Page 44 of Cold as Stone
I’ll be there.
I stare at the phone for a long moment, then shove it back in my pocket.
Yeah, we’re going to talk. But first, I’m going to have to figure out what the hell I want to say.
11
KYA
Ivacuum the same patch of carpet for the third time before accepting that it’s already spotless. The cottage is cleaned to within an inch of its life—baseboards scrubbed, windows gleaming, even the inside of the microwave sparkles. The scent of lemon cleaner hangs in the air, tickling my nose.
Everything is spotless except my bedroom. My bed looks like a clothing store exploded. Five different outfits lie crumpled across the comforter—too casual, too dressy, too obvious, too frumpy, too much cleavage. I’m currently wearing dark leggings and a soft gray sweater that hits me mid-thigh, but I’ve changed my mind about it at least twice in the last ten minutes.
This isn’t a date,technically. Lee is just coming over to talk. To figure out what the hell happened last night and what it means going forward.
The rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea. That getting involved with Lee Armstrong is asking for complications I don’t need. It’s telling me to stick to my plan—six months, sort out the bar, figure out my life, move on.
But the rest of me? The part that’s been dormant for years until he kissed me against that paint-splattered wall? That part is practically vibrating with anticipation.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
Lee
Outside.
My heart does that annoying flip-flopping thing it’s been doing all day. In a slight panic, I scoop up the discarded outfits and throw them into the closet, stuffing them out of sight. Then I take a breath, smooth down my sweater with sweaty palms, check my reflection in the mirror one last time, and walk to the front door.
When I open it, Lee is leaning against the doorframe, helmet tucked under one arm, dark hair slightly mussed from the ride. He’s wearing his cut over a simple black long-sleeved T-shirt and worn jeans. He looks like trouble.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm, eyes searching my face.
“Hey,” I echo awkwardly, stepping aside to let him in.
He enters slowly, taking in the small space with its cozy living room and second-hand furniture, the kitchen table that’s seen better days, the stack of house-flipping magazines on the coffee table. For a rental, it’s nothing fancy. But then up until this point I’ve assumed I’m leaving.
“Nice place,” he says, and I can tell he means it.
“Thanks. It’s a rental, but it works.” The wordtemporaryhovers between us, unsaid. Everything in my life is temporary lately.
We stand there in the quiet hum of the cottage’s heater, neither of us sure how to begin. The easy banter from last night feels a million miles away.
“Do you want a drink?” I finally ask, because my hands need something to do and my throat is suddenly dry.
“Sure.”
I pour two glasses of the good whiskey from the bottle I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Though I’m not sure if this occasion qualifies as such. I hand him a glass, our fingers brushing in the exchange, and that simple contact sends heat shooting up my arm.
We don’t toast. Just drink.
The whiskey burns, but it’s a good burn.
“So,” I start, perching on the edge of my couch.
“So,” he echoes, settling beside me but leaving space between us. Not much space, but enough that I’m acutely aware of it.
Lee sets down his glass, turning to face me fully. The careful distance he’s been maintaining disappears as he shifts closer.
“Last night…” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
