I jam the board and pages into my tote, looping the handles over my arm as I stand from the hitch. Shielding my eyes from the sun over his shoulder, I look at his face and swallow . . . hard. If I thought I had a reaction to this guy in a dimly lit crack house, then it has nothing on the fuses blowing by taking a look at him in the daylight. The sun catches the highlights in his hair, the light summer breeze ruffling the choppy lengths while he waits on me.
I duck my chin to my chest, pretending to be studiously watching where I’m placing my feet as I step out from behind the truck to join him. But in all reality, I’m peering out at his solid frame from under my lashes, stealing a look at how damn fine he looks in dark denim and a worn out Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.
“Patience,” I say, straightening up before him.
“I thought I was bein’ patient?” he answers, cocking an eyebrow.
“No, Patience,” I say, tapping his T-shirt between his pecs. My face flames at how solid is damn chest is. Is that even legal? “It’s my favorite song of theirs.”
“Oh.” He chuckles, a deep velvet sound. “I get you now.”
“What’s yours?”
“’Sweet Child O’ Mine,’” he answers without hesitation. Lyrics telling of eyes of the bluest skies circle through my head. Could he be hitting on me? The way his eyes hood and his tongue peeks out to wets his lips tells me that yes, he most definitely is.
What do I say back? It’s too open here. What if we’re being watched? There are too many people around, too many men and women who just might find it in their interest to use a little information on me to their advantage with a drug boss they owe money to.
I damn near fall on my ass when a small child gets in the way of my hasty retreat. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I place a hand on the boy’s shoulder, checking he’s okay, much to the mother’s amusement.
“You’re fine,” she assures me. “Happens all the time. He never watches where he’s going.” She gives us both a smile and chases after the kid, who’s now making a beeline for an ice cream stall.
“Hungry?” Bronson asks over my shoulder.
I turn back to look at him, certain my face is all shades of red. “Yeah, I am actually.”
“Sweet or savory?” he asks, looking over the various boards displaying what’s for sale.
I stare at him while he’s distracted, mentally dragging my fingers over the slight stubble he has on his jaw and palming the side of his thick neck. His shoulders are strong, the muscles lifting the collar of his T-shirt; his traps clearly defined at the top.
I realize he’s not distracted anymore—his gaze is fixed on me, waiting for a response. Shame, Ryan. “You decided what you’d like to have the most?”
I get the impression he’s not just talking about food. “There’s a place down there who do good kebabs. Think I’ll have one of those.”
“Lead the way.” He holds out his hand, ushering me first.
It’s the most awkward ten yards of my life as we make our way through the people lined up before the food trucks. The wait isn’t huge for a kebab, and before long I’ve ordered for both of us after he gives me cash and insists he’ll just have the same. We find a spot near a tree and tuck in, him demolishing in one bite what takes me four. I’ve never been so self-conscious eating in my life, and when he leaves me to find a bin for his wrapper, I make the most of the time to myself and hoover the damn kebab like a champion.
The smile on his face when he returns is infectious, and I find myself grinning like a fool in response while I chew. He’s still smiling when he comes to stop beside me, and I finish off the mouthful I was working on to ask, “What?”
His hand lifts, and then drops as though he’s unsure. “You’ve . . . there’s . . .”
“What?”
“Sauce on your face.”
It’s all I can do not to drop everything in defeat. “Seriously?” Way to make an impression, Ryan.
“Yeah, just . . .”—he gingerly points to the side of my mouth—“there.”
I swipe at my lips with my fingertips. “Better?”
“Nah.” He chuckles. “You missed it completely.”
“Shit.” I swipe again with the back of my hand, twice, just to be sure. “What about now?”
He sighs, a sound that echoes my own frustrations at how awkward this is.
“Just get it for me, would you?” I offer my face to him, pushing the side he’d pointed to towards him.
Gentle fingers cup my jaw, and he runs his thumb firmly in a single swipe over my cheek, just outside the corner of my lips. I watch him the entire time out of my peripheral, noting the way his nostrils flare, the intense concentration in his eyes. If I could see his heart beating, I don’t think I’d be alone in feeling as if I’d just run a race.
His hand drops away and we just stare at one another. Nothing needs to be said; I can read him loud and clear—we shouldn’t have done that. A line’s been crossed, and now that I know what the other side looks like, I don’t think I want to go back yet.
“Why him?” he asks quietly.
“Gunter?”
He nods, rubbing his thumb over the side of his index finger.
“In the beginning, it was just easier than saying no. But after a while, I noticed people left me alone when he was around.”
His chest rises and falls, his eyes fixed firmly on mine. “We better take you back to your friends.”
“What if I don’t want to go back just yet?” And they’re not my friends.
His face lifts, those beautiful eyes questioning, seeking. “What else would you want to do?”
“Walk?” I point past the last food truck toward a temporary parking lot. “We can go over to my car where it’s less busy, noisy.”
Bronson follows my directive, turning his head to look over where the paddock has been roped off for people to park. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t need to be makin’ too many enemies yet.”
“Yet?” Why would he say that?
His gaze snaps back to my face, and his eyes go wide. “Or at all. You know, I’m only new around here and all that.”
“You said yet,” I remind him, directing us away from the crowd. “What do you have planned that’s going to make a lot of enemies?”
“Nothin’.” He jams his hands in his armpits, closing his body language off. “I have a bad habit of makin’ enemies, is all.”
“Well, you don’t need to worry,” I say. “Gunter and Eddie both know how much I like to touch up during the day.” I wave a hand at my face, signaling my makeup. “They wouldn’t think anything of it if I said I made you hang around while I freshened up.”
“You look fine to me.”
I choose to ignore his last comment and keep walking, flicking my bangs out to cover my face as I stare at the ground disappearing under my feet.
“Did I say something you didn’t like?” he asks.
“Maybe the problem is I did like it,” I whisper.
We walk for a few more awkward moments before he takes hold of my arm, stopping me where we stand between two parked cars. “Why did you want to bring me over here? The truth.”
Because I had a fleeting thought about how we might fit in my back seat. “They’re suffocating,” I say. “Everything I do is watched, judged, and criticized. It’s nice sometimes to pretend it’s just me, getting by on my own.”
“But you’re not alone. I’m here.” Bronson takes a single step forward and traps me against the car behind me with one movement of his boot.
“Yeah, because having you around makes me forget about things, and I needed that right now,” I murmur. Giving my arm a jerk, I break free and resume walking towards my car. He follows silently by my side. “Do you smoke?” I ask, as we near the row I’m parked in. My anxiety is peaking, and there’s only one way I know how to control it.
“Used to,” he answers, looking over at me. “You?”