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When my phone vibrates in my back pocket, the screen flashes the name Ice, and my heart flutters a little in my chest.
“Hello,” I greet, trying to be cheerful. I don’t want to be a concern or burden for him.
“How ya doin’?” Ice asks, much in the same way he does every time he checks in. He may not be here physically; however, he calls and texts enough to make it known we are on his mind.
“Getting by. Coal has been great,” I reply honestly.
“He has, has he?” Ice says sarcastically.
Surely, he is not jealous of Coal? I haven’t seen Ice in weeks, and he wants to be a smartass on the phone with me?
“Considering my sister and I have all but moved into his house without warning or a real invitation, yeah, I would say he’s been great.”
“You could move in with Brooke and me anytime you want. We put you there to begin with so your sister could have her privacy until she was ready to see Brooke. Since my daughter has been there every day, since two days after her rescue, I would say my house would be the best place for you.”
“Where do you come up with this stuff?” I question harshly. This man is exasperating. “Why would I think we were welcome to stay there?”
“Why wouldn’t you be? Clue in, woman. It was my bed you were sleepin’ in before you went there, and it’ll be my bed you’re sleepin’ in when it’s all said and done.”
“Where I slept is irrelevant. This entire thing has been a crazy, adrenaline fueled matter of circumstance, and when Madyson is ready to go home, we’re going back to my place,” I say, unable to comprehend exactly what he is telling me.
Is he serious? I don’t want to get my hopes up and then be let down. Do I want to share a bed with Brett ‘Ice’ Grady? The answer is yes, I do. However, we come from two completely different worlds. That does not mean I cannot see past his gruff biker exterior. Because I do. There is a softer side to this man. There is this loyalty that drives him to take care of those he calls his own. Seeing him with his daughter is pure, unconditional love at its finest. There is infinitely more to this man than the asshole I first met. That doesn’t mean the two of us together makes sense.
He is the kind of man who does whatever he wants without asking for permission. He reminds me of that phrase, ‘It’s better to ask forgiveness than to ask for permission.’
I have always lived by other people’s opinions and rules, never stepping out of those carefully drawn lines people, like my parents, laid down for me. I am the kind of woman who waits for the green light before crossing the street because I don’t want to get a ticket for jaywalking. His world consists of people who do not walk on the right side of the law. I am not stupid; it didn’t take me long to realize he and his men have not only stepped over to the criminal side, in some aspects, they run it in this area. I am simply not certain to what extent their business goes.
How can this possibly work between us?
“Kissin’ me was a crazy, adrenaline fueled matter of circumstance, huh? You didn’t even know where I was goin’ or what I was doin’, so you can’t say that kiss was for good luck or because you were afraid it would be goodbye. So then, tell me, sweetheart, what was that all about?”
Oh, my goodness, he is actually going to talk about it. The best kiss I have ever had. The kiss I can’t get out of my mind. The kiss I want to replay over and over again so perhaps I can feel a phantom caress of his lips across my own. The kiss I want to happen again, as well as so much more, and he actually wants to talk about it? No! This is mortifying.
“It was a crazy … ummm … moment of weakness,” I stammer out.
“Sweetheart, I’d be more than happy to make you weak, just not in the way you’re referring to. But I’m warnin’ you now, don’t give me some line of bullshit that you aren’t cravin’ another kiss from me. I bet you enjoyed my mouth on you so much that, if I had stuck my hand down your pants, your cream would have coated my fingers.”
What a cocky bastard! I am completely embarrassed. I have never talked about a kiss after it happened. Not that I have that many kisses under my belt. Nor have I ever been spoken to in such a way about something as intimate as a body’s physical reaction. Is this what it is supposed to be like? God, when I finally have sex, does that require a discussion, too?
