In the dark cab, Jericho put his glasses on the dash and gave me a quiet look, softening his voice. “No, baby, you look good.”
I hid my smile and looked away. Jericho didn’t say it often, and I didn’t know if it was intentional. It’s when he called me baby. Not babe in that arrogant way some men do. The way he said baby felt intimate. The only words I’d ever heard Jericho call women were sugar and honey.
Never baby.
All those years apart allowed me to get to know him all over again. Jericho was still the badass rock star with the sexy moves, sultry voice, and sinful body. But last night he’d lifted me off the sofa and carried me to bed after I’d fallen asleep reading one of April’s books. I’d pretended to be asleep because I didn’t want him to put me down. It was such a silly thing for me to do, but Jericho gave me butterflies whenever he did the unexpected romantic stuff.
“How are you feeling tonight?” he asked.
I watched the taillights on the car in front of us brighten. “Fine.”
Then I felt him staring at me. “Isabelle, you haven’t talked to anyone about what happened to you. It’s not going to just go away.”
“It’s done with. What do you want me to do?”
“Feel?”
The light turned green, and he slowly pushed on the gas pedal.
“Feel what?”
“Something. Maybe I need to see you cry, and I never thought I’d say something like that, but it makes me nervous that you’re not making a big deal out of it.”
I gazed somberly out the window and knew what he meant. Sometimes people bottled up their emotions and allowed the contents to change them. Maybe he was afraid I’d run out on him again.
“Isabelle, stop thinking and talk to me.”
I sighed in frustration. “I don’t want to feel it again. Once was enough.”
He breathed in deeply and put his hand on top of mine. “I’ll let it slide tonight, but we’re going to talk about it someday. If I have to get you rip-roaring drunk, we’re talking.”
I snorted. “I don’t get drunk.”
“No, you get tipsy and dance.”
“Now you’re just making things up.”
Jericho turned his head slowly and arched his eyebrow. “Oh? What exactly were you doing in that bistro? You remember the one. We swung by there after hitting four bars.”
“For your information, it was three bars, and I was just along for the ride. The bistro served amazing sandwiches and I was merely showing a physical display of my gratitude.”
“Dancing.”
“I’m going to disagree for five hundred, Alex. I was… moving in an exuberant manner.”
Jericho chuckled and turned the corner. “You were shaking your butt, snapping your fingers, and singing a song about what was in your sandwich.”
“I don’t recollect that part.”
Jericho began singing in a raspy voice:
I got a ham and cheese,
and it’s good to me.
Because it satisfies all my needs,
all my needs. It’s pa-nini, pa-nini.
“Oh hell’s bells,” I said, bursting with laughter. “Please tell me you’re kidding.” I could hardly control my laugh, and I bent forward, holding on to the dash. Jericho kept singing and really belted out the last two words. “Stop it! You’re making my stomach hurt,” I begged, clutching my belly and leaning back in my seat. Once he quieted, I wiped the tears from the corner of my eyes and he patted my leg.
“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he said in a low voice, as if talking to himself.
When I stole a glance, he didn’t look away. Jericho’s eyes were luminous, even in the dark cab of the pickup truck. I wondered if we were going to a concert. He didn’t have on his usual charcoal liner below his eyes, so I didn’t think so.
“We’re here,” he said. The brakes squealed to a stop and I leaned forward.
A nostalgic smile touched my lips as he got out of the truck and slammed the door. Jericho had brought me to a donut shop. When my door opened, he offered me his hand.
“Come on, Isabelle. My treat.”
I stumbled in my heels as we headed inside.
The store was pristine, and the first thing that caught my eye was the display counter. I threw myself against it and drooled over all the delicious varieties to choose from—so many pretty colors!
“I’d like the one with the chocolate glaze. Jericho, do you want to get something else to split between us?”
“Hell no,” he said, leaning on the counter. “I want a dozen of those chocolate ones and another dozen assorted.”
My back straightened like an arrow. “You didn’t just order all that.”
“I did.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“It’s too much!”
“Someday I’ll buy you something expensive. Maybe it’ll sparkle and look real good on your finger. But right now, I’m buying you a box of donuts just the way you like them. Two cups of cocoa,” he told the guy.
I didn’t hear anything he said after the part about the ring. All I felt was a migration of little butterflies flitting in my stomach and tickling my nerves.