8. Abby
8
ABBY
I smooth my dress, ensuring that it’s wrinkle-free. I’m wearing one of my only designer outfits—a gem of a find from an upscale consignment shop off King Street. The silky, royal blue material skims my modest curves, and the high halter-neck design is demure enough to make the garment classy despite the thigh-high slit at the left side. The dress dips into a low V at the back, and the warm evening air caresses my bare skin.
I hesitate just inside the entrance to The Magnolia, the boutique hotel with a rooftop bar where I was supposed to meet Dane eight minutes ago.
This might be a mistake. Now that I’m faced with the reality of this meeting, I’m wracked with uncertainty. Dane is a customer, and I’ll have to see him at the café even if this goes badly. I’m still troubled by the fact that I’ve spent hours fantasizing about a dark villain that wears his handsome face. He proved through his actions at the market that he’s truly a white knight, and as much as I crave that version of him, I can’t let go of my shameful imaginings. I’m not sure if I want him to rescue me or to ravage me.
My fingers tighten around my small black clutch as I struggle to master my rising anxiety. I only have a single twenty-dollar bill and a wad of ones inside the bag—just enough to cover two cocktails. If I choose to go up to the bar and see this through, I won’t be able to rely on alcohol to soothe my nerves; I can’t afford it.
Dane is waiting. I should’ve ridden the golden elevator up to the rooftop already, but I can’t stop staring at the art that fills the hotel entry hall. This space has been set up as a small gallery featuring work by local artists. I love it here, and a stroll down the corridor always calms me. Even if I will never be talented enough to have my landscapes included in the collection.
A pang twinges my gut—something between envy and longing—as I stare at the abstract expressionist piece that dominates the wall beside the elevator. It’s a breathtaking study in various shades of red: fiery rage, sultry seduction, and the blush of innocence corrupted. It evokes the full spectrum of passion, and I allow myself to become absorbed by the beauty of the painting to distract myself from my mounting anxiety.
The elevator dings, the sound jolting me out of my reverie like a reverberating gong. I startle, and the golden doors slide apart to reveal Dane.
He’s stunning in a sharply fitted black jacket paired with dark wash jeans. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the tiniest peek at masculine chest hair.
My gaze snaps from that little hollow between his collarbones to his wrist as he tugs back his sleeve to check his Rolex. He quirks a dark brow at me, and his expression is enigmatic for a heartbeat while he fixes me in a steady green stare.
I shift my weight on my strappy, black high heels, and my cheeks flush a shade of pink that matches a swatch on the painting beside him.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, embarrassment softening my tone.
I hate being late. My mother is perpetually tardy, and the remembered shame of entering every social function over half an hour late heats my face. I never want to be like her.
Dane’s dazzling smile hits me square in the chest. “It’s my fault,” he assures me in that delicious English accent. “I should’ve waited down here to meet you. I’ll escort you upstairs.”
He offers his arm like some sort of gentleman out of Regency England. I stare at it for a moment, taken aback by the formal gesture.
I’ve spent the last few years trying to forget the pretentious, genteel behavior that I was taught by my family from a young age. But Dane’s suave bearing suits him, and I can’t help being charmed; he’s not putting on a performance to impress me. This is just who he is. He’s every inch the chivalrous white knight, like one of the dashing princes out of my favorite animated musicals.
My lips curve in a smile of my own, and I step into the elevator to join him. My arm slides through his, my fingers resting on his forearm.
For a moment, I flash back to the awful night of my debutante ball and the performative bullshit that masks the rot at the core of Southern “high society”.
I take a breath and force those memories away. I won’t allow them to taint this night with Dane.
Shock immobilizes me when he casually touches my hair, trailing his long fingers over the purple streak. It’s curled in a loose wave, and I intentionally keep it swept in front of my shoulder as a matter of habit.
“I like this,” he remarks, and his deep voice seems to rumble through me. “Why purple?”
“It’s my favorite color,” I reply.
“It suits you.”
I flush at his compliment and speak before I can stop myself. “My dad used to say he would disown me if I ever colored my hair.”
I’m babbling to dispel some of the overwhelming tension that’s building between us in the cramped space of the elevator. I’m anxious in a way I’ve never experienced before—it’s a fizzy sensation that makes my body feel strangely light even as my stomach flips with nervous energy.
