Page 68 of Darling Venom
Either way, this one would go to the grave with me.
I didn’t think Tate realized how he came off once his guard was down and he was not Dr. Miracle. He looked split down the middle, flirting dangerously close with depression. I’d lost one Marchetti brother—I was not going to watch another one ruin himself.
The realization struck me as I knocked on Tate’s door, feeling like an intruder. Last night, as I’d tossed and turned in bed, I’d committed to trying to be there for him.
He was callous and hard and indifferent and cold, but he’d also suffered through a great loss—of a sibling who hated him and lived under his wing.
My being here for Tate was hardly selfless.
I’d spent the past eight years searching for an opportunity to help me come to terms with what I’d done to Leah. To Mom and Dad. If I could redeem myself in my own eyes, prove to myself that I was actually a decent human, maybe I’d love myself again.
I’d like that.
Tate opened the door.
Jesus, he was tall.
Abnormally tall.
He filled the frame like it’d been designed to fit his measurements. Which was insane, because doorframes usually towered over people, not vice versa.
His eyes were fossil gray, naturally hooded, and screamed menace. His carved jaw was square and hard as stone. His Robert Pattinson hair begged for a tug, and I wondered how come he was single, because whoever the woman in his office was, she wasn’t his girlfriend.
Reagan always banged on about Tate’s refusal to settle down.
I sucked my stomach in, straightening my spine. “Hi.”
His beauty intimidated me.
“How do you know where I live?”
Hello to you, too.
Also: crap, crap, crap.
“Contact sheet from school. I had it printed out.” I lifted a shoulder. “Nerd on a scholarship.”
The tips of my ears burned, and my mouth had dried. Tate raised a skeptical eyebrow and stepped aside, letting me in. The mountain of lies on which I’d started off our friendship rose higher and higher every day.
The first thing I noticed was that the house wasn’t as impressive from the inside as it was from the outside. It was still pretty nice, but definitely dated.
Blankets and pillows had been stacked in an untidy pile on the couch. Peeling wallpaper from the eighties covered the walls, and the kitchen consisted of honey-oak cabinets with a heavy trim, mustard laminate countertops, and yellowed backsplash.
This place looked like a Three’s Company set.
I followed Tate’s wide triangle back.
The house might not look it, but it smelled fresh. Exactly like Tate. Sandalwood and citrus and bonfire and sex. I was no expert in what sex should smell like, but I swore he smelled dirty and clean at the same time.
Mouthwateringly delicious.
I was glad I wasn’t one of his patients. It must be so awkward to spread your legs in front of a man like that when the end game was not an orgasm.
“Who’s crashing at your place?” I spoke loudly to drown my deranged thoughts.
“Terry.”
“Where is he now?”
