Take Me On (Pushing the Limits #4)(125)

The police didn’t take me seriously, but the way Lincoln’s shoulder blades tense, I can tell he believes me. “Why?” I ask.

“Why what?” He empties the steaming liquid into a mug.

“Why do you believe me?”

Lincoln slides the mug into my hands. His finger accidentally skims mine. Electricity! A fantastic chill runs through me that reaches the tips of my toes.

“You don’t like liars and you’re not big into hypocrites,” he answers.

Those were my words to him a few months ago, when my sort-of friend Grace tormented Echo. Lincoln and I share a knowing smile and stare into each other’s eyes. The world fades away and it’s just me and him and a fragrant cup of hot chocolate in the palm of my hand. Lincoln breaks the link and withdraws his fingers. I’d give anything for him to touch me again. But first...

“You have some explaining to do,” I say. “As to why you didn’t graduate.”

He turns away and washes the pot in the sink. “Let’s figure out your problem first. Then we’ll handle mine.” The water beats against the pot. “Are you still mad at me?”

My finger circles the rim of the mug. Hurt—yes. Angry—“No.” How can I be mad at a guy who drove ten hours to see me and returned after I rejected him? “So you believe me? That someone was outside?”

“I heard you scream. No one’s imagination works that well.”

He grabs a dish towel and dries off the pot before placing it back on the hook on the wall. Lincoln’s so efficient, especially for a guy who “bends rules.” With a scrape against the tile floor, he pulls out the chair next to mine and angles it so he’s facing me. “Just so we’re clear, a stalker suggests multiple run-ins over a period of time. I think this is more of a prank.”

The skin between my eyes squishes together. “A prank? Really?”

Lincoln relaxes into the chair, his long legs kicked out, an arm resting on the table. I feel like a dwarf next to him. He drums his fingers once against the table, causing me to focus on his hands. The skin is tough, rougher than the hands of most of the guys I’ve dated. It’s not an imperfection, but a reminder of how he dangles from rock walls.

I wonder if he’d ever let me watch him climb or if he’d teach me. My stomach tickles as if fuzzy bunnies are jumping around. Would he catch me with those strong hands if I fell?

“You’re the CSI dictionary,” he answers. “Didn’t an episode talk about how stalkers have patterns or some crap like that?”

“You started watching CSI?” I’m grinning from ear to ear, and his cheeks redden in response. The big, strong rock-climbing guy folds his hands across his chest and switches his gaze to the floor. It’s my favorite show ever, and I’ve written a few letters to him detailing certain episodes.

He sloppily shrugs one shoulder. “I caught a few shows here and there.”

I don’t know why, but the fact that he showed interest in something I like creates giddiness. I swirl the hot chocolate in my mug and blow on it in order to hide the glee. “What makes you think it’s a prank?”

“You said it yourself. If someone wanted to hurt you, you’d be hurt. Your parents are gone, and I’d bet someone thinks it would be funny to scare you.”

My forehead furrows with the idea that anyone would want to freak me out. “Why?” I ask again.

“Because people can be stupid.”

True. Tired of thinking about it, I change the subject. “Hot chocolate?”

“I made it for Meg every night after she found out she was pregnant. It seemed to help calm her down when she’d get all worked up.”

Translation? He believes I’m about to crack. My heart beats a little faster when I replay the image of the shadow walking toward me. Maybe he’s not wrong. “Has she held the baby yet?”

Lincoln subtly shakes his head. “I keep wondering how jacked up the kid will become because his mother can’t get her shit together.”

The way his blue eyes darken into hurt causes a sharp pain in my chest. I reach out and claim one of the hands resting against his crossed arms. Lincoln weaves his with mine and we hold hands on the table, both of us staring at our combined fingers. God, his hands are warm—strong—and I swallow as I imagine him caressing my face.

“How’s Echo?” he asks.

“Good. She’s in Kansas or Iowa or someplace.” Not here with me, and that sucks. She no longer needs me now that she has... “She’s with Noah.”

“So she’s moved on,” he says almost as a whisper.

From me? Yes. But she hasn’t moved on the way Lincoln suggests. Sadness envelops me like a cloud. I’ve witnessed Echo grieve for her brother. Hell, I’m still grieving for Aires. He was like my older brother, too. “She’s living. Not forgetting.”

Lincoln removes his hand to rub his face. I leave my hand on the table for a second, hoping he’ll wrap his back around mine. When he lowers it into his lap instead, I curl my arm into my own body—hating the rejection, missing his warmth. But I’m not mad at him. I can see I’ve lost him to memory. Echo has done this mental retreat several times herself.

We lapse into silence, I guess both of us processing the past couple of hours. The silence feels comfortable, like an old quilt, and I revel in it. But then my eyes dart to him. What if he’s not comfortable? What if the written connection in our letters is all we possess? What if we don’t ignite a real life spark?