“But I’ve wanted to do it since I was thirteen,” I continue. As soon as I dropped out of college and started my new life two years ago, I made sure to dye in my amethyst streak. “So, I’m glad I did. My manager at the café doesn’t mind. Another advantage of avoiding a corporate job.”
“Beautiful.” Dane isn’t looking at my hair anymore, but he keeps the curl loosely curved around his forefinger. Those verdant eyes are fixed on my face, flicking over each of my features as though he’s memorizing me.
My cheeks heat again, but not from embarrassment this time; I’m gratified at his intense attention. I take a quick breath and barely suppress the urge to lean into him. His spicy cedar scent infuses my senses, intoxicating and darkly seductive.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, keen to know more about him, even if the question is a bit inane.
“Blue.” He’s staring into my eyes now, as though he can peer straight into my soul.
My head tips back, and I sway toward him, drawn in by his hypnotic gaze.
The elevator dings, breaking the intimate moment. His fingertip traces the shape of my purple curl almost regretfully, then he withdraws.
A sense of loss hollows my chest, and I quickly straighten my shoulders to brace against the sinking sensation. It’s completely unreasonable. All he did was touch my hair, but I feel as though he stripped me bare. I curve my fingers around his corded forearm, grounding myself to him.
He steps out of the elevator and guides me onto the rooftop. The bar is to our left, the area covered with a black awning that shields our eyes from the setting sun. To our right, the golden syrup sunlight bathes the open rooftop with waning summer heat. The sky is turning a stunning shade of pink at the horizon, framing the historic church steeples that define the Charleston skyline.
The familiar artistic urge to drink in the stunning sight tugs at my heart like a cord toward the railing that surrounds the rooftop, but my hand might as well be glued to Dane’s arm. I can’t bring myself to put distance between us, not after that magnetic interaction in the elevator.
A reckless, giddy thrill thrums through my system. The strange high should be slightly alarming, but it’s too addictive for me to question it.
We reach the bar, and Dane summons the bartender with a single nod. The gesture is almost imperious, but the air of authority suits him.
I’m so caught up in his commanding bearing that I don’t immediately protest when he orders an old fashioned and a glass of Champagne. It’s not until the crystal flute is placed in front of me that I realize he’s ordered for me.
I shoot him a small frown.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was going to order something different.”
I can’t afford Champagne, but I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I intend to pay for my own drinks, but this means I can only have a single glass of bubbly on my meager budget.
A dark brow lifts. “Oh? Don’t you like Champagne?”
I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage. “I had planned to order a strawberry daquiri.”
He huffs a laugh, and the rich sound surrounds me like I’m being submersed in warm honey. “Why am I not surprised? I should have known you’d want something sugary.”
I tilt my chin at him, puzzled. “And how would you know something like that?”
His half-smile is a touch indulgent. “Those badges you wear on your apron,” he explains. “I particularly like the happy donut.”
I release a small laugh of my own—a shy, girlish giggle I’ve never heard issue from my own throat before.
“I didn’t realize you pay so much attention to my pins.”
His gaze is almost painfully keen again, slicing straight into me. “I want to know you.” He gestures at the glass of Champagne. “Leave that. I’ll order a daquiri for you instead.”
“That’s okay.” I say quickly. I definitely can’t afford to waste the precious bubbly. “I like Champagne.”
His expression firms to something slightly stern. “I’ll get whatever you want, Abigail.”
I meet him with my own steady stare, standing my ground. “I want the Champagne. You don’t have to order for me.”
“What if I like ordering for you?” he replies with a small smirk that makes my belly flip. “What if I want to take care of you?”
There’s a teasing edge to his questions, but his smoldering gaze is pure temptation.
I sway toward him for half a heartbeat, drawn in despite my independent sensibilities.
I find the willpower to pick up the Champagne flute and tip my glass at him in a sardonic toast. My heart is fluttering, and my fingers tingle against the cool crystal. My entire body feels alive in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“Thank you, but I can take care of myself. I’m happy with the Champagne.”
His eyes spark, and his nostrils flare slightly—like a predator that’s caught the scent of its prey. A thrill races through me; as though I’m baiting the beast, and he’s tensing in anticipation of the hunt.
The giddy high floods my veins, and my arm practically floats upward as I lift the flute with a teasing smile of my own.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass against his.
