Another gentle squeeze and I sighed, but raised my head, pressed the button to let the window roll up, then carefully pulled the keys out of the ignition as I grabbed my purse and climbed out.
He waited on me.
Like a gentleman.
"Is this your new tactic?" I asked softly. "To charm me?"
He shook his head, but his smile was sad. "Baby, I should always have treated you like this."
I looked away when my throat choked up, because he was right, he should have. That he knew it now triggered a bittersweet kind of agony inside me.
If only we could turn back time. If only we could fix what we’d broken along the way.
Neither of us said anything as we headed into the diner. The shock of heat was like a slap to the face, and I was kind of surprised at how busy it was. Every table except two was full, and the servers were swept off their feet.
One, sweaty and with her hair clinging to her forehead, beamed a smile at me. Her gaze turned a little hotter when she looked at Storm, but he wasn’t interested.
I knew this because I looked—he was answering Cyan about Kraft Magad.
I almost snorted at him correcting her again.
"Table for three?"
"Please," I said with a smile.
She guided us to a table, and as we plunked our butts in the booth, I was kind of touched that Storm moved beside Cyan.
He’d been making a real effort to stick close to her, and I knew that was a mixture of this weird contemplative mood he’d been in since Christmas—heck it was a precursor to Bear's passing in all honesty—but also the fact that last year could have ended so differently.
So very, very differently.
Sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, I watched them both, quietly content to listen to them discuss Kraft Madag—I was pretty sure she was doing it to tease him now—not even needing to check out the menu. Just happy to see them together, interacting, and Cyan being her normal self.
Well, a tad bloodthirstier than before, but no longer snappish and bitter and, to be truthful, an asshole.
Bloodthirsty definitely wasn’t an adjective I wanted to associate with my eleven-year-old, but it couldn’t be helped, I guessed.
I knew what she’d seen even if Storm refused to tell me the details—Amara, the Old Lady of two Sinners up in West Orange, had killed the guy who’d groomed Cyan. In front of my baby and Rachel’s baby brother, Rain.
So much violence… it had definitely unveiled a side of the world I’d have spared her from if I could.
"You ready to order?" Storm asked, breaking into my thoughts.
"You want the usual?"
Smiling at him, I nodded. "If they have it."
"Strawberry lattice pie?" he asked the waitress, but his cellphone buzzed and he reached for it. As he did, whatever he read had him growling with annoyance.
Jeeezus.
That growl.
Instantly, I thought of summer nights with me writhing beneath him as he took me from behind.
Of his chest covering my front, his hands tangled with mine overhead, pinning me to the bed.
I thought of slick skin and soft whispers, the memory of a pleasure so exquisite it made strawberry lattice pie seem redundant.
"We have twenty-five different kinds of pie, and that’s certainly one of them," the server told me, dragging me from my memories.
When she beamed at me, I almost forgave her for checking out my husband… Damn. Ex-husband. That growl had messed with my senses.
Who could blame her, though? He was hot. With that long hair cascading down his shoulders, the shocking gleam of silver contrasting so perfectly against the rich black. He was muscled and thick with it, his plaid shirt sleeves bulging now he’d taken off his leather jacket.
Wearing that alone, he just looked hot. But beneath, once the cut was revealed, it changed him. Morphed him into something else.
Someone dangerous.
Someone delicious.
That growl…
I plucked at my bottom lip, finding it easy to remember why he’d driven me crazy all these years, and why the waitress had looked at him like he was catnip she wanted to rub her face in.
It was a bittersweet kind of truth that had me admitting that my attraction for him had never died.
I wasn’t like a lot of women who hit the ‘seven-year itch’ and wanted to switch up their husbands. If he hadn’t cheated, if he hadn’t been… well, crap, Storm, then we’d still be together, and I’d still be as into him as I’d been when I was younger.
While I watched him with Cyan, teasing wisps of hope stirred to life, making me wonder if I was just downright dumb or if he was playing me.
How long could he keep up this charade if that was what it was?
We’d been here a little under eight weeks now, and he hadn’t let up once. Not a single dinner had he missed, not a single time had he failed to do the dishes. And, even though by his own admission he used to jack off twenty plus times a day, he’d never come onto me.
In fact, it was almost as if he didn’t have those feelings at all.
Which, of course, was when I caught his eye, realizing that while I’d been lost to my thoughts, he’d switched from solely entertaining Cyan to looking at me.
The quickest glance at his expression revealed a twisted kind of hunger that seemed to gnaw at him. His cheekbones pulled taut, his nostrils flared, and in his eyes, I saw the feralness within him. A feralness that called to the most visceral part of me. A part that had only stirred to life once before—the day after Rene’s death.
The proof of the real Storm, the reminder of him, set me on edge, however. Did this confirm he was playing a role or was it merely evidence that he was castrating himself for my benefit? Our benefit. Not just him and me, but Cyan too.
The second he saw I was watching him back, however, his expression changed, turned placid. Calm. He didn’t even blink at me, just turned back to Cyan, saying, "There’s gotta be a better way of standing up for yourself than headbutting some little bitch, baby."
I winced at the terminology but was grateful he’d broached the subject.
A mini-Giulia wasn’t something I needed to be dealing with.
"She deserved it," was the stubborn retort. "Biker princesses don’t ever let anyone tear them down."
I grimaced, because I wanted her to have that level of self-worth, but violence wouldn’t go down well at a Christian private academy. Something she’d only been able to get into because of my background, her baptism, and my father’s position in the church in West Orange.
"You don’t let them tear you down—" Storm concurred, until I cleared my throat and shot a glare at him. As he caught my eye, this time, I saw the amusement he was tampering down for my benefit.
I huffed. Of course he wasn’t unhappy that she was turning into a termagant.
Was I the only sane person at the table? Lord give me strength.
"—but you can’t get into trouble either."
"So, what you’re saying is that I need to not get caught?"
I groaned. "Storm!"
Cyan giggled. "Mom, if you could see your face!"
Whatever expression I had, I knew for a fact that it changed at the sound of her giggle.
My baby.
She was coming back to me.
And I knew why.
Storm.
God.