Fall Guy (22 page)

"You look dapper today." I plump the tulips up one last time and make my way to him. The clover-clean, sharp smell of his skin makes my senses reel.

I want to touch him, to reconnect, but it's like what we had last night is a
powerli
ne
that's been severed. All the
electricity is still spitting and crackling, but I don't dare attempt to touch that kind of raw power.

He holds his hands out at his sides.

"Church duds.
I ditched the tie and j
acket, but I was in full dapper-
mode this morning. My grandmother would pass out if we didn't wear suits every Sunday, heat be damned. And that old ass chapel has a busted air conditioner. I was sweating my ass off."

I'm about to say something about church or grandmothers or the lack of AC when he crosses right over the threshold and grabs me around the waist. One hand takes the small pair of pruning shears I'm still holding lightly in my fingers and sets them on the table, then his lips seal over mine, hot, fast, and famished.

The first moan rips out from low in his throat, and a hand curls behind the back of my head and presses my lips closer, giving his mouth the leverage to edge mine open and allowing the sweet
heat
of his tongue to swirl against mine. I knock into the small table the tulips sit on, splashing water everywhere.

Winch's kisses are sweet and quick with a desperate edge that makes me forget every detail
of where we are and who might catch us because all I can think is
more, him, need,
yes
.

As if he can read my mind, he has his arm wrapped around my waist and hoists me onto the table with no effort at
all. I lean back, and he follows
me forward, never breaking the contact of our mouths.

His hands fall flat to my knees and rest for one second, palms down, before they begin a slow and steady incline up along my thighs, up until his fingertips brush my hips and his thumbs rub over the tiny piece of silky fabric that makes up my sexy date underwear. His thumbs stroke once, three times, six or seven times before I'm squared in heaven and ready to let him do whatever he might possibly want to right in my grandparents' fancy foyer.

Maybe he really can read my mind, because the instant 'grandparents' foyer' jolts through my brain, his hands withdraw back to my knees, and his lips brush over mine in softer and softer sweeps until he's one inch too many
away
from me.

It takes us bo
th a minute to catch our breath
. His laugh is warm and low.

"So, that's pretty much what I've been thinking about since the minute I left your bed last night.
You?"

I laugh back, breathless and high.
"That, yeah.
And more.
Do you want to
--
"

He shakes his head and the decisiveness of the gesture halts my question. "Let me take you out somewhere.
Away from here.
Because I can't slow down if I start."

"I'm not looking for slow," I offer, but he holds a hand out and, gallantly, politely, helps me off the tabl
e where he was building me up to a perfect
orgasm a few seconds before.

"Not in a rush. Not like this." His voice is at once sure and full of command
,
and apologetically pleading.

"So, if you're not planning to rock my world, what are we doing?"

He waits as I lock the door and holds my hand as we rush down the white stone stops. I love the hint of a smile he attempts to hide when we're face-to-face, feet balanced on the curb.

"Breakfast.
And it
will
rock your world."

He holds my door open and helps me in, perfect gentleman style, and this date has all the unexpected newness and excitement our
actual
first date was lacking.

He pulls out and looks over at me, his hands curling over the steering wheel in a way that makes me think he's doing his best to keep them off of me. I roll the window down and Winch cuts the AC, delivering a satisfied smile my way.

"What's that about?" I ask.

"What's what about?" He smiles again, and there are a million secret thoughts I'm dying to unwind and reveal.

"The look you gave me just now." I point at him and close one eye, shaping my fingers like a gun. "I notice everything, mister."

"Or, like my mom, you think you see something when there's nothing there. My look was just a look."

He's still teasing me, but his voice drops from lighthearted to serious faster than pennies out of a hole in a pocket.

"Hmm.
Maybe your mom and I need to have a talk."

This time the look is a
real
Look,
a whole panicked, terrified, furious mix and flash of a face. It lasts a single instant, but it was there, and he’s trying to hide it behind a neutral, calm, phony look, so
I call him on it again.

"You can't deny
that
look! It meant something; I just have no idea what. C'mon, I'm not an idiot, Winch. There's no way you can deny that something notable went through your head when
you gave me that look. So tell me."

He shrugs, and I can read that I'm wearing him down.

"Tell?" I request nicely, and when he holds firm, I spread on the guilt. "Tell because you left me all alone last night and I didn't even whine about it all that much."

He winds down a side street and pops out in a place that's both long-ago foreign and memory-filled familiar.

He parks the car and announces, "I'll tell you after we eat, because I'm starving. What's the matter?"

I shake my head and swallow hard, the ghosts of my mama and daddy
in happier days
shaking their chains just outside Clary's. I get out of the car and he's instantly around the front end, at my side.

"I used to come here as a kid."

His hand is cupped under my elbow for support, for comfort, for something to lean on if I need it.

"Say the word and we'll leave."

"Nah."
I shake my head and look right into those blue eyes, like faded denim flapping on the line in the summer sun. "If I
'm going to come back here
and enjoy a peanut butter and banana sandwich, I want it to be with you."

He locks eyes with mine
, and I can read this expression perfectly. It's pleased possession, and it makes my skin go hot.

"You eat the Elvis?" His lips tickle close to my ears.