His smirk sharpens to a grin that’s almost feral, and he silently lifts his own drink. It’s not a capitulation; he’s indulging me. I’m not the only one caught up in this wild energy.
“Come on.” His big hand abruptly engulfs mine, and he tugs me away from the bar. “You’ll want to watch the sun set.”
I lift a brow at his imperious tone, but my insides are molten. I don’t mind his highhanded manner one bit, and he’s absolutely right: I would love to watch the sun set with him.
He rumbles another low chuckle. “I saw you glancing longingly at the horizon as soon as we got off the elevator. You’re very easy to read.”
A giddy laugh bubbles from my chest. His intense focus on me goes straight to my head, and I’m in awe that this gorgeous man is so fixated on me.
We come to a stop at the railing, and I rest my elbows on it. His hand touches the small of my back, his thumb barely brushing my exposed skin above the low V of my dress. A light shiver races over me, and I don’t pull away.
I crave to be close to him in a way that defies all logic. After what happened to me only a few nights ago, I shouldn’t want to be near any man.
Before memories of the horrific attack can surface and drag me out of this perfect moment, I lean into Dane and inhale his addictive scent.
“How long have you lived in Charleston?” I ask, eager to learn more about the man who’s starred in my fantasies.
“Only three months,” he replies. “I came for work after finishing my residency at Johns Hopkins.”
“You’re a doctor?” He told me his job at the market when he checked my scraped palms, but I want to know everything about him now.
“Yes.” He gives a dismissive little wave. “But that’s work. I’d much rather talk about your art . ”
“Don’t you like your job?”
He shrugs. “I like being good at what I do. I like being successful and self-sufficient. The details of my profession don’t really matter. I find that Americans tend to be defined by their careers in a way I’ve never fully understood.”
“What brought you over from England? Did you want to come to America for college?”
“Yes.” He acknowledges my query, but he doesn’t allow me to change the subject. “From what I saw at the market, I noticed that your preferred style is impressionism. Did you study Art at school?”
I press my lips together for a moment, considering him. He doesn’t seem ready to talk about himself yet. I want to know more about him, but I’ll have to settle for what he’s given me in those few short statements—he’s a doctor, he studied at Johns Hopkins, and he recently moved to Charleston for work.
But more importantly, he revealed that he values his independence and enjoys feeling competent at his job, even if he doesn’t seem particularly passionate about it. I wonder if he’s simply being modest about how he must help people as a doctor. Dane doesn’t strike me as a modest man, but I can’t dismiss the possibility that he’s humble.
Or maybe his reasons for pursuing an altruistic career are simply too intimate for an initial conversation on a first date.
I shove aside my curiosity and choose to engage with his preferred topic: my art.
“I studied Art at College of Charleston, but I didn’t finish my degree,” I admit, ignoring the familiar shame that heats my gut. “I just love painting. I decided that I don’t need a degree to prove that.”
I have my own reasons for dropping out of school, but that’s too much to dump on him so soon. We’re just getting to know each other, and I don’t like expressing my damage to anyone, not even myself. I summon up an easy smile and skate over the moment of discomfort.
“My only regret is that I didn’t get to study abroad before I quit,” I continue. “I actually wanted to study in London for a semester. I’d love to visit England one day. You said you’re from York, right? Is that close to London?”
He shoots me a half-smile. “By American standards, yes. By English standards, it’s quite far. Yorkshiremen can get very prickly about differentiating themselves from Londoners.”
My brows lift, and I lean toward him slightly, interest piqued. “Oh? Are you a Yorkshireman, then?”
He barks a laugh, white teeth flashing in a perfect grin. “Let’s just say I was born in Yorkshire, but I don’t exactly fit in with the locals.”
“Is that why you decided to come to America for college?” I press. “Don’t you like where you’re from?”
His gaze focuses on something beyond me, and the slight distance between us makes it feel as though he’s shut off the sun.
“Yorkshire is beautiful,” he rumbles. “But I wanted to forge my own path.”
Maybe I have more in common with Dane than I would’ve guessed.
“I understand,” I murmur, drawn to open up to him so that he’ll focus on me again. Being the center of his attention is thrilling and addictive. I’ll confess almost anything to get it back.
“My family wanted me to finish my undergraduate degree and then pursue a master’s.” I reveal one of my secrets. “They wanted my success to be their own.”
