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I looked into her eyes and gradually relaxed. “Apology accepted.”
She gave me a little smile and tilted her head towards the bedroom. “Come back to bed with me and maybe we can finish that nap?”
I took a few seconds to answer, but I answered in the affirmative.
“…okay.”
She led me towards the bedroom.
As she did, I thought back to every other argument I’d ever had with a chick.
They didn’t just give in. They didn’t rationalize it out and come to a different conclusion and apologize. They usually hunkered down with their hurt feelings, whether they were wrong or right, until the guy came to them asking what was wrong. Except I never did that, so in my experience, they usually start screaming at me when I act like I don’t give a shit.
I don’t reward bad behavior, so I tend to just freeze a woman out if she’s being a bitch. When she’s ready to talk, I’ll talk.
But Fiona had come out here on her own, giving reasons why she’d been wrong. She’d extended the peace pipe long before it was even reasonable to expect anyone to. She’d had a good case to be upset, and she’d ditched it and went straight for the apology.
Something was definitely fucking wrong here.
42
Fiona
We slept fitfully for about six hours. He didn’t touch me once, and I kept to my side of the bed, too. The lack of physical touch was painfully obvious.
After our growling stomachs became too loud to ignore, we finally got up and fixed dinner. He grilled steaks out on the patio, and I pulled together a salad from the meager vegetables in his fridge. We made small talk over drinks – me with a glass of red wine, him with a tumbler of scotch. I had the night off from work – hell, for all I knew, the Seven Veils was shut down after the shooting – so there was no rush.
Darkness was starting to fall when we finally sat down with our food in front of us.
That’s when it got weird. Or weird-er, anyway.
“How’re you holding up?” he asked.
“Okay.”
“It’s been a lot of stress.”
“Yeah, it has.”
“You really held it together in the Seven Veils after the shooting,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“A lot of women would have cried or collapsed or something. Not you. It was like you had ice water in your veins.”
I looked up. I suppose the statement could have just been a compliment – especially coming from a badass biker – but it felt like there was something underneath it. Like he was probing for why I hadn’t cried or collapsed. For why I had ice water in my veins.
Like he suspected something.
I played it off with a smirk. “Do I seem like a crier to you?”
“No, you don’t. Especially not after last night.”
“I’m not particularly girly that way.”
“So I’ve noticed. Did you go through a lot to get that way?”
I looked him straight in the eyes. “What do you mean?”
