Page 25 of A Photo Finish
A shiver runs down my spine as he rounds the front of the truck and opens the passenger-side door before announcing, “You’re going to let me help you out of here.”
I roll my head along the headrest to look back at him, quirking one eyebrow in response. That wasn’t a question.
He crosses his arms, widens his stance, and glares at me. He looks like a bouncer at a club, about to deny me entry. A small hysterical laugh bubbles up out of me at the mental image. But Cole doesn’t join in. He continues glaring at me, his mouth set in a thin line, his eyes burning across my skin, threatening to set me alight—like the strike of a matchstick.
Ugh. I need to drink less wine.And have an orgasm.
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice small and unsteady. My leg really hurts. Not like it did last weekend but walking around a bunch probably wasn’t my best-laid plan. So I flip my legs out to dangle off the seat. I look like a little kid trying to get out of here. “’Why does your truck need to be so big?”
He ignores me as he steps forward. “Why do you have to ask so many questions?”
“You compensating for something?” Yup, that’s the wine. I feel my cheeks heat at my boldness as I watch his jaw tick.
I expect him to plop me down on the ground, but he growls and scoops me up in his arms, one slung underneath my knees, the other right across the strap of my bra. “Oh.” I breathe out. “Okay.”
He takes long, ground-covering strides toward the house, like he can’t wait to drop me. I can feel his biceps bunching against the side of my breast, and with the golden cast of the porch lights, I can admire the definition in his arms, thickly corded and hard.No wonder I commented on them before.
I expect him to drop me on the front porch, but he keeps going, crouching slightly and easily snaking the hand from under my knees out to twist the door handle. I know I’m light, but the man isn’t even struggling. At all. He kicks the door open and carries me in. I peek up at his face, the harsh slashes of his cheekbones, his heavy brow, the stubble across his jaw.
“What’s the scar on your eyebrow from?”
His eyes shift down at me like I’m an irritating child.
“From my time overseas,” he says.
I know that means during his time in the military. Something must have happened if that’s all the explanation I’m going to get, and now I feel horrible for even asking. It’s not my business. I feel like I crossed a line.
“It suits you. I like it.” I say, trying to smooth things out. Except I’m sure that was a dumb thing to say by the way he’s looking at me, those gray eyes pinning me in place. His chiseled chest rises and falls in a more pronounced fashion, and his breath fans across my throat as he regards me intensely.
That look only lasts a moment before he deposits me on the couch gently. Then he steps away quickly, like I might be on fire.
9
Cole
I wokeup to a message from Pretty_in_Purple. It said, “Good morning, Butterface,” and I laughed. For the first time in a long time, I laughed. It felt foreign in my mouth, and I looked around like someone might have seen.
Except I’m alone. I’m always alone. It seems like this is how my life will be. I think it started out that I wanted it that way, but now I’m not so sure. I’m smart enough to know what people say about me . . . the recluse who runs the family company and is a total dick.
The role comes to me naturally, but I think I’m tired of it. Tired of my own company. Tired of the same fucking thing every fucking day.
I write back. I’m not funny or witty. I don’t know what to say. So, I just say what I’m thinking.
Golddigger85:Take off your clothes.
She replies a few minutes later.
Pretty_in_Purple:You first.
Yeah. That sure as shit isn’t happening. Just the mention of it makes me nervous. I say nothing back, but a couple hours later I check our chat again and reply this time.
Golddigger85:No chance.
Pretty_in_Purple:Guess we’re stuck talking. We could be pen pals!
Pen pals. That’s so far from what I had in mind when I messaged this girl. How old is she?
Golddigger85:No.
