No Perfect Hero(95)

I rein myself in, just barely, as I draw closer. “I thought I told you to go, Hay,” I rumble.

She cocks her head, looking at me sidelong. Even with that fresh-faced, dewy-eyed makeup, there’s no hiding that the vixen is back in that catty little confident smirk.

“Yeah, well, I told me to stay,” she retorts, then laughs and flicks her fingers against my stomach. “You could say thank you.”

She’s laughing. I’m not. I’m drawn in to her, leaning close.

“Thanks,” I rumble. I’m fascinated by the play of the sun over her deep brown hair, bringing out whiskey and even red highlights, and I catch a lock to coil around my fingers. “Thank you for coming for me.”

Her lashes sweep downward, and she shifts toward me – only to break backward as Langley leans out the door, fixing me with a dire look.

“You’re still a person of interest, Ford,” he grunts. “If you try to leave town, I’ll have to bring you back in.”

I give him an exasperated look. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m lying.

But I can’t give that away, and I just toss my head to Hay as I round to the passenger side of the Mustang. “Come on.”

She dips in a mockingly sweet curtsy to Langley, then slips behind the driver’s side and sends the Mustang purring out onto the road toward Charming Inn. The engine sounds so good it’s hard to believe it’s running on duct tape, and I wonder what Stewart did to it.

Stewart. Fuck.

There goes my mind again. I prop my elbow against the open passenger side window, the warm, sluggish mid-afternoon breeze fingering my hair with the car’s top down and the short miles between town proper and the inn rapidly vanishing.

“I’ll need you to drop me off so I can get my truck,” I tell her, watching the town’s old ranch-style houses roll past and then fade into grassy fields.

Haley glances at me. “And where are you going?”

“Somewhere away from here.”

“Warren! The sheriff just said—”

“I know what Langley said. But something’s not right.” I frown, grinding my knuckles against my lips. “Bress got killed just as I was closing in. He wanted to tell me something. What if Bress didn’t kill Jenna after all?”

She breathes in sharply but doesn’t sound very surprised. In fact, she almost sounds chagrined, a guilty look sliding toward me. “I...I'd wondered that when I heard the news. I just didn’t want to say anything when you’ve been so convinced.”

“Not really much chance to say anything, either, when you’d been awake thirty seconds before I got hauled in.”

“Yeah. That too,” she says, then falls quiet as she eases the Mustang into the turnoff for the side lane flanking the inn. I don’t say anything until she’s pulled the car up behind my truck and killed the engine.

As we get out, I say, “So maybe my sister’s death was an accident.”

But that explanation feels too simple, too easy, and I shake my head as I slam the car door. “Or maybe there’s more going on, and someone in Heart’s Edge is watching me and doesn’t want me to know the truth.” I step closer to her, rounding the hood of the car. “So I need to leave Heart’s Edge. Get out of sight so I can plot my next move.”

She slips close to me, prettier than ever under the sun-dappled trees overhead.

Suddenly leaving seems like the last thing I want to do.

Reaching up, she curls her hands against my chest, fingers tangling lightly in my shirt. There’s so much warmth in her eyes, so much more than I deserve, but it’s enough to make me wonder if maybe, just maybe there’s a man left underneath this broken wreck.

A man worth those worried looks, that warmth, the concern and gentleness she’s shared. Totally at odds with every harsh word we ever spat at each other.

“For how long?’ she asks.

“Not long,” I promise. “Just long enough to plan my next move.” I sweep an arm around her waist, pulling her against me, savoring the fit of her body against mine. I drink in her heat, that mix of delicate softness and toned, smooth skin hiding her strength. “I’ll be back for you, darlin'. That's a vow.”

With a soft catch of her breath, she turns her face away, that pretty sunset pink racing across her cheeks. I love seeing this. The softer side of her, the sweetness she hides behind the thorns.

“That’s not what I was asking,” she whispers.

Isn’t it?

“Doesn’t matter.”

I trace my fingertips along her jaw, coax her back up to look at me – and to meet me as I dip, claiming her mouth with mine, tasting her. We kiss with parted lips and rushed breaths, this open and lingering thing that feels sweeter and dirtier than it should.

Conflicted, just like every day of my life since she tumbled in.

Just like it is now with how she trembles in my arms, how slowly our tongues twine together until there’s intimacy in every deep, searching stroke; in every hitched and whispered sound; in every wet-hot locking of lips.

Fuck, this feels good. She feels good, right, in ways I hadn’t thought I’d be able to sense again. I'm alive, for the first time in forever.

Because of Hay.

Bress may be dead, but my mission isn’t over.