The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(66)

I have the sudden and overwhelming desire to walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her. Pull her close, feel her breathing against me, as we both admire the piece. In some alternate reality, maybe that could happen.

Not this one.

Instead, with shame marching my feet forward, I close the gap between us, stopping a safe distance away. “The artist picked an awesome palette,” I say, and her frame noticeably tenses. “A little tantamount of Walt Kuhn, but less intense.”

My words hang in the air. I’m sure she won’t respond until, “I think it’s more comparable to Frans Hals, but I can see Khun, too.” She unlaces her arms and sinks her hands into the back pockets of her jean skirt. It’s adorable and sexy and makes me want to hold her even more.

“But,” she continues. “I wouldn’t hang it on my wall.”

I smile. “Huge creepy guy staring at me? I guess I wouldn’t either.”

This could turn ugly. If I say the wrong thing, or even if Sam decides she’s sick of this game and lets her anger rip, then we could end up exploding right in the middle of an art gallery. But right now, I have to take the chance. And it’s safer in public.

As she moves on, looking over the paintings, I follow, keeping a few feet behind. Letting her lead and have her distance. When she stops at a painting near the corner of the room, I move a foot closer to her.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

She doesn’t look at me, but I see the strain in her facial muscles, crimson coloring the tip of her ear. At least I know she’s really considering my question.

“How’s your hand?”

I blink, and look down at my knuckles. Red and swollen. Flexing my hand, I say, “Fine. That was just . . . blowing off steam. I didn’t even hit it hard.” And that’s true. But by the time we make it to our final stop, I might be going home as one big, battered bruise.

She sighs. “All right, good. Then for starters, we get the hell out of this city.” My eyebrows draw together as she turns to face me. “Not that I don’t like it here. I think I could spend a week visiting all the galleries and getting lost in art. And I’d love it. But apparently”—she begins walking toward the front of the shop. I trail her—“there’s this badass chick band playing in Wichita that Biker Melody says we can’t miss.”

So that’s who she was talking to. I’m surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t be. She probably needed another girl to talk to, and after what I outted about her mom, she wasn’t going there. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s spoken to any of her friends.

She opens the glass door and glances back at me. “Are you in?”

She’s holding the door open, hovering between the gallery and outside. Her question is more than just asking if I’m down for seeing a show—more than wondering if I’m onboard for continuing this trip. As she stands there, door wide open and paused between two places . . . We’re at a crossroads.

I can walk through that door with her, accepting whatever crazy she dishes out. Or I can allow that door to close—and let her go.

Before she gives me another moment to consider my decision, she steps outside. The door begins to shut. In slow motion, I watch it closing. Separating her from me.

I push through and step beside her.

“What time’s the show?” I ask.

She turns and looks up, her face guarded. “Early.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Let’s go,” I say, and her expression opens up, turning curious. “I can’t say no to badass chick bands.”

A hesitant smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t comment, just starts toward the hotel.

After we’ve walked nearly the whole distance back in silence, she says, “I’m driving.”

My mouth pops open. The words right on the tip of my tongue. But I roll them around in my head before I allow them to leave my mouth. “Are you sure? I’m rested. So I’m fine to drive.”

She shakes her head. “I’m driving, Holden. I want to. And what’s more, I need to.”

I don’t tell her that no one drives my truck but me. Truth is, if any other girl told me she was driving my truck, I’d laugh in her face. I don’t know any girl who can drive a manual transmission . . . correctly. And I’ve put countless hours into my engine.

But Sam? I’ll try to be a little less sexist for her. And she’s right. She needs to take this step. For whatever reason, despite what went down in the hotel room, I can see she wants her life back. I don’t know what Biker Melody said to her, but I can almost see the old Sam trying to break through.

As we turn the corner into the hotel parking lot, I glimpse my truck and sigh, scratch the back of my head. “Do you know how to drive a stick?” I ask. I pray to the auto gods. I pray hard.

She laughs. “Yes, Holden. I can drive a stick. My Scion is a manual.” She shakes her head.

“What? It’s a legitimate question, don’t you think?”

“Boys and their toys.” She slants her eyes my way, a full smile lighting her face, and something warms in my chest. In that alternate reality, I’d have scooped her up and kissed the shit out of her. A girl that can drive a stick and a truck? Beyond hot.

I push my worry down, deciding I can’t wait to watch her drive. I just hope my poor neglected libido can handle it.