Page 38 of Danger

“What?” he shrugs. “Haven’t fucked anyone since she left?”

I swallow. “Yeah. That.”

He rubs his jaw, thinking.

“That has nothing to do with her,” he finally says.

My chest goes a little tight.

“It doesn’t?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Had everything to do with Fisher.”

I study him silently as he continues.

“I don’t let anyone get close to me. One wrong person and everything falls apart. Don’t plan on bringing any more kids into this world without being damn sure they’ve got a mama. So I keep women at a distance. Plus, I’m not stupid enough to trust another woman to stick around."

I let that sit for a second. It’s more vulnerable than he probably meant to be.

“So what? You’re just never gonna trust a woman again?” I ask, half teasing, half curious.

“Yeah. I like it that way. It’s simple.”

I let out a breathy laugh. “You don’t strike me as someone who does anything simple.”

He turns his head just enough that I see a flicker of amusement.

“And you don’t strike me as someone who stays in their own lane,” he counters.

Touché. I sure don’t.

Then, I don’t even realize he’s looking at my arm until he’s moved closer.

“What’s that?”

I blink down. “What’s what?”

His large, rough hand catches my wrist—slow, careful, almost restrained. He pushes the sleeve of his sweatshirt back with his thumb, like I’m something fragile he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.

Goosebumps explode across my skin.

His calloused fingertip traces one thin, delicate line. The lightest touch—but my whole body shivers. And he notices. His gaze lifts to mine, and the corner of his mouth curves like he knows exactly what he just did.

“Tattoos,” he says. “Didn’t picture you for ink.”

“They’re… the names of people and places who meant something to me. So I won't forget.”

His eyes track the tiny faded script as he reads them quietly.

“Paris… New York…”

His finger stops.

“...Cookie?”

I snort. “My bus driver.”

Danger stares at me.