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I look up. “If I did, would you help me hide the body?”
His smile spreads slowly. “That’s a big commitment. Do you think we’re there yet emotionally?”
I shake my head. “Probably not.”
He leans in, and for a second, I think he’s about to kiss me. Instead, he whispers, “I’d help you ditch the car.”
I could turn my head and kiss him.
He’s lingering.
I know it. And although all along, my plan has been to get him to kiss me, it’s not supposed to be here or now, yet I still want it to happen.
Whether he reads my hesitation or not, he backs off. My head clears, and I realize how close we were to doing something irreversible.
I start walking before either one of us changes their mind.
It takes a full block before my heart stops beating like a sledgehammer and a second block before I rationalize that the almost-kiss was entirely in my head. Maybe. Probably. No. Definitely in my head.
By the time I’m feeling somewhat normal again, we’re walking up Catherine Street, and I can see my house.
“Thank you for walking me home. This is me.” I point at the front porch, which is completely dark.
Dax gives the house an assessing look. “I remember. Seems like a nice place.”
I shrug. “Frank and I like it.”
His eyes cloud. “Who’s Frank?”
“My spider. We share a shower. I live in the basement. My entrance is around the back.”
Dax eyes my yard. “Right. Down that creepy dark pathway.”
“It’s not creepy,” I say defensively. Then I give it a second look. “I guess it’s a little creepy.”
He nods and settles into an awkward silence that stretches longer than a beat. “Text me when you get inside,” he finally says.
“I can do that.”
Again, he points to the path. “I’d walk you, but…” His voice trails off.
“But what?”
Now I want to know what he’s thinking.
It takes so long for him to answer that I almost think he isn’t going to.
“You told me earlier you make terrible decisions when you’re drunk, so it’s probably better that I stay out here on this sidewalk, and we leave it at that.”
There are many ways I could take that statement. And the most obvious one has dangerous implications.
“Goodnight, Daxon McGuire.”
“Goodnight, Gemma McGuire.”
“It’s Gemma Wilde, you drunk.”
He shrugs, smiling. “Slip of the tongue.”
