A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(35)

“No,” he says softly. “No, I don’t.”

I’m reminded of when Marceline called him a tortured soul. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone as torn up as Harlin looks right now. I reach to touch his arm, drawing his gaze.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” I say. “But I’m sorry for whatever’s hurting you. Though if I’m honest, you’re sort of bumming me out.”

“Well, that is definitely not the emotion I’m working toward,” he says, moving up on his bike to throw back the kickstand.

“No? Which one are you going for?”

Harlin takes his sunglasses off his collar, sliding them on before turning my way. “I think mutual attraction is a good place to start.”

I laugh, setting my backpack over both shoulders as I climb onto his bike. “Oh,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist as the Harley roars to life. “I’m pretty sure we’ve already got that covered.”

CHAPTER 15

Rosita’s Hot Dogs is a silver food truck in the parking lot of an abandoned Super Saver. As unpromising as that sounds, I’ve heard from several customers that they actually have the best hot dogs in the Southwest. So I decide to give it a try.

As we order, Harlin and I wait under the truck’s overhang, both of us quiet. Once we get our food, we head to the small white tent with three picnic tables inside. The seating area is empty, private.

“I’m scared of this,” Harlin says, holding up the hot dog. When he does, ketchup drips from the end of the bun. “Is that bacon?” He looks at me helplessly. “Who puts bacon on a hot dog?”

“It’s delicious,” I say, taking another bite.

Harlin stares doubtfully back to his food. “If I have a heart attack right here you’d better resuscitate me.”

I smile at the thought of mouth-to-mouth. “I’ll try my best.”

Harlin catches the insinuation and chuckles to himself before taking a big bite. “Is it wrong that I’m wishing for congestive heart failure now?” he asks through the food. When he finishes his mouthful, he nods. “You know what?” he says. “That’s goddamn delicious.”

“See!”

“You have excellent taste . . . Elise.” He stumbles on my name, but then quickly takes another bite. I’m a little offended, but I try not to let it bother me as we finish our meal.

When we’re done, I clean up the plates, Harlin watching me silently. I sit back down, and he leans his elbows on the table.

“Why were you at Marceline’s yesterday?” he asks, sounding curious. “If it was just because she attacked you, I think you would have sent the police instead.”

My expression falters as I’m reminded of how abnormal my life is outside of this tent. For a while I actually forgot. “Maybe I wanted my fortune read,” I say, meeting his gaze.

He scratches his beard as he tries to figure me out. “What did you two talk about?”

I take a long drink and then shake the ice in the cup. “That’s kind of personal, don’t you think?”

Harlin stops, closing his eyes like he’s embarrassed. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s none of my business. You’re not one of mine.”

I scoff. “Oh? Do you have several?”

He looks at me quickly. “No, that’s not what I mean—”

“You sure? Because it sounded ridiculously bad.”

He tilts his head, as if telling me I shouldn’t even begin to think he’s talking about another girl. “I promise you,” he says in that smoky voice. “There is no one else. I am very much alone.”

I lower my eyes, feeling the sadness roll off of him again. “You don’t have to be alone,” I say.

“It’s easier,” he says, mostly to himself. When I look up, he smiles gently. “Although it’s always nice to make new friends.”

“Who are mutually attracted?”

“That’s a bonus.”

Heat pulsates under my skin, a desire to touch him. Without thinking I reach for his hand as it rests on the table, sliding my palm into it. He stills, and then he runs his thumb over my skin.

“You remind me of someone,” he murmurs.

I deflate a little, hoping he’s not referring to an ex-girlfriend. When I don’t reply, he slowly pulls his hand from mine to rub his face as if trying to clear his head.

“Looks like it might rain,” he says, glancing at the sky outside of the tent. “I don’t ride in bad weather, so I should probably get you home.”

“My father will appreciate you not risking my life.”

“Think he’ll like me?” Harlin asks with a smile.

“It’s possible.” I pause. “Hey, what are you doing on Sunday?”

“Do you have something in mind?” he asks, brushing his long hair behind his ear.

“Church?” I’m slightly embarrassed saying it, not because I think it’s a lame option, but because I’m used to people laughing. Harlin just pulls his eyebrows together.

“Church,” he repeats, as if he’s never heard of it before. “What time?”

Surprised, I straighten. “Oh, uh . . . eleven?”