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Fire spreads over my neck and face. God, I can almost feel the flames. “No.”
Because I do, and I’m not talking about the scars.
“I love how you always blush like that. Does it happen often?”
“No.”
“So this is just for me?”
I huff. Walked right into that one. “Nope.” My hand inches lower. Almost there.
“Who are you, really, Raylin O’Brien? What are you hiding?”
The air freezes in my lungs. I let my hand drop on his chest. His face is impassive, his eyes blank and clear—too empty, mirrors hiding some strong emotion. His heart hammers under my palm, his chest rises and falls swiftly.
“Why are you asking? We spent the night together. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
He licks his lips. “And if I want it to mean something?”
My chest squeezes. “You don’t know me.”
“Exactly my point.”
“Storm…”
“Because what if I want to know you?” He exhales, his arm tightening around me. “What if I don’t want you to go?”
“You serious?”
He stares down at me, and the emptiness in his gaze slips a little. Need. Pain. It’s as if he really doesn’t want me to go. Like the thought of my going hurts him.
Like it hurts me.
Oh, stop it.
What’s the harm in telling him a few things about me? Hoping he’ll open up, too, and tell me about himself. Funny how much I would like that.
“Tit-for-tat,” I decide, because why the hell not? I’m leaving soon anyway, and this has nothing to do with him. He’ll be safe. “I tell you something about me, you tell me something about you.”
Come on, Storm. Say yes. What do you have to hide? Break and enter, like me? Petty thefts? Or something worse, like me?
Oh God, I hope not. I want him to be a good guy, to be as beautiful inside as he is outside. He can be my beautiful fantasy, a bright memory to carry with me when I’m gone from here.
“Okay,” he says, sounding doubtful, and I give myself a mental high-five.
Can’t really relax,
though. Giving away anything about myself is like pulling teeth. Maybe it’s safe, but my body reacts as if I’m about to jump off a cliff.
“How old are you?” he asks, and I’m so tense, I giggle a little at the question.
“That’s what you’re curious about?”
He grins down at me, and I will not melt at the cuteness and sexiness of it. “Maybe.”
“I’m nineteen. And you?”
“Just turned twenty-one.”
