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Her timid expression stirs something in my gut. Unease. Concern.
“My scar is… It’s not like your scars. Yours are barely noticeable. Mine, it’s raised and…” She rubs the side of her hand against her sternum. I’ve seen her do that a few times, and I’d bet big bucks that’s where the scar is. Between her breasts. Makes sense. Heart and double lung transplant.
“It bothers you?” Enough to keep every guy at bay?
“No.” I narrow my eyes, silently calling bullshit. “Well, yes. I mean, there are Facebook groups of people posting their scars with pride. Others get tattoos to cover them… I have friends who wear tops that show them off. But my scar is just different.”
“Why do you say that?” She shifts on the sofa, moving farther away from me. “Did someone?—”
Her gaze cuts to the ceiling.
“Wait. You’re telling me a guy made you…” In a flash, I’m touching the blanket over her legs. I can’t not touch her. “Trust me. If someone can’t see past your scars, they’re not worth your time. And they need some metaphorical glasses too. Because there is so much more to you than one lousy scar.”
“You haven’t seen it.” She braves a glance at me, and I stroke her cheek softly with my thumb.
“Not yet. And if I do, I can promise you, I’ll see past the scar.” She’s skeptical. I see it in the expanse of her pupils. So I push forward. “My body hums with arousal when you’re around. Every time we kiss, I feel it, deep within. This attraction…what’s going on between us…a scar won’t lessen my desire. Trust me.” I wait for those timid eyes to look up at me. To see I’m playing it straight. “I want you. If you were any other girl, I probably would’ve had you by now.” It’s conceited to say, but it’s my track record. “But you deserve better.”
Those words are true, too. Which makes me wonder why I’m giving in to this at all. Sex won’t be casual to her. She’ll be sharing something she hides. She’ll be trusting me. I can take her to dinner, but am I the guy to give her more? Will we be around each other long enough to know if we’re a fit? If more makes sense? She’s special. Of that, I don’t have any doubt. But practically speaking, there are thousands of miles between us.
CHAPTER 20
Sage
I push harder against my sternum, wishing to smash the doubt. I hate that part of me. Sloane doesn’t possess insecurity. She’s what they call a spitfire.
Tall, gorgeous, brilliant, and healthy.
And what does any of that matter? What are we doing? Why are we talking about my scar?
I’m here to find Sloane. Someone was shooting at us today, and I’m sitting here with doe eyes for Knox Freaking Williams.
The back-and-forth motion of the rough pad of his thumb combined with the way he’s looking down tenderly at me is… I have to close my eyes. His proximity makes it hard to think.
“I have to be back in Asheville soon. School starts. I’ve got to get my classroom ready.”
The sofa cushion sinks as he shifts, readjusting around me. “You know, I travel a lot for work. I can travel on the weekends, too. We can connect. When you go back, it won’t be goodbye.” He shifts on the sofa, and cool air fills the gap between us.
I sit there, processing what he has said. He would travel on the weekends to see me? After we find Sloane, he won’t be responsible for me. But it’s sweet that he’s thinking about seeing me when this is all over.
“Ready to call it a night?” That’s an abrupt change of subject. “The place is locked up. Slack channel’s quiet. Nothing we can do but wait. Let’s get some shuteye. It’s been quite the day.”
Understatement of the year.
He enters the bathroom while I dig around in the duffel bag. It’s the same black bag I threw in my car a week ago, only there are some additional clothes and a toiletries bag filled with brand new travel size options of basics such as toothpaste, mouthwash, body wash and soap, a razor, and tampons. My brother had a toiletry stash in the bag already, but the supplies are running low. Stella even included tampons. Not needed at the moment, but I’m touched by her consideration.
I’m not supposed to start for another three or four days. Which means if I had sex right now, I wouldn’t get pregnant.
Where did that thought come from? I have no business thinking about that.
Do you really want to die a virgin?
The pesky, nagging voice irks me.
Sex isn’t a big deal. Not to me. I mean, I love reading about it in my books. I love a good romance, even when the guy is a complete and total ass. But when I have gone on dates in real life, I usually don’t feel any attraction. I’ve been on dates that I didn’t even want to kiss. So I didn’t. I always assumed the problem was me. Like maybe my sexual appetite wasn’t the same as others. Wondered if my low libido might be a side effect of one of the gazillion pills I take every day. Yet I really loved kissing Knox.
The bathroom door swings open, and Knox steps out. He’s in black briefs that fit him like a glove and the same t-shirt he was wearing earlier. He’s so gorgeous, from the bulge in the front of his briefs to his muscular thighs and calves to his biceps that stretch the gray t-shirt with the bold Navy letters.
“Stella didn’t pack pajama pants for me. I hope you don’t mind. I can put on shorts or jeans?—”
