How convenient.
I stalk inside to get my own, then realize I have no way of paying for it. When I come back out, Gage is talking about his work with Badger. He rambles about shipment schedules and various clients—some of which keep getting busted by the Order, but there’s a waiting list a mile long to get on Badger’s route, so it never hurts their business. Every detail is shared solely for Bree, Gage’s frame angled so that I’m cut out of the conversation. When he tires of his own stories, he starts asking about our plans—when are we acting, what are we after, why?—and Bree keeps her answers vague. Soon. Information. Because.
“Well, Nick’s a real genius,” Gage says. “Doesn’t miss a beat. You’re in good hands, whatever that job of yours is.”
He winks at Bree and my patience dissolves.
“I’m going to head back,” I announce. “You coming?”
“Don’t,” Gage says to Bree, and points at her near-empty mug. “I was about to get us another round.”
Now he magically has enough money for extra drinks?
Bree shrugs and nods in one motion. “Okay,” she agrees. “One more.” Then she jerks her head in the direction of the bookshop and says, “I’m fine, Gray. Really.”
A nudge for me to leave.
I know there’s no winning this one, so I say goodnight and head out, trying to ignore the jealous sting in my side. I get only a few steps away before Gage touches my shoulder.
“It’s obvious you care about her,” he says in a low voice, “so I just wanted to say don’t worry. I’ll get her home safe.”
I force a smile. “I didn’t doubt you would.”
“You, Gray Weathersby, are a terrible liar.” He takes a drag of his smoke and exhales out the corner of his mouth. I realize my right hand has curled into a fist and stalk off before he can notice he’s gotten under my skin.
Back at the bookshop, I sit on the front stoop. I’m not ready to go inside and face Blaine, and I can’t stop thinking about Gage, the way he winked at Bree and nudged her shoulder. I know his intentions, could read them in his sly smile. And even though Bree’s tough, she’s also small, no match for a guy twice her size if he gets aggressive. I should go back there in case . . . No, like she said, she doesn’t need someone to babysit her. She’s smart. And competent. And completely capable of taking care of herself. Heck, maybe she even wants Gage to make a move. Maybe that’s why she stayed for another drink. The thought of him kissing her—of her kissing him back—makes my blood hot.
I hear footsteps. A figure storms around the corner. Bree.
“That ass!” she says, and I scramble to my feet. “