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I squeeze her fingers. “Tell me more about this wedding.”
11
Kate
When I imagined driving to the wedding, I don’t think I really thought it through. Being in a confined space with Fabian is like being on a long run along the East River, a strong wind whipping the breath out of your body and dumping adrenaline into your veins. In the dim light from the dashboard, his long body is curled into the car seat next to me, a worn white T-shirt with a faded logo wrapping around his body like bindweed every time he shifts—and boy, is he a shifter. His torn jeans cling to muscly thighs and a tattered pair of Doc Martens adorn his feet, currently tapping away in the footwell. I focus back on the inky gloom, headlights dancing across the tarmac.
We’re in an odd place now. When he sat on the opposite side of the table at Solas, I thought I’d misread the long chat we had at Janus’s apartment and I had bored the pants off him talking about work. But then he asked me to dance, and having all that skin and his tattoos right there, his long fingers pressing into my back, and Jo and Liss’s encouragement echoing in my head … it made me reckless. I wanted to lean in and lick all the way up his neck. Then he rebuffed me but ended up holding my hand and was suggestive and flirty all through dinner at Rocco’s. I have no idea what he’s thinking. He turns his head and smiles, and my breath disappears.
“I should have worn something different. Smartened up a bit,” he says, looking down at himself, misinterpreting my ogling. He pats his chest. “This T-shirt has seen better days, but it’s clean.” And it makes my mouth curve up, shaking my head. He doesn’t need to smarten up.
“I had my hair cut,” he adds, with a grin, and I risk a glance at the man bun that is holding it back from his face. “Only a trim, though, to remove the split ends.”
A big smile splits his face as he pulls the band out and runs his fingers through the thickness. I chance another look away from the road to his wayward curls, and I can’t resist.
“I like your hair.”
“You do?” A sweet thrill slides through his words.
And this is the trouble with Fabian: He’s delighted every time I pay him a compliment. “It fits the bad-boy image.”
His warm gaze roams my face. “Tell me all about your week in the ER,” he says, and I laugh.
“You really don’t want to know?”
“Oh! believe me, I do. I love hearing about heart attacks and old homeless guys and grumpy doctors and anything else you want to tell me.”
I shift in my seat, and his gaze drifts down, and when I blink down to find what he’s looking at, I realize that my shirt has pulled tight on one side. Because I’m not wearing a bra, everything is visible through the thin cotton.
“Whoops!” I say, laughing and sitting forward to loosen the material.
Fabian tips his head back and closes his eyes. “This weekend is going to go south very fast if I see things like that.” He takes a deep breath before propping his feet on the dash and resting his arms on his knees, hands dangling. “And we can’t do this.”
But he wants this?A hot thrill shoots through me. Is he talking to me or himself? “Can’t do what?”
He stares down between his legs. “You’re such a golden girl, Kate. I’m this no-hoper with a chaotic life and very little impulse control.”
He’s said things a bit like this before, but I wouldn’t describe him as a no-hoper. He’s always so confident, with a great handle on himself, even when he’s taking huge risks. This is like my parents’ view on life. Black, white. Good, bad. You can easily twist things one way or another, say this person or that person is a loser or a success, but it’s rarely so straightforward. On one level I’ve achieved a lot: I’ve climbed the academic mountain that got me into college to study medicine. On the other hand, I have panic attacks in the ER and flirt with failure every day. And when I fail, people die.
“I like you,” I say simply, and he groans.
“Kate. You’re beautiful, smart, funny, interesting. You could have any guy you want. You don’t need a man like me.”
Funny?Is he high? And how can he view himself so negatively? “Firstly, I’ve had relationships with those guys you might say would be ‘right’ for a girl like me. And I’ve not met one yet who wasn’t an asshole. Secondly, you’renota downbeat, messed-up wreck. You’re a brilliant programmer and hacker, a kind, honorable man who I’d give my right arm to spend more time with.”
He starts laughing. “You’re crazy, Kate, do you know that? I’m none of those things.”
He reaches out and runs a long finger down from my shoulder to my wrist where I’m gripping the steering wheel, and tingles run in the other direction back up to my throat. I risk a glance at his thick dark lashes and thin, firm lips. His scruff looks soft and edible.
He squeezes my hand. “Goddammit, I don’t need to think about this. I’m going to be uncomfortable this whole journey. We’ve got three hours in this car. I warn you I’ve never been able to ignore an erection. I might have to rub one out while you’re driving.” And oh my God! I love this outspoken honesty. Something warm and wicked rises up.
I wave my hand at him. “Be my guest. We may have to stop, though, because I’d like to watch.”
I don’t dare meet his eyes, and he leans over and presses his nose into my jaw, growling into my skin.
“You have a filthy mouth. How am I going to keep my hands to myself all weekend?” he says, sitting back in his seat and staring out at the darkness.
A filthy mouth? I haveneverbeen described that way. “Who said you had to keep your hands to yourself?”