His gaze cuts back to mine, sharp enough to pin me in place.
“They put a lot of pressure on you,” he surmises.
I nod and continue my confession, the words tumbling from my lips as though I can’t help myself.
“My parents never really cared about my art,” I admit. “They just wanted to be able to tell people that their daughter’s a successful artist.”
“My family had certain expectations for me too,” Dane says, offering me a small confession of his own.
I latch onto it like a lifeline. A sense of intimacy blossoms between us, and the promise of this connection is as seductive as his heated gaze. I crave more, so I press, “And you defied them?”
He inclines his head. “I’m here, aren’t I? An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way.”
I’ve only managed to move a few cities away from my family, but I’m determined to live my life separately from them. This shared, painful history with Dane takes my breath away.
He takes a sip of his old fashioned, and I mirror him, allowing the moment of kinship to settle between us. The Champagne bubbles on my tongue, and sparks dance up my spine when his thumb brushes my lower back.
I shiver despite the warm evening and lean into him. He commands my full attention with only the lightest touch, and I’m hyperaware of him: his intoxicating scent swirling around me on the light breeze, the setting sun illuminating the verdant shade of his eyes, the subtle splay of his hand spanning the small of my back.
A long moment of silence stretches between us before I push for more information. “So, you came to Charleston to practice medicine? Didn’t you like Baltimore?”
He takes another sip of his drink, as though he’s considering his answer. I do the same because I’m feeling slightly jittery. I don’t want to ruin this moment between us with inane chatter, so I savor the bubbles that fizz over my tongue.
“I value the education I received there,” he says. “My time in Baltimore gave me the skills I needed to pursue the life I want. One of my colleagues is from Charleston, so when he asked me to move here and form a private practice with him, I said yes.” That wicked half-smile tugs at one corner of his sensual lips. “I’m still fairly new to the area. You can show me around.”
He’s charming enough that it doesn’t sound like a command, even if it isn’t exactly a question. I want to spend more time with this gorgeous man and revel in the intoxicating chemistry we share. Why would I argue with him about his imperious manner when I’m eagerly hanging onto his every word?
“What kind of medicine do you practice?” I ask, anticipating more intimate confessions from him. “You must really care about helping people if you chose to move to a strange city and start from scratch.”
The slight shake of his head is a touch self-deprecating, and I think he’s going to dismiss my enthusiastic description of his altruism.
“Like I said, it’s just a job,” he reiterates. “I chose plastic surgery because I’m good at it.”
He might as well have dumped a bucket of cold water over my head. All of the giddy excitement drains from my system, leaving me strangely hollow. I’d been so caught up in the fantasy of what I might share with Dane that I didn’t even stop to consider the fact that he might not be as perfect as I’ve imagined.
For months, I’ve been idealizing this man. The reality of his imperfection crashes down on me, and my heart sinks.
“Oh,” I reply, and my voice is a touch colder than I intend. “I didn’t realize that’s your area of expertise.”
His brow furrows. “It bothers you.”
I’m far too easy to read. I take a small breath and summon up a genial smile. My shoulders straighten, and I’m too focused on navigating the disappointing moment to assume a more relaxed posture.
“You must’ve worked very hard at school to get accepted at Johns Hopkins.” I avoid his insightful remark with a polite statement. “What made you want to go into plastic surgery?”
Maybe if he tells me that he’s just in it for the money, I can dispel the last of my attraction to him. He’s chosen a profession where he gives people fake masks to present false perfection to the world. I’m torn between feeling sorry for his patients’ insecurities or disdaining them for choosing to live inauthentically.
The image of my grandmother’s strangely stretched features fills my mind. She’d never looked like herself after the facelift. And my mother’s perpetually frozen expression haunts my most anxious nightmares—even when she’s feeling especially cruel, her face remains disturbingly serene from years of Botox treatments.
We need to get that large freckle on your cheek removed, Abby. Imagine having the blemish in your wedding photos. You don’t want that. And you’ll find a husband more easily once it’s cleared up.
The snide comments about my own physical flaws tease at the back of my mind, but I manage to ignore them and focus on Dane.
His dark brows are still drawn together, and the slight pinched lines around his mouth suggest frustration rather than regret. I suppose I’m being a bit rude, but I can’t bring myself to pretend I approve of his profession.
