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“Longstocking?”
My hand flutters over my hair, but he smiles.
“You look fuckin’ perfect as always.”
I’m far from perfect but I don’t argue with him as he once again holds out his hand. I’m aware this isn’t to make any kind of declaration to me. He’s always held my hand and opened doors for me.
But this is a statement to every man in there to keep their hands to themselves and their eyes above the neckline.
I shouldn’t like it, but I do. There’s something sweet in it. Not the staking a claim he-man style, but it’s how he protects, even if I don’t need it.
We cross the lot, gravel crunching under shoe and boot, and the way he rubs his calloused thumb against my fingers sends shivers of heat cascading through me.
I always like holding his hand, but this feels a little different like the playing field is more even. The gentle touches hold all kinds of promises and desires I can read now.
It might just be sex, but ooh boy, can I read it.
Diego opens the door for me, and we step in. Everyone goes a little quiet as they take us in. The six-foot-five man who’s built out of pure muscle and looks like he knows his way around guns knives, fists, and the darker parts of life, and the schoolteacher.
I can almost believe all the sweetness and touches mean more than a job and sex, and he’s here for me.
But Diego isn’t. He’s just here on his own business and to help me. Nothing more.
If there’s some sex involved, then maybe . . .
But what he might want and what he decides to go for are two different things.
Diego leans in. “Tequila?”
“Sure.”
We head to the bar where he patiently talks the bartender through my order and then he turns and hands it to me, lifting a beer to his mouth.
“Beer?”
He shrugs. “Got precious cargo, and it’s a little bit of a drive back to your place. Plus . . .” Diego doesn’t look around, but I get the feeling he’s soaking the place in and that he took stock of who was here and where. “Got some magic to work.”
For a moment, my heart leaps, but then it settles. It’s not me. He brought me here for a reason, so I finish my drink, set down the glass along with his beer, and slide my hands up the front of his T-shirt.
“Dance?”
“With you, Nadie? Always.”
When he says things like that, I can’t breathe properly, and my pulse beats hard against my veins.
He slips his arms loose around my waist. I wind mine about his neck, and I lay my head against his chest to listen to the thump of his heart. From here, women cast me looks of envy because I’m dancing with a hot man, one who holds me with the ease and familiarity of a lover.
It doesn’t matter that we’re not, because I take secret joy from their looks and the feeling, old and worn in and comforting, that he’s mine.
Reality crushes it down, because he’s not mine, not anymore, no matter how much we might want each other. Want and getting really are two different things.
Plus, he’s not here to rekindle anything. Besides, how would it work, even if he was? He’s not staying.
Diego isn’t here to fix anything or talk through the past. I’m not even sure I want that. It’s just . . . time and common sense have a habit of falling away whenever he’s near.
Shit. I’m mooning over him and not thinking about my nephew. I’m the worst. I suck in air, and he strokes his hand over my hair like he knows where my thoughts went.
“Diego?”
