Page 61 of Burning Daylight
His gaze skims down my body, from my flushed cheeks to my shoes. “No argument there.”
I burn even more.
Awesome. Love that for me.
“Where are you parked?”
It takes me a second to reply because his palm is hovering on the small of my back, and it feels like static crawling under my skin, zapping me in slow, torturous pulses until I might drop dead on the floor.
“I walked,” I finally get out.
He nods, maneuvering us out of the café and onto the sidewalk. Cars zoom by so closely my hair whips around my face. He glances both ways, then shifts us without a word, putting himself between me and the street.
“Rude.” I arch a brow. “What if Iwantto walk on your left?”
He doesn’t look at me when he replies, “Then you’ll have to be mad about it from the safe side.”
A tiny smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
It’s silly, really. Simple. Barely a thing at all.
But my heart does this ridiculous little flutter anyway, and I step a little closer, letting our arms brush as he threads our fingers together.
That feeling stays the entire way to my apartment, where we say goodbye and joke again about fate.
It’s still there the next day as I pack up the rest of my boxes, Felicity crying fat tears and cussing out my entire bloodline, promising to have her minions key every Calloway car and write “Free Juliette” across the country club sign in glitter glue.
I almost dare her to do it, but nothing stops the inevitable.
And somewhere between the airport and the silence of my childhood bedroom, I finally open up the piece of paper Ryder gave me.
It’s the sketch.
Hedidfinish it.
It’s gorgeous, and intricate, and looks nothing like how I see myself in the mirror. He drew me like I’m a story worth telling. A character worth remembering.
I slide it between the pages of my notebook, careful not to bend the edges because I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, but at least I can keep this.
I open to a blank page and begin to write.
Once upon a time, in a city too big for a small-town girl, she met a stranger who reeked of trouble. He drew her like he knew her secrets, and she let herself believe she was something more than just her name. For a moment, she was art.
15
ROMAN
Ican’t stop staring at the last text from Brooklynn.
Brooklynn:
Don’t talk to me.
Me:
You know I wouldn’t leave unless I had to.
Brooklynn:
