Page 297 of Off Limits: The Firsts

I’m so lost. Rock thing? What am I missing here?

“I don’t understand.”

“Yeah. Our rock thing. You know what, fuck it. Forget I said anything.”

“No. Please. I want to know.”

“My call today. It was a 10-16 . . . sorry, a domestic disturbance, and it wasn’t the first time we’d been called out there. I think the dad is abusing the mom, but the mom is making excuses to protect him. It’s a classic case of him beating her down enough, grooming her, so that she thinks he can’t live without her and vice versa. I don’t know. I don’t get it, but I know it’s real because I’ve seen it more times than I care to count.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all I say, but I squeeze his hand to lend him silent support as he thinks about something I can’t even fathom.

“So am I.” He sighs, the sag of his shoulders a visible manifestation of the toll the call has taken on him. “I want to help the mom, but I can’t help her until she wants it, and I hope that it isn’t too late. But what’s even worse is that they have a daughter. She’s five, and the sweetest little girl who is caught in the middle of a shit sandwich. She’s defending a dad, who isn’t nice, and loving a mom, who doesn’t defend her. All this little girl wants is just to be a kid.”

“That’s rough. I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. I can’t imagine the things you see every day. The things you deal with,” I say, really wanting to go back and find out what he meant about the rocks. Something is niggling at the back of my mind. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m too scared to ask.

“You know what? I think we should stop talking about our shitty days and go get ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” I laugh. “We’ve gone from drinking away our sorrows to ice cream?”

“Yep. Do you have something against ice cream?”

“Umm . . . no. Who could hate ice cream?” My stomach growls at the thought of food, reminding me just how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. “But then again, after my crappy day, this alcohol isn’t so bad, either.”

“There’s my Emmy.” He flashes me an irresistible grin that freezes when we both realize what he said.

I’m not going to lie and say those words don’t make me want to give in on this silly game we’ve been playing—control be damned—and kiss him. Right here. Right now.

Our eyes hold and try to read what the other is saying. It’s then that I feel his hand tighten around mine and realize our fingers are still interlocked.

“I know a way we can mix both ice cream and alcohol,” he says, eyes never leaving mine.

“How?”

“Mudslides. They have them here.” My stomach rumbles. “You want one?”

“Like you have to ask.” I laugh when he raises his finger to the bartender before I even finish the sentence.

“I’m a big girl, Grant. I don’t need you walking me home,” I say and then giggle when I realize that I’m nowhere near the airstrip. But still. Saying it is like meaning it, right?

He swings our joined hands as he walks beside me. “I’m not walking you home. I’m walking you to my home since we aren’t sober enough to drive.” He veers off the sidewalk and up a short little path.

“Grant?” I ask as I take in the wood porch of the house in front of us.

“I know you’re a big girl, Em. I’m well aware of it.”

His words hang in the air, hitting my slightly fuzzy mind as I follow him up the steps to stand under the porch light. “Is that flirting, Malone? Are you flirting with me?”

He yanks on my hand, and I land solidly against him. It takes a minute for our minds to register what’s going on—that our bodies are pressed together—because we’re too busy making sure our wobbly feet don’t give out.

But when we’re steady, everything registers for me. The heat of his body against mine. The hardness of it, too. The hitch of his breath, answering the gasp of mine. The darkening of his eyes. The tensing of his hand on mine. The flick of his tongue across his bottom lip.

And, oh, how I want him to be flirting with me.

Better yet, I want him to be kissing me. All of me.

The thought makes me giggle as we continue to stand body to body, a lot a bit tipsy, beneath a dim porch light on an empty and darkened street.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he murmurs more to himself than to me. It cues the panic inside me, screaming that this insane display of foreplay between us needs to have the match lit before I combust from sexual frustration.