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Shaking my head, I smile with apology. “I can’t. I have a date tonight.”
Brant stiffens. Everything about him goes rigid as he looks away from me, the cords in his neck prominent as his muscles twitch. He stares out the windshield in silence.
No reply.
Desperate for some kind of response, I begin to stammer, “I–I’m free tomorrow from—”
“I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but the thought of another man putting his hands on you makes me borderline murderous.”
I almost choke.
Canting my head in his direction, I watch as he rakes his gaze over me, his jaw clenching, before his eyes slide back up to mine. I heave in a precarious breath and squeak out, “Another?”
A beat passes. “What?”
“You said another man. Did you mean someone other than…you?”
Oh my God.
I can’t believe I just asked him that.
What the hell is wrong with me tonight?
Delete! Delete!
My cheeks flame with mortification as I quickly look away, ducking my chin to my chest, wondering if I should start chanting in Latin and maybe the ground will open up and swallow me whole.
The silence is horrifying as I sit there, squeezing my eyes shut and biting my lip. Waiting for him to scold me, or laugh at me, or tell me I’m being a silly girl.
When the silence becomes too much to bear, I press my palms to my heated cheeks, inhaling a shuddery breath. “God, I’m sorry. That was really—”
“Yes.” His voice is low and husky. He stares at me as my head pops back up, his eyes alight with wild embers. “That’s what I meant.”
My throat feels tight and full of grit. I’m not sure what to say or what to do. How to react. Luckily, Brant breaks the tension with a heavy sigh and glances away, rubbing at his chin. “Well, good night,” he mutters, unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for the door handle. “Come by this week. I’ll cook for us.”
I nod swiftly. “Okay. Sure.”
I’m this close to becoming a statue as I sit there with both hands curled around the steering wheel, my spine straight, my chest feeling stacked with weights. Brant’s shoes crunch along the gravel as he gets out of the car and moves around the rear, stopping at the driver’s side. I see him in my peripheral vision, hesitating, debating his next move.
And then he sweeps over to me in a quick blink and leans in through the open window, his hand extending, cupping my face until I turn my head and we’re eye to eye. “My offer still stands. About moving in with me,” he says gently, his thumb grazing my jaw. A smile whispers on his lips, and his eyes twinkle with genuine affection. With love. “Be safe tonight. I worry about you.”
Before I can respond with more than a pathetic little whimper, he pulls back and walks away.
He disappears into the apartments, and I’m left clutching my chest, wishing I hadn’t been so vague. Wishing he wasn’t worrying.
The truth is he doesn’t need to worry—
My date is with the dead.
The following Saturday, I’m pacing around my bedroom with packed bags and an anxious heart.
We had plans tonight.
I told Brant I wanted to talk to him about something, so we decided to grab a late dinner after he got off work at the nightclub.
I wasn’t expecting his latest text message.
Brant: Hey Junebug, I’m sorry to do this. Sydney’s sister had an emergency come up and had to bail on her, so I offered to drive Syd home tonight. Can we reschedule our dinner? You don’t need to wait up for me.
