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“You have nothing to feel bad about,” he says with so much force, I have to look up and meet his eyes. “You survived something hellish most people can’t even comprehend. You’re a strong woman. If your survival makes anyone uncomfortable, that’s their problem. Not yours.”
Does he really see me that way?
“At least most of the time, saying our parents died ends the conversation. Few people press for details.” I sip my tea. “Although, I suppose anyone who’s motivated enough could search our names and read all about it. That happened to Libby in elementary school. Kids teased her. My aunt rained hellfire on those little monsters.” A grim smile curves my lips. My aunt wasn’t someone to be fucked with.
“Christ, kids can be cruel.”
“Thankfully, by the time she made it to junior high, kids forgot. Now, she has a fairly tight clique, and I don’t think any of her friends would tolerate it.”
“They seem like a nice bunch of kids.” His lips quirk. “When they’re not throwing wild house parties.”
I close my eyes for a second, guilt tugging on my heart. “Poor Mackenzie. I feel so bad now for hoping Libby would outgrow that friendship.”
“She was the driver, right?”
I nod quickly, still feeling prickly—or guilty—about the accident.
“She doing okay?”
“She’s still in the hospital but improving. Libby’s been by to see her a few times after her physical therapy appointments.”
“That’s good.”
“I don’t know. I’m worried it’ll make Libby feel guilty or…something. I don’t want…” I shake my head. “And I worry it could be upsetting for Mackenzie too. Set her progress back or something. I don’t know.” I shrug, a feeling of helplessness washing over me.
“It’s normal to worry about protecting Libby’s feelings. She’s your responsibility.” Dex rests his hand over mine. “And that you’re also worried about her friend just means you’re a good person. What does Mackenzie’s mother think?”
“She’s always happy to see us.”
“Maybe the visits are helping, then.”
“Maybe,” I murmur. “Thanks for listening to all this. It’s been on my mind a lot but…” I didn’t know who the hell I would talk to about it. “You’re a good listener.” I shift awkwardly on the tall stool.
“Come here.” Dex stands and offers his hand to me. “Let’s sit at the table.”
“Okay.” I grab my mug and follow him to the small dining nook across from the pass-through kitchen window.
He pulls out one of the four sturdy wooden dining chairs for me. I smooth my dress and crinoline under my legs and sit. A few seconds later, Dex returns with his own mug.
“The biker drinks tea?” I tease.
“I don’t have much else here.” He curls his hand around the chair at the head of the table, pulls it next to mine and drops into it. “And I told you I don’t like to be put in a box.”
“I was only teasing.”
The corner of his mouth slides up. “So am I, Emily.”
His voice slides over me, smooth and warm. My skin tingles—every cell in my body aware of how close we are.
“So, are you still staying here a lot?” My voice squeaks midway through the question.
What am I doing here?
What are we doing?
DEX
I never expected this much progress with Emily tonight. Now that she’s here, I can’t let her go. She finally trusts me enough to open up, even though I can tell how hard it is for her to share the things she’s bottling up inside.
“Not often,” I admit, answering her question. I don’t need her getting the idea I’ve been riding by her house occasionally, checking on her, like a creepy stalker. Even if that’s exactly what I’ve done a few times. “Club has some business interests out this way that I’ve been working on.” At least that part’s true.
“Don’t tell me Johnsonville’s getting a strip club?” she asks with a dramatic eyebrow lift.
Instead of laughing, I sigh. “No. Nothing like that.”
Anticipation thrums through me like an electric current. She’s still in the tempting dress that I can’t stop thinking about sliding up her legs until it’s bunched around her waist. God help me, Emily’s unlocked some sort of dress fetish I never knew I had.
Her scent, the warmth from her body, everything about her awakens my need to reunite and reconnect.
While my mind continues running down filthy paths, anxiety seems to settle over her. Her posture’s rigid. Her fingers tightly clutched around her mug.
“What’s that look on your face?” I touch her chin, turning her toward me. “Tell me what’s going on in your head, Emily.”
She takes a deep breath as if she needs to gather every ounce of courage. “You could be with any woman you want. Why’d you say you’d wait for me?”
I bite my lip. She’s been hanging onto that since Lincoln’s baptism. I hope she’s not expecting a complicated answer. It’s simple. “Because I love you.”