“I specialized in plastic surgery because I’m skilled at it,” he reiterates.
We clearly aren’t a match, and it’s best for me to leave before I get more foolishly attached to him. I’ve been thinking of him like he’s an idealized fairytale hero, but he’s just a man. A gorgeous, undeniably charming man, but imperfectly human, nonetheless. The longer I stay on this date, the more awkward things will be at the café when we inevitably accept that we aren’t right for each other.
I drain the last of my Champagne.
He gestures at my empty glass. “Another?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ah, yes. Your strawberry daquiri.” He says it with warm indulgence, as though he’s savoring yet another of my secrets. The way he delights in the knowledge is every bit as erotic as his sexy smirk.
He grasps my hand and starts leading me toward the bar before I remember to dig in my heels.
“I don’t need another drink,” I assert.
Even if I choose to stay, buying a cocktail simply isn’t possible on my budget.
“I’m buying the drinks. Order whatever you want.”
My spine straightens, and a shadow of the anger I felt at the market tightens my gut. Just like when he’d tried to buy my paintings in exchange for a date, now I bristle at the prospect that he might use his money to hold sway over me.
“No, thank you.”
He frowns at my frosty tone. “I want to pay,” he insists. “I want to take care of you, Abigail. There’s no need to deny yourself out of some misguided sense of pride.”
“It’s not pride,” I refute, even though that’s not exactly true. “I don’t want to owe you anything.”
His jaw tightens with a shadow of his own anger. “Is that the kind of man you think I am? That I’ll expect some sort of favors in exchange for a few drinks?”
“No!” I say quickly. This situation is spinning out of control. I’ll still have to see him at the café every morning. I don’t want to leave on a sour note. “I don’t think you’re like that.”
He fixes me with a level stare. “Who hurt you, Abigail?”
I realize that his anger isn’t directed at me; he’s incensed on my behalf.
Shock renders me mute. In my haste to get away, I revealed a far deeper secret than the fact that I don’t like his job. A few ill-considered words from me, and he can tell that I’ve been subject to financial control.
My heart squeezes. Despite my misgivings about his job, Dane is obviously a good man.
I compose myself and manage a small smile. My lips barely twitch at the corners.
“I have an early shift tomorrow,” I say instead of answering his intense query. “I really should go home.”
He considers me for another long moment before he sighs, allowing me to deflect his incisive question about my painful past.
“If you don’t want another drink, I’ll walk you home,” he says.
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest. “Stay here and enjoy your old fashioned.”
Even his frown is handsome, like some master sculptor chose to depict an ancient god’s divine disapproval.
“I came here to see you,” he replies. “I have no intention of staying without your company.”
I can’t force him to stay here without me. I get the sense that no one can force Dane to do anything.
“All right,” I acquiesce.
We go to the bar, and I don’t protest again when he pays for our drinks.
What if I want to take care of you? His question from the beginning of our date tempts and torments me.
Even though I know I’m avoiding eventual awkwardness at the café, the prospect of cutting this date short is becoming more difficult to bear.
My resolve wavers when we step into the elevator. The moment the golden doors close, erotic tension fills the space. He stands beside me, just at the edge of my bubble of personal space. Desire builds between us, making my skin tingle with anticipation of his touch. The phantom caress of his thumb on my lower back sends a shiver dancing through me. He hasn’t made physical contact since I pulled away from him on the rooftop, but in this private moment, he might as well be trailing his fingers along my spine.
The elevator comes to a merciful stop, and the doors open. Cool air conditioning floods the desire-heated space, like the shock of an icy shower after a long summer run.
We step out into the gallery space, and I’m so focused on evading his allure that I don’t pause to glance at the art that’s on display.
He has other ideas. With the barest brush of his fingers around my wrist, he gently urges me to turn away from the exit, so that I’m looking at the red abstract piece again.
“What do you like about it?” he asks, his voice dropping to that seductive register.
I can’t resist the calm ring of command.
“I’m an impressionist, but abstract expressionism fascinates me,” I reply.
My focus centers on the painting, but I’m still keenly aware of his hand on my wrist. His thumb slides along my palm, tracing my heartline in a shockingly intimate caress. My senses come alive, and the painting’s varied shades of red become richer, as though someone has turned up the saturation.
He releases a low hum. “Explain it to me. I just see red.”
