I swallow my pounding heart. “Dean threw a glass bottle at me when we were kids. I needed a ton of stitches, and he got grounded for a week. I was the one who told him to throw the bottle in the first place, but I never told my parents that.”
She laughs. “I’m surprised he forgave you.”
“I was able to convince him it was all his fault, and he felt bad about it for like a year. I milked it for all it was worth, of course.”
“I would too.”
“Do you have any scars?” I hear the words leave my lips but don’t know where they came from. Clearly, my upstairs brain has checked out.
“I do. Nothing too interesting, though. I have a cigarette burn on the back of my left shoulder.”
“How’d that happen?”
“My mom fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand, and it dropped on me.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.” She takes her head off my shoulder and raises her eyebrows. “I think I had an entirely different childhood than you.”
I’m not quite sure what to say. I know Scarlet isn’t one to want pity. She said what she did factually and only because I asked. She’s not trying to make me feel bad for her.
“Oh!” She jerks up and points to the sky. “I think I saw a shooting star!”
“Make a wish.” I look up, breath catching just a bit when I see how sparkly the night sky is above us. Then I look at Scarlet, and my breath does more than catch. It stops.
Her eyes are closed, lips curved into a slight smile, and her head is tipped up to the sky.
“You should make one too,” she whispers.
I look back at the stars and wish for self-control. Because Lord knows I need it tonight. Scarlet gathers up the blanket and lays back, eyes fluttering shut.
“What do you do if you’re hungry in the middle of the night?”
“What do you mean?” I lick my lips, watching her breasts rise and fall beneath her shirt as she fixes the blanket around herself.
“Does the diner deliver?”
“No. I’d just go get something from the kitchen.” I raise an eyebrow. “You can’t possibly be hungry.”
“Oh, I’m not. I’m preparing for future nights. Sometimes I have a hard time falling asleep, so I get up and eat my feelings.”
I’m usually good at reading people, but I’m struggling with Scarlet. Because she spits out her truths like they’re lies, saying serious things so casually it’s like a joke.
“Make sure to keep the fridge stocked,” I tease and lay back with her, scooting closer, but only so I can see the stars. Not so I can feel her against me. “What’d you wish for?”
“Wes Dawson,” she scolds. “I can’t tell you.”
“Right. It won’t come true if you do.”
“Oh, I didn’t think of it like that. I was going to be cliché and say if I tell you I have to kill you, but you’re so big and tall. It’ll be such a pain to chop you up and bury your body.”
I laugh, and her hand brushes against mine. “You’re different than I expected.”
“Is that bad?”
“No, it’s perfect.”
She turns to me, face inches from mine. Suddenly, the humor in her eyes goes away, and I see darkness reflected back at me. I get a glimpse of her, and if I hadn’t felt the same thing when I came back after my first tour overseas, I wouldn’t have noticed.
She’s struggling, fighting tooth and nail to stay afloat in choppy waters.
And then she blinks, and the moment is gone. Slowly, she reaches out and runs her finger over the scar on my hand again.
“Remember you said that,” she whispers. Her eyes fall shut, and she turns her head away, sitting up and pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders. “Want to finish that ghost show?”
I do, but now that I’ve seen inside, and it was like looking into a mirror, I can’t. “Maybe tomorrow.” I get up and extend a hand. “I’m pretty beat, and I have work tomorrow night.”
“Right.” She gives me a tight smile and takes my hand, letting me pull her to her feet. “Then you should get to bed.”
Chapter Sixteen
Scarlet
I sit on the couch, twisting Ray’s yarn mane through my fingers. It’s worn and frayed by now, but the sensation still gives me comfort. I cheat and lie for a living but still take solace in a stuffed animal I’ve had since I was a child.
Psychologists would have a field day with me.
After going out for breakfast at the cutest little mom-and-pop diner this morning, Wes showed me around town, and we ended the tour at the library. Jackson likes to play there, and we left with an armload of picture books, as well as a few paranormal romances for me.
One of the books is on the coffee table next to me, and I intended on reading it. Jackson fell asleep pretty quickly tonight, and once he was down, I took a quick shower, changed into my PJs, and came downstairs to have a cup of tea and read.
It’s so domestic it’s weird.
It’s not me at all, and yet I’m finding myself liking this more and more. It’s putting me in the middle of an existential crisis that I certainly don’t have time for. My whole life, I’ve identified as Scarlet from the hood, the girl who had to grow up too fast, who had to raise her siblings as well as take care of her inebriated mother, cleaning up vomit and dragging her inside when she passed out in the yard. Some days she’d be covered in frost by the time I found her, and I’d spend my morning carefully soaking her fingers in bowls of warm water to try and prevent frostbite.
I wasn’t always successful.
The simple fact that I like this—putting Jackson to bed, straightening up the house, and sitting down with a cup of fucking tea and a book—is rocking my whole sense of identity right now. I never understood why some people criticized women who chose to stay at home and look after their household. If that’s what they want and aren’t being repressed into anything against their will, then it’s no different than a woman going out and getting a job. She’s doing what she wants. What makes her happy.
I didn’t realize this could make me happy.
“It’s only been a few days,” I tell myself and stand, needing to reheat my tea by now. Before I make it into the kitchen, the alarm beeps, and Wes steps into the house. I get to the keypad first and punch in the code to disarm the system.
“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him. I open my mouth to say hi back, but the words die in my throat. I was not prepared to see what I’m seeing.
Weston is wearing a fitted suit, and dear God, it’s worse than if he were standing naked before me. I want to throw myself at him, wrapping my fingers around his sleek black tie and using it to pull him up to the bedroom with me. His hair is neatly pulled back away from his face, and a slight five o’clock shadow covers his strong jawline.
And I thought he looked good in his uniform.
“Look at you,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Looking all GQ.”
He smiles and looks down at himself, almost as if he forgot what he’s wearing. Fuck, it’s adorable.
“I had a debate tonight.”