Page 63 of Murder

I blink up at Barrett’s tight-jawed face.

My eyes sting. “Oh,” I murmur. “Right…” I step down off the last stair as he turns away from me.

“Italy,” I murmur.

He turns. “What?”

I blink. “What?” I echo.

“You said something?”

I arch my eyebrows. “Nope.”

But I’m acting. I realize now…I said that out loud.

Perfect.

Hello, PTSD. Nice to see you.

Next time I blink, Barrett’s turning back toward me again. His eyes meet mine; they’re hard and strangely urgent. He steps into the woods before me, and when I scamper to catch up, hand wraps around my wrist and tugs—as if he can’t wait to get me home.

TWO

BARRETT

My fingers, gripping her arm, gentle almost as soon as I latch onto her. Guilt stings somewhere near the base of my throat. I want to wrap my arms around her, hold her close against me so she isn’t cold. I want to take her to her room and—

NO.

Never again.

You know you can’t. Stop thinking of it.

I lead her through the woods, stopping only to hold back a limb or take her elbow as she moves over a fallen log.

When we reach her porch, she scoops the bags of cookies up and steps up to the door, her hand already holding out the key. I stop at the bottom of her steps and wait.

She unlocks the door first, then turns slowly to me. I watch her gaze drag down my body. I can’t miss noting where it lingers. I grit my teeth and fix my eyes on her face.

Say something to her.

The wind blows her hair around her pink cheeks—and she beats me to it. “Barrett?”

I have to open my mouth to get air past the knot in my throat. “Yes?”

“Is it…the way I look?” Her eyes open wide, as if they’re filling up with tears and she’s trying to keep them from falling.

“What?”

Her eyes glisten. “I think maybe you’re just being moody. Hot and cold. Because of…whatever your reasons are. You might be mad because I fell asleep. But I can’t help thinking—I should ask… Well, I look…different.” She drags air into her lungs, her face a mask of misery. “I guess what I’m saying is, are you bothered by what happened earlier because you aren’t really attracted to me? Because I’m…injured?”

Looking up at her, holding those cookies, clad in my huge coat, I feel my own eyes ache with heat and pressure. I can’t stop my legs from climbing up her stairs, nor my hand gripping her shoulder.

“Look at me.” The words are snarled—much rougher than intended. Her gaze blinks against mine. “That’s what you think?” My heart pounds.

She presses her lips together.

My body feels heavy. My head feels light. Inside my veins, my blood runs hotter.

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