing me away, has alarm bells sounding in my head.
It has reality creeping in—the nickers of horses, the smell of hay, the weight of several carats of diamonds in my pocket.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp before I flip a hand up over my lips, replaying the weight and heat of his kiss.
When I finally brave a look up at West, he has a soft smile on his face. And a slightly sad glint in his eye.
I see it.
Pity.
And that douses the flames I felt just moments ago.
He pities me. How could he not? I spilled my guts to him and kissed him. Latched on to him like he could be a comfort blanket for me.
