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“A motel?” My voice sounds like a petulant child’s, but it won’t abate. Dirty. Strange smells. Weird people loitering around the doorway.
Tobacco clinging to the walls.
Carpets marred in odour.
My breathing turns shallow.
“Xander.” A blonde girl wearing pink workout gloves and next to nothing else beckons from behind him.
On cue with my building panic attack, my phone rings in my jeans, so I wiggle my bum on the counter and retrieve it.
Absently, I lift it to my ear, blasted with, “I told you not to go to the house,” and immediately, I wish that I’d hit decline.
Mum.
I nod at the girl over Xander’s shoulder, indicating for him totendto her, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are set on me, his forehead tightly etched in pensive lines, brows weaved into a small peak as Amber Lovit barks loudly down the phone. “You are all over the internet in last night’s clothing!”
Shock horror.
I roll my eyes so hard I stare at my brain as she goes on, “And you attacked Lorna Jackson! Have you lost your mind, Kaya Alana! Do you know how this looks?”
Yes, Mother.
Like I’m insane.
“I’m sorry if I don’t look good on the news, Mother!” I use the titlemotherwith a snap of disdain.
“I was trying to protect you from all that, Kaya!”
My planned, contemptuous response goes unheard as Xander plucks the phone from my hand so quickly my fingers hang in the air, curled around the phantom object.
“Hey!” I try to wrestle it from him, but he’s stronger than me. Shocked, I still and blink at the outline in Xander’s jeans. He’s wearing torn blue denim. I don’t know why I note the type of pants he is wearing…
He was in a suit yesterday.
For his mother’s wake.
Drawn to his jeans, I can’t believe I didn’t notice before because they sit so low on his cut hips that his yummy Adonis belt muscles flashed at me when he lifted his shirt to place the handset in them.
“Mother issues…Same,” is all he says, releasing my palm and leaning back onto the island bench, crossing his feet at his ankles, folding his finely defined arms casually over his muscle-ripped torso. “So,Kaya Alana, what’s in the case?”
None of your business, Xander I-wish-I-knew-your-middle-name Butcher.“Do you have any body fat at all?”
He allows me to avert the conversation and drops his tone, “Maybe that was uncalled for. Go on. You can grab your phone if you want it.”
Ignoring the grin that curls the corner of his lips, I pretend I’m impervious to his allure and step forward. Daring him with my gaze, I slowly dig into his front pocket. He grabs my wrist, stopping me inside the denim and holding me there.
And I immediately know why as he presses himself into my hand, so my fingers bump against the rock-hard shape beside my phone.
He groans, and I gape at him.
“There’s my fat,” he states, deadpan. “Being between your legs when you haven’t showered was torture. Your sweat smells so fucking good, Woman.”
When he releases my hand, I tug it from his pocket. The air crackles under those words, because I want nothing more than to shower last-night Kaya and this Kaya away, whereas Xander wants nothing more than to bathe in her. In the dirty parts of me.The tears. Weakness. The truth. The sweat. Not cover it in perfume and poise.
His breath rolls down my cheek, minty. I want to kiss him. Lift my chin to encourage it; he’ll dip a few inches and take my lips.
Dammit, Kaya!
