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A backseat to excitement and joy.
***
The doorbell rings kind of late. It’s almost half past nine, and I was about to call the agency, make sure I didn’t misunderstand.
Rushing to my room to check myself one last time in the mirror, I pat my loose curls and check that my eyeliner hasn’t run. All looks good—my blue dress, a narrow belt cinching my waist, my high-heeled pumps, the black choker around my neck.
As ready as I’ll ever be.
The doorbell rings again and I hurry to open before he walks away. Would he? Crap, that would be the last drop to a frustrating week.
I unlatch the door, out of breath and half-scared it will be someone else—I don’t know, Corey, or a parcel delivery, or someone come to ask me if I know my Bible.
Riot looks back at me, a faint smile forming on his lips. He looks tired. A little frazzled, his dark hair sticking up in all directions.
Gorgeous.
“Come in.” I throw the door wide open, grinning at him. “You’re late.”
“Sorry. Got held up.” His mouth twists when he says that, and not like he’s about to laugh. Rather like he’s angry.
“It’s okay.” I usher him inside, grab his arm and tug when he hesitates. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” His smile returns as I drag him to the sofa and push him down.
“Would you like some wine?”
He sighs. “Do you have something stronger?”
“Whisky? Maybe.” I go to search the kitchen cupboards. “I’m pretty sure Corey brought a bottle once. Hey, I thought you don’t drink when on the clock.”
He grunts. “I’m making an exception tonight.” A pause as I open another cupboard. “Corey?”
“Best friend since school. Ah ha!” I pull out the bottle. “Here we go. On the rocks or straight?”
“Straight. Please.” He’s sitting right where I left him when I return with the bottle and two glasses. He’s shed his jacket, and the flame tattoos on his arm seem to glow. “Best friend, huh?”
“Yeah.” I take in the dark in his eyes and laugh. “You jealous?”
“And if I am?”
I don’t know what to say to that. Can’t decide why there’s heat spilling inside my chest. Why I’m so happy.
I cover it up by pouring us both some whisky. Is there a protocol, or a specific quantity I should pour? Not having a clue, I just slosh inside about two fingers and pass a glass to him.
He arches a dark brow and lifts his glass. “Cheers.”
“To alcohol.” I lift mine, too.
“To you,” he says and takes a big gulp.
The heat seeps into my face. I take a small sip, choke on it and cough. “Sorry.”
He cracks a smile. It’s small and tired. “You okay?”
I nod.
He knocks back the rest of the whisky.
