Dare To Run (The Sons of Steel Row #1)(44)

I swallowed hard. My throat felt dry as the Sahara. “You shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well. I do.”

She kissed me one last time, on the mouth this time. Her lips barely touched mine, in all reality, and the whole thing lasted two seconds, if that. It had been the slightest of touches, barely a kiss at all, and innocent as the fresh-fallen snow I’d been watching earlier. It had been a gesture of gratitude and friendship, and I knew it. But even knowing that . . .

It affected me more than any other kiss I’d ever had before.

And that scared the hell out of me.





CHAPTER 14





HEIDI




A couple of hours later, I mixed the next drink on my list, tapping my foot along to the music I’d started playing after Chris and Lucas had left. Surprisingly, Lucas had kept it on throughout dinner, and even after, while we’d talked. And we’d certainly talked. A lot. Maybe he’d sensed that when I was nervous, I needed a beat to distract me from the shit storm my life usually was. It soothed me and made me less jittery. And after that attack from Chris, I’d needed to soothe my nerves way too freaking badly.

Tea hadn’t been enough.

I stole a quick peek at him. He sat at the dining room table, his legs stretched straight under the table, slouched back in his chair. He’d changed into a pair of jeans and a tight T-shirt—blue, of course—and his reddish-brown hair stood on end from him dragging his hands through it all night long. He’d been doing that a lot.

I had a feeling that calmed his nerves, much like my tea and music.

All night long, he’d been sipping my cocktails and chatting me up over lasagna, all while acting charming and funny the whole damn time. This would be his third drink. An appletini, this time. He’d been the picture-perfect gentleman—despite the slightly dangerous edge he could never completely hide from the world—for the entire evening. The kind of guy I could never resist. As much as Lucas might not be a “good man” by society’s standards, he’d been nothing but kind to me.

If that didn’t make him a “good man,” I didn’t know what did. Maybe it was the buzz talking, or maybe it was the way I couldn’t stop thinking about how amazing he’d made me feel for the one minute I’d given him the other night, and during the kiss outside the stadium. Maybe it was something I couldn’t even begin to name. All I knew was . . .

He was right. I wanted him.

I wanted him bad.

Pouring out the drinks, I glanced at him from under my lashes again. His gun was on his hip. I could just barely make it out under the cover of his shirt. He looked so dangerously handsome sitting there, watching me with those Irish green eyes of his. He stretched, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from those damn biceps of his I’d never been able to stop drooling over. His skin was pale, but to the best of my knowledge, he didn’t have any freckles. Unless he had them under his clothes.

I kinda hoped he did. It would be like our little secret when I—

Yeah . . . I needed to stop that line of thinking right there. I wouldn’t be undressing him in any way, shape, or form. Ever. It was a bad, bad idea. A dangerous one.

And stupid. I wasn’t stupid, was I?

As I walked across the room toward him, two drinks in my hands, he lifted a brow and readjusted himself in his seat. My heart fluttered. Those arms of his flexed, and I was drawn to them yet again. They were so strong and sexy. Just like him. “See something you like?”

I scoffed, the noise sounding false to my ears. “Just marveling at the size of your ego.”

“Uh-huh.” He took the green concoction and sniffed it. His nose wrinkled. “This one smells sweeter than the others.”

“It is, I think.” I lifted my glass. “Shall we find out?”

He lifted his glass. “Slainte.”

I had no idea what that word meant, but it sounded Gaelic. We both tipped our glasses back and sipped. At the same time, we lowered our drinks. I licked my lips. “Mm.”

“Yeah, I see what Chris meant.” He took another sip. “This is actually pretty good.”

I blinked. “Chris drinks appletinis? The same guy who tried to kill me for being here?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” He stood and tipped his head toward the couch. “Want to get more comfy?”

I tugged at my yoga pants. “I think this is about as comfy as it gets. I look like a bum, while you”—I gestured toward him—“look as devastatingly charming as ever.”

He sat on the couch and ran his gaze over me, that all-too-familiar smirk in place. It made me itchy, antsy, and hot. It took all my control not to fan my cheeks. “You look gorgeous to me, darlin’.”

Sitting beside him, I tucked my foot under my butt and smiled. “You’re sweet.”

“The hell I am,” he growled.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” I waved a hand dismissively and took a big sip. “Monster, killer, blah, blah, blah.”

For a split second, he looked pissed. But then he laughed, and I couldn’t stop staring at him. God, he was beautiful when he laughed like that. I know that sounds weird, in connection with a criminal and a man such as Lucas, but it was true. There was something about him that was inexplicably gorgeous. No matter what he said or did.