Page 28 of Hollywood King
He snorted this time. “You think I want to invite those vultures to dinner?”
“No, of course not, but you seem to get followed by your share of them.”
“I’m not the only one,” he countered.
I stood and pulled my shirt down. “Tomorrow then. And I haven’t forgotten you still owe me some cookies. We made a deal, and I expect you to hold up your end.”
He stood now and stared down at me as the memory of what happened in the car washed over us both. I feared moving as if he might pounce, a cat on his prey.
When he stepped back, I took a breath of relief.
“What time should I pick you up?”
“Eight is good.”
“You don’t have to work?” His words punctured me easily, a scalpel slicing through skin. The moment he took to say them didn’t hurt, but that pain bloomed in the few seconds I gathered to keep myself composed.
“No, I don’t have to work.” I left him like that since I couldn’t say anything else without losing my shit. I made it to the door before he caught up. I fled before the heat of his body met mine from behind, before he could reach out, and we’d both do something stupid.
The driver opened the car door, and I dove inside, but the memories remained, like living things written in the leather and the glass and the floorboards. I could still feel his hands on me, and his words. Worse, I wanted to do it again, harder and further than the first time.
I sank back into the seat as we pulled away. Safe for now, but I didn’t know how long I could keep my hands to myself. And Heath wasn’t any better at it than me.
What a pair we made. Two adults who wanted each other kept apart by pride, family bureaucracy, and the vast echoing chasm of time and memory. Which I think were the hardest of all to breach. They say time heals, and yet, I felt more unraveled by every passing day I spent without him.
