Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(37)

“Sorry.” He held up his hands, though his smirk betrayed his apology.

“No, you’re not,” I muttered. “God, I don’t like you.”

He stalked my way, those long legs eating up the distance between us. Dash moved like he wasn’t scared of getting caught, the thud of his boots loud in the muted space. He took up a spot next to me on the floor, his thigh nearly touching my own.

“What are you doing here?” I inched away. “How did you get in?”

“Used a window in the girls’ locker room in the gym.” He wagged his eyebrows. “I used to sneak in there a lot in high school.”

“No surprise.” I frowned, ignoring the pang of jealousy.

Those high school girls had probably loved Dash. No doubt he’d had some tattoos back then and ridden into the parking lot on a Harley. He’d probably fucked the head cheerleader in the girls’ locker room while her boyfriend, the hottest kid on the football team, was on the other side of the wall in the boys’.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Followed you.”

“Of course you did.” I rolled my eyes. Given his knowledge of my routine, the man must have been following me for weeks.

He leaned closer to eye the yearbook I’d been studying. I scooched away another inch, then I gathered up the yearbooks in front of me and placed them to my other side, using my body as a blockade. These were my yearbooks, not his. But before I could grab the last, he snatched it away.

The only way I was going to get there was by reaching into his lap. My brain screamed danger zone and I shied away even farther.

“What are we looking for?” he asked, picking up his yearbook and thumbing through the first couple of pages.

“Pictures of you,” I deadpanned. “To frame and put on my nightstand.”

“Really?”

“No.”

He chuckled, flipping through more pages. “Glad to see sex hasn’t dulled your spirit.”

“On the contrary, I hate you even more now.”

“Ouch.” He clutched at his heart. “Harsh.”

“No harsher than you sending me on my way last night like I was a five-dollar hooker.” I flipped through my own book, the pages turning too fast to really see what was on them. But I kept my eyes glued to the page so he wouldn’t see how much he’d hurt me.

“Bryce.” His hand came to my arm, stilling my movements. I stared at his long fingers on my wrist but refused to look at his face. “I’m a dick. The whole thing . . . it caught me off guard. And then you acted like you couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I shook off his hold. “It was only sex.”

“Only sex? Woman, that was out-of-this-world fucking.”

I shrugged, not trusting myself with words. I mean . . . he wasn’t wrong. And I should have hated him after last night.

It irritated me to no end that I didn’t.

Returning to the yearbook, I found the section for club photos. I studied the small faces in the abundance of group photos, doing my best to ignore the intoxicating scent coming from Dash’s T-shirt. Whatever laundry soap he used, it added a fresh smell to his naturally rich aroma. The combination was tempting. Even after last night, this man still tempted.

Damn him.

I raised my flashlight to the page, squinting at the tiny photos until I spotted Amina’s face in the sophomore class’s group photo. Her hair had grown since the previous picture, but the smile and carefree look remained.

“That’s her?”

His breath ghosted across my cheek and my face turned up to his profile. Dash was an inch away, right within kissing distance. I leaned away, not trusting myself in his proximity.

“That’s her.” I twisted to give him my shoulder and force him away.

He went back to his own yearbook but didn’t move away. The heat from his arm radiated against me, distracting me from the photos. Focus, Bryce. I narrowed my eyes at the yearbook. Focus.

I was here to find information on Amina. Dash was a nuisance and nothing more. Except for the fact that he was responsible for the dull ache in my center.

The sound of flipping pages was the only noise in the room. Dash turned his pages in rhythm with my own, until he stilled.

“What?” I leaned over to look at the page he had open.

“Nothing.” He turned the page. “Just saw a picture of my old neighbor. He hasn’t aged well.”

“Oh.” I went back to my book, scooting even farther away.

Dash flew through the rest of his yearbook, setting it on the floor when he was done. Then he reached for the shelf behind us and pulled out a different book. This one newer and thicker.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned and thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Then, with the book split open, he handed it over. “That’s me my senior year.”

I found Dash quickly on the colorful page. He looked younger—and cockier, if that was even possible. I hated myself for it, but teenage Kingston Slater was total jailbait.

His jaw was more defined now, his shoulders broader. Dash’s eyes had more crinkles at the sides when he grinned. Lost in his young face, comparing its differences to the man I’d been with last night, I jumped at a rustle of pages and the whoosh of a book slamming closed. I tore my eyes from the photo just as Dash stood from the floor in a flash, the yearbook he’d been looking at left discarded on the floor.