Page 87 of New Orleans Rush

Huxley was on her floor, tipped on his side, one arm under his head, his long legs askew. His Hogwarts Alumni T-shirt had ridden up, exposing a section of burned flesh. Her fingers itched to touch him.

He was the first thing she’d thought of when that gunshot had sounded. Not a montage of art sculptures and waitressing jobs, or New Year’s celebrations with her dad and dancing with her mother. She did think about her mother now, though, a woman whose zest for life had saved Bea’s.

Your mother lit up a room. Big Eddie hadn’t been wrong about Molly Baker. Her excitement and joy over the mundane had been infectious growing up. It was a reminder that smiling through adversity wasn’t all bad: Molly’s natural effervescence had inadvertently saved Bea’s life. She should thank her mother for that. She should also tell her life wasn’t all smiles and some hardships had to be faced, just like Bea had to face Huxley.

His worry since the shooting had been like a pheromone tractor beam, drawing her to him—the way he’d had to carry her, the pain in his eyes. She’d wanted him in the shower with her more than she’d wanted to wash off the ketchup smell, but she’d held her ground. Trauma couldn’t be the thing to toss them back together.

She sat cross-legged, facing him, and picked up his large hand. Dark paint stained his knuckles. Lighter gold was caked into his cuticles, like he’d been painting. She feathered her fingers over the marks.

His eyes fluttered open. “Bea?”

“You always use my full name.”

A sleepy smile pulled at his lips. “Beatrice.”

A statement this time, her name always so perfect in his deep baritone. She wanted to hear him say it over and over and pretend he hadn’t taken her money. That he hadn’t played just one more game. Forgiveness was the path of righteousness. Her father had told her that once, after thanking her for lending him cash. Hollow words at the time, but she clung to them now.

For Huxley, she wanted to be righteous.

He blinked a bunch and dragged his body upright. “Jesus. The floor’s hard.” He rolled his left shoulder. “You okay?”

“You keep asking me that.”

“You gave me a scare.”

“Ketchup is terrifying.”

He didn’t laugh. A look of devastation washed over his face. “I thought I lost you.”

She wasn’t sure if he meant physically or emotionally. Probably both. “I’m still here.”

“You are.”

They stared at each other.

“Can I make you some tea?” he asked, his voice sleep-roughened and raspy along the edges. “There might be chicken soup in the freezer.”

She shook her head. All she wanted was him—his arms, his strong body, his scars cocooned around her. That raspy voice in her ear. Being with him was like eating dessert before dinner. Sometimes, sadly, dinner had to come first. “Can we talk now?”

His handsome features tightened. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

They relocated to the couch. She only wore her oversized Smile T-shirt and underwear. Feeling cold and exposed, she tucked her bare legs under her. Or maybe it was the impending talk that had vulnerability chilling her limbs.

A hall light cast the darkened room in a soft glow. No remnants of the staged crime scene remained. “You cleaned up.” Looking around was easier than facing Huxley.

He sat beside her, a short distance away. “Fox and Axel did.”

Silence settled. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but not the ignoring-TV-because-they-couldn’t-stop-touching kind. He tugged at his disheveled hair. She picked at her nails. Her frazzled attention snagged on the unicorn painting. It had a background now, deep blue with gold stars—the same colors staining his hands. It resembled his galaxy cape.

Her mind tripped back to the first night she’d seen his cape. The night she’d vandalized Huxley’s car. A cowardly act performed instead of telling Nick his actions had hurt. Instead of telling her father his betrayal had cut her to the bone.

She sought her inner strength this time and faced Huxley. “Asking to use my money to gamble, no matter why, was wrong.”

He inched closer. “It was.”

He didn’t try to talk over her or offer apologies and empty explanations. He waited.

“I trusted you. That’s why I gave you the money. I may have told you I wanted to help if the theater had problems, but you had to know using my savings to stake a poker game wasn’t what I meant.”