“Huh?” I blurt, losing all sense.
The light I turned on isn’t bright, the room still muted, and in the tiny space his scent permeates every square inch of air and even though he’s not touching me it feels like he is. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.
This feels all too similar to that night.
The one that led to a tangle of limbs amidst sheets. His skin pressed to mine. Lips biting and nipping. Fingers clasped.
It was never supposed to happen again. We agreed on that. A one and done deal.
I hated him.
I still hate him.
He steals my coffee and my pens and does everything he can to irritate the shit out of me.
But now with Dahlia I can’t erase Travis from my life. He’s a permanent fixture, one I can’t get rid of as much as I may wish.
With him taking one step closer to me I’m actually contemplating what it would be like to be touched by him again. Would it feel as good? The passion still as intense? Would it make me lose all sense of control?
He cocks his head, pausing right in front of me. Close enough that his breath caresses the edge of my lips when he speaks, “I asked if that was okay, that I’m still here?”
My tongue slides out of its volition, wetting the suddenly dry, desert like surface. “Y-Yes, but why are you?”
He grins, blue orbs flashing to my lips. “Do I make you nervous?”
“No,” I scoff. The very idea that he makes me nervous is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Then why are you shaking?”
I didn’t realize I was, but suddenly he’s scooping up my hands, cradling them between his and the tremble is unmistakable.
Damn him.
I look away from his too penetrating gaze. Travis Alexander has always been able to see right through me. It’s like some superpower of his, being able to strip me bare with a single glance. It’s almost unfair how well he seems to know me.
“Cold,” I finally reply.
“Mhmm,” he hums, eyes sparkling. He doesn’t believe me at all. I didn’t expect him to, but the lie makes me feel better, nonetheless. “Then come here.”
I don’t have a moment to question him before he tugs me over to the couch and down beside me. He grabs the blanket folded neatly on the arm and drapes it over the two of us. For once, I’m shocked to silence. He picks up the remote, turning the TV on and flicking through the channels.
“I didn’t know you lived here,” I grumble, wiggling to get comfortable which somehow pushes me even further into his body. In my defense my couch is closer to the size of a love seat.
“Shh,” he hushes me, giving me a cocky smile, “we both know you like my company. You don’t have to pretend to hate me all the time, you know? Especially when no one’s watching.”
“I don’t…I don’t hate you.”
“But you don’t like me either.”
“It’s complicated,” I sigh.
He stops on the Travel Channel, some ghost hunting show, not the typical one I watch, is playing and a guy is screaming in an empty room. “I’ll make it even more complicated. I like you.”
I snort. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know you better than you think I do.”
“Try me,” I challenge, sitting up straighter. The blanket pools on my lap and I rub my fingers on a worn piece of fringe.
He grins at the challenge. Scooting back, he drapes his right arm along the back of the couch, crossing his left leg over top the right.
“For starters, I know you live off vanilla iced coffee.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s only because you always steal my fucking coffee.” I push at his knee but it barely moves. “Try again.”
“Your favorite color is red. There are hints of it in your tattoo shop and even here.” He flicks his fingers down to the red blanket draped over my legs. “You’re closed off, but not because you hate people. You’re trying to protect yourself because you’ve been hurt before.” I look away. How does he see and know so much? It’s not fair. I’m not nearly as observant when it comes to him. “You smile when you talk about your mom. She’s your best friend I’d wager to guess.” My lips press together, color flooding my cheeks as he rattles on. “You have a sweet tooth but wish you didn’t. I’ve seen you buy so many of those nasty grain muffins at Griffin’s only to throw them away and turn around and buy the chocolate croissant you really wanted instead. I know your art is beautiful, both the ones on you and what you create.” Goosebumps pimple my skin from his touch as he traces a vine snaking along my arm. His voice drops, “And I know that I unintentionally hurt you with my absence and you don’t want to believe I’m sorry, it’s easier to be mad at me, and that’s okay. I’ll be the bad guy for a little while longer. Being a villain isn’t all bad.”
“Why is that?” I muster up the words, my voice softer than normal. He’s barreling through every wall I’ve ever put up around myself faster than I can repair them and it’s not fair. I’m a smart, independent woman. I don’t need a man. But God, I hate to admit it he’s one I want, and I’m not prepared for that realization at all.
“Because villains get the best redemption stories.” He stands then, my eyes following as he unfolds that large thin body from the couch. He shocks me when he bends, placing a gentle kiss on my cheek, dangerously close to my mouth.
Without another word, he lets himself out, and I’m left haunted with the feeling that this whole time I thought I hated Travis it was an entirely different emotion forming instead.
Chapter Ten
Travis
Alba doesn’t look at all surprised when I stroll into Between the Lines. We’ve fallen into a routine over the last week and she no longer gives me a skeptical look when I arrive.
“I’m not making dinner tonight,” she announces, sipping a glass of water. “Are you good with Thai?”
“Always.” I pull out a stool and sit down. “Do you want me to pick it up while you get Dahlia?”
Dahlia—fuck, I love the name of my daughter on my lips. In such a short time it doesn’t feel foreign at all. For someone so small, that doesn’t even talk, only coos, she’s stolen my heart.
“Actually, my mom’s dropping her off any minute.” Alba flicks a page in the magazine she’s looking at. “I thought we could eat at the restaurant.”
I arch a brow, unconsciously wringing my hands together. “So, I’m going to meet your mom?”
“Is that a problem?” she challenges, her tone almost implying she hopes it is.
“Nope.” We’re silent for a few minutes before I ask, “What does she know about me?”
Alba closes the magazine, resting her elbow on the counter and her head in her hand. Her lips twitch with the threat of either a smile or laughter, I’m not sure which. “Just that you knocked me up.”
I let out a snort of indignation. “She hates my guts then.”
“No,” she says seriously. “She loves Dahlia, and sees how much I love being a mom, she would never hate you for giving me that.”