Page 22 of Rafferty's Rules
‘Strange creatures, I was going to say.’
‘Like I said. So that’s what I was doing in Ruby’s Room last night... ’
Talk about words pregnant with meaning. I really don’t want to tell him, but I owe him so much I also don’t want to lie.I owe him that much, surely?Yes, he’s a virtual stranger. I could walk out his front door and never see him again. But well, I just don’t want to. Rafferty has shown more kindness to me in twenty-four hours than my own family showed me last week. My. Own. Family.
Maybe, on this basis, I could expect him to show a little understanding, too?
I could tell him. Say the words out loud. His response could be the perfect panacea.
Or it could be the exact opposite.
‘How bad can it be?’
Chapter 6
LISSA
‘How bad can it be?’
‘You are very, very persistent,’ I say with a sigh.
I take a moment to consider my answer when, in fact, I’m really just taking a moment to look at him sitting there, all pronounced cheekbones and pouty bottom lip. His nose is perfectly straight, his eyebrows the kind of tame that can only be natural. He even has a tiny cleft in his chin. Add in his height, his broad shoulders, and the overall general buffness, and I’m surprised a line of women didn’t follow us home from the cruise line terminal. For the second time, I’m pleased we built our friendship, no matter how strange or new, before I had time to notice these things. Otherwise, I’d be tongue-tied and awkward. You know, instead of just awkward and a mess.
‘The longer it takes you to tell me, the worse my imagination becomes,’ he teasingly singsongs.
‘What’s that supposed to mean, you dork?’ Loosening my hair from the confines of its elastic, I allow my dark locks to fall around my shoulders. As I thread my fingers through my hair and begin massaging my sore scalp, I groan. ‘Oh, that’s better.’
‘I can’t be held responsible for the filth my mind conjures up.’ Is it me, or did it just get a little hot in here? And did his gaze get a little darker while watching me? My hair must look good because William never once looked at me the way he is.Friends, Lissa. Remember you could use one of those.
‘Come on,’ he taunts, his voice low and persuasive. ‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘Oh, how I wish,’ I mutter as I begin spinning my now cold coffee between my fingers.
‘Try me.’ I roll my lips inwards to keep vrom asking whereexactlyhe’d like me to start, then fold my hands together and place them primly on my lap. Just because the man is Grade-A eye candy doesn’t mean he’s offering me a bite.
With a look that speaks volumes, he moves the paper cup from out of my reach as I find my hands reaching for it unconsciously again.
‘Okay.’ I blow out the word reluctantly, folding my fidgeting hands on the smooth tabletop. ‘You asked for it.’
‘And I’m waiting for it,’ he replies, his words dripping with a very provocative kind of flirtation.
‘Okay, innuendo boy.’
‘Man,’ he corrects in the same tone. ‘It’s been a while since I was anything but.’ I can actually feel the heat rushing to my cheeks.And now I’m thanking God for my sunburn. What kind of masochist am I?
‘Give it to me.’ His voice is low and husky and has every hair fine on my body standing to attention as though waiting further command. It’s the kind of tone that delivers bedroom demands.On your knees. Take it. Take it all. You’re such a good little—I shut that shizz right down. We’re not going anywhere with this, even if my nipples want to.
Change the topic. Change the topic!
Instead, I blurt out the truth.
‘So, funny story.’ Unless you happen to be me, I suppose. ‘Last Saturday, I was supposed to get married.’ His eyebrows hit his hairline as I bulldoze on. ‘A church, a white dress, a dozen attendants, three hundred guests, the whole nine yards.’ He stays silent, and for once, his expression is indecipherable. I couldn’t guess what he’s thinking even if I tried. ‘I wassupposedto get married—two years in planning, three years engaged—but I didn’t.’ I pause here, not for dramatic effect but more to connect how I’m feeling right now as I glance down at where there’s a thin pale line where I’ve worn my engagement ring. I feel... tired. Sick and tired of it all. But that could be the hangover speaking, I suppose. In the past week, I’ve run through a gamut of emotions—disbelief, horror, heartbreak, and shame. And anger. I can’t forget the anger. So much anger—like a burst from a geyser, accompanying an explosion of pain.
But now? Tired. I’m mostly tired.
‘Lissa?’ I look down to find Rafferty’s hand over mine. ‘You don’t have to tell me. Not if it hurts.’
Pause for a moment to gather myself. I feel ungathered right now. Ungathered and a little tattered around the seams. The telltale prick of tears threatens from his kindness, but I know from experience that if I don’t blink for a few seconds, I’ll be able to keep the waterworks in.
