Holding Her Hand (Reed Brothers Book 15)(16)

He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. “Where are you going?”

“I think I need to apologize.”

“Always a good start.” He nods. He turns and yells at Peck. “Hey, Peck!” At least I assume he’s yelling because she flinches and the veins in his neck stand out.

She turns around slowly, and if looks could kill, I would be a dead lump on the floor. “What?”

“Do you know where Lark is?” he asks her.

She punches her fists into her hips. “Who wants to know?”

“Oh, come on,” he cajoles. “Help the poor bastard out.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I made a f*cking mistake and I need to go apologize!” I interject. “Now, either you can tell me where she is or I can go look for her, and if I have to go look for her, it’s going to take even longer for me to apologize properly, which means her feelings will be hurt even longer, which means she’s suffering needlessly.” And so am I, but I keep that part to myself.

It pains me like a motherf*cker knowing I hurt her feelings.

Friday pumps her fist beside Peck, like she’s cheering for me. Peck glares at her.

“What?” Friday says sheepishly. “He’s groveling. That means he sees the error of his ways. Tell him where she is.”

“She’s at her apartment. But if you go see her, she’ll probably throw something at you. Or slam the door in your face. Or punch you in the nuts. So I wouldn’t advise a visit.”

I grab for my gonads and wince.

Then I pull my phone out.

Me: Can I come and see you?

Lark McCapSnatcher: Why?

Me: Because my cap misses you already.

Lark McCapSnatcher: I’m busy.

Me: What are you doing?

Lark McCapSnatcher: Washing my hair.

Me: A likely story.

Lark McCapSnatcher: Then I’m going to shave my legs. I’ll be busy all night. I might even put on an avocado mask, and you definitely don’t want to see that.

Me: I want to see whatever you’ve got.

Lark McCapSnatcher: But not when you’re around your friends and family.

I jam my phone back in my pocket, clean up my station really quickly, and leave the tattoo shop. I walk on foot to her apartment building where I get stopped by building security.

He says something to me, but I’m not sure what it is. No matter what some people lead you to believe, reading lips is difficult. I can’t catch but about forty percent of what I see on someone’s lips, and that leaves a lot of holes.

“What?” I ask.

He picks up a pen and a pad of paper. Do you have an appointment? he writes. You’re not on the list.

I texted her and she told me to come over, I write for him.

He narrows his eyes and motions for me to show him my phone. He takes it and reads what I wrote.

“You poor bastard,” I think he says, but he says it out loud, so I can read his lips. I could be wrong. He motions for me to go ahead.

The text didn’t really say she wanted me to come over, but it does imply her knowledge that I would be arriving.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Good luck,” I think he replies.

I take the elevator up and stop in front of her door. I take off my cap and run my hand through my hair, trying to improve my appearance.

I knock and the door opens.

And that is where my heart f*cking stops.

Lark is standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped turban-style around her wet hair. Damp tendrils of it are hanging around her neck, and the collar of her Tweety Bird pajamas is damp. Her face is coated with a sticky green substance, so that only her brown eyes and lips are exposed. On her feet she’s wearing fluffy house shoes with cartoon characters on the toes. Tweety and Sylvester, I think.

She takes a bite of a piece of pizza that was in her hand and talks around it.

I have no idea what she said, since her hands and her mouth are both full. “You are so damn pretty,” I tell her.

She rolls her eyes and walks into the living room, leaving the door open behind her. I close it and follow her into the room. Her pajama bottoms are tiny and they hug her ass. She pulls her shirt down to cover them, which is probably good because I think I can see the line where her butt meets her thigh. And it’s as pretty and curvy as the rest of her.

I close the door behind me and follow her to the kitchen.

She heaves out a heavy sigh. “What do you want?”

“I want to apologize.”

She shrugs. “So do it, so I can finish shaving my legs.”

I look down, just because I’m nosy. She did tell me that’s what she would be doing, but I didn’t believe her.

Then I realize she’s not wearing her gloves, either. She just let me in the door and she doesn’t have her arms covered. “Where are your gloves?” I ask.

“I was in the bath ten minutes ago,” she tells me, glaring at me.

“But you opened the door with no gloves on.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve already seen my scars.”

“What if it wasn’t me?”

“The doorman called and described you. I knew it was you.” She gets a bottle of water from the fridge and takes a sip. She doesn’t offer me one.

But I realize that she just opened the door to me with her gloves off, and that means she trusts me. It makes my heart start tripping.