I blink at him in surprise, and he shoots me a devastatingly sexy smirk. “I like science; you like art. I want to understand what you see when you look at it.”
“You seem like you belong in spaces like this,” I say, puzzled. Dane is almost painfully suave, and I’ve imagined him to be a man who enjoys the finer things in life. “I can easily picture you at a glitzy gallery opening with a glass of Champagne in your hand. Or at some sort of charity gala.”
It’s the kind of world I walked away from two years ago, and I’m surprised to realize that I don’t resent this impression I have of him. He embodies effortless elegance rather than putting on a show for others.
Maybe it’s just the sexy English accent throwing off my usual judgmental assessment of entitled rich people, but I can’t see Dane in the same negative light as I view my family’s social circle.
His eyes shutter for a second, and his smirk melts away. “I’ve attended my share of gallery openings and galas,” he allows. “It’s never meant much to me.”
His big hand fully engulfs mine, and my mind blanks for a moment as pure lust surges through me.
“Tell me what you see.”
Heat sinks from his hand into my flesh, warming me all the way to my core. He’s not looking at the painting anymore, but I’m fixated on it as though it’s the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen. His intense focus is centered on me again, and I bask in it like I’m soaking up the August sun on Folly Beach.
The power of his will compels me to respond.
“Passion,” I breathe.
I gesture at a deep crimson splatter: “Rage.” A brighter spray with an orange hue: “Joyful abandon.” A swath that’s a rich shade so dark it’s almost purple: “Seduction.”
“Stunning,” he remarks. His other hand lifts to touch my hair, his finger twining in the amethyst curl again.
An echo of the giddy thrill at the beginning of our date tempts me to surrender. I recall the initial surge of desire for him in the elevator ride up to the rooftop—how excited I’d been to get to know him.
Who hurt you? His insightful question plays through my mind. The protective, angry flex of his jaw made something melt inside me.
He slowly dips his head toward mine, and I tip my own head back without pausing to think about the implied invitation. His full lips are just as soft and sensual as I imagined, and I sigh into his mouth as all of the tension releases from my coiled muscles. The kiss is a mercy after the night’s erotic buildup. He’s barely brushed his lips against mine, but the release from torturous waiting sends me flying. Bliss sings through my veins, going straight to my head. His salt-kissed cedar scent invades my senses, intoxicating.
I melt into him, and his tongue teases my lips, tracing the shape of my mouth before flicking deeper. All of my sensitive nerve endings light up, and the tingling sensation dances all the way down my spine.
Euphoria floods my system, and I’m floating in the darkness behind my closed eyes.
A macabre white skull flashes through the inky black. My clit pulses, and desire shudders through me hard enough to make my body quake.
I’m burning inside for Dane, but my skin is chilled. The air conditioning turns frosty, and ice sinks into my heated flesh. Nausea churns in my gut as my twisted desire rises, threatening to consume me.
For an awful moment, Dane’s hand is encased in a supple leather glove, and the cloying scent of heavy amber cologne overpowers the spicy cedar that enthralls me.
I gasp for air and jerk in his hold. His hand firms at my nape, trapping me for a fear-drenched, arousing moment.
I’m perverted, broken. Something is deeply wrong with me, and it’s not just because of the masked man’s horrific attack.
My body only finds this thrilling pleasure in moments of violation. My instinctive fear response makes me wet when I should be screaming for mercy.
Consensual sex has always been a painful experience for me; my muscles are too tense to accept a man, and my sex won’t soften to accommodate a cock. But when I’m forced…
I shake my head, throwing off the terrible thoughts and disentangling my hair from Dane’s fingers.
“I have to go,” I announce. “You don’t need to walk me home.”
He frowns. “It’s dark. I’ll escort you.”
“It’s East Bay Street,” I counter. “And my walk home is well-lit. I’ve never had a problem before.”
“You were robbed this afternoon,” he reminds me. “I’ll feel better if I know you’re safe.”
My heart flutters even as my stomach turns. I wish I could be a good match for this protective, white knight of a man, but I know I never will be. My sick reaction to our kiss is proof of that.
“I really need to go. I have that early shift.”
His disapproving frown doesn’t dissipate, but he tips his head in acknowledgment.
When I step outside, the humid night is still hot, but I feel chilled in the absence of Dane’s steady warmth.