"No," I admit. "But my daddy always did."

This time he loosens his hold on my elbow, and his arm is, instead, strong and sure around
my waist as he leads me to a table in the back. A waitress hurries over and calls Winch "Mr. Youngblood." He's cool but polite, ordering two orange juices without asking if it's what I want.

It is, but still.

"You sure you're okay here? I'll have us somewhere else in three minutes if you want."

He taps the menu absently on the wood table and bores a look into me like he's attempting to demolish my mental walls and read my mind for real.

"I told you,
it's
fine.
Really."

I look around at the mismatched interior with the black-and-white tiled linoleum and the stained glass behind the counter, and it feels comfy, homey. If I block all the times my daddy came here so full of disappointment he couldn't walk straight, it's actually a very charming place.

The waitress hurries back and Winch orders the sourdough French toast, and I get the eggs Benedict Florentine.

"Good choice." He rearranges the little black box of sugar packets with quick fingers. "I think breakfast choices say a lot about people."

"Funny. I think people
s
’
very telling
looks
do. Since you already know what my breakfast choice is, let's analyze that weird look you gave me."

I blow the wrapper from my straw at him and he blocks it with the palm of his hand like a ninja.

"You're relentless."

He looks
up,
I'm positive because he's praying the waitress will come back and interrupt this uncomfortable confession time.

"I'm shamelessly relentless. A watched breakfast order never cooks. Attention here." I cup him under the chin and turn his face towards mine. "Now, spill. Why the weird look before?"

"I barely remember what we were talking about," he evades with a lazy shrug.

"You and your mysterious looks.
And your mom."

At the word, his shoulders go stiff and he drops all the sugar packets haphazardly into the container.

He leans back in the chair, spreads his legs, and clasps his hands behind his head. Anyone who didn't know Winch would think he was comfortable as could be, but I notice the tic in his jaw and the incessant nervous tap of his toe. I notice, but I don't let them stop me from peeling back, layer by layer, the enigma that is Winchester Youngblood. I stare at him, eyebrows raised, mouth set, eyes fierce, just to let him know I'm not backing down.

He lets out a dramatic sigh and feigns confusion again.

"Okay, what are we talking about again? Oh, right.
You and my mom and my looks."
I nod for him to go on. "Okay.
Alright.
So you are a gorgeous, sexy, brilliant woman."

He leans across the table and takes one of my hands. I try to yank it back, but he tucks it in his and kisses the knuckles.

"Flattery will get you nowhere. Spilling your guts? Well that's the key that unlocks all kinds of interesting doors."

I let my voice purr out with my best sexy feline persuasion technique.

Winch blinks. "Okay.
Spilling my guts and those interesting doors."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "My mother," he says finally, "is not an easy woman to get along with."

"You'd be shocked how much parents like me. I'm not kidding. I've never met a mother yet who didn't immediately think I was great."

Well, that's a partial lie. I'm pretty sure Brenna's mom thinks I'm an obnoxious, pushy pseudo-brat. I say it takes one to know one. Other than that, my record is fairly squeaky clean. I
give off a good-girl vibe mamas just eat up.

"But my mother is nothing at all
like
normal mothers.
Nothing.
At all.
Okay?" It's like he's desperate for me to take his warning seriously. "She has really old-fashioned ideas. And she's so stubborn."

"Okay."

This actually doesn't bode well. My grandparents aren't very old-fashioned at all. They're very laid back, very open to suggestion. I'm not exactly sure they'd eat Winch up knowing his background and shady present, but they'd hear me out if I want
ed them to meet him.

"So, am I some kind of
secret girlfriend?"

The look on his face makes me feel like
he suddenly popped me into the freezer and pressed the door shut; I feel the creep of a bitter chill and the dull horror of pitch black nothing. Where the hell can we go if I can never even meet his family
when they obviously mean so much to him
?

He opens his mouth to answer, but the waitress is bustling over us, placing our plates down and warning us about what's hot. I'm sure I murmur a thank you. I feel the fork and knife in my hands and make cutting motion
s
. I love Eggs Benedic
t, but I have no clue if it’s
good or not, because it's like I'm ice-coated inside.

Winch doesn't pretend to enjoy his breakfast and keep up polite, respectable appearances. He reaches across the table and takes my wri
st in his hand, leaving my forkful
of egg and buttery, delicious Hollandaise sauce suspended in midair.

"You are
not
a secret girlfriend. I'm proud to be with you."

"So I'm
just
your girlfriend no one knows about?"

I yank my wrist away and a few drips of yellowy sauce splatter on his white shirt. He
doesn't even notice.

"No one knows about you because the problem is them, not you." His grip tightens for one harsh second,
then
relaxes. I look up at him
, a little shocked,
and he releases my wrist. "I've never been happier than I am with you, Evan. But my family doesn't think you should be with people because they make you happy.
Like I said, they're old fashioned.
They'd judge you before they even got to know you, just because you're...not like us."

"What does that even mean?"

I continue to cut and eat my food, because, since I burned down a very influential family's orchard, I don't like to bring negative attention to myself and my family while I'm out. Even if I'm choking with undi
gnified rage and upset, I try
hard to put a high-sheen polish on any situation and always bust out my best company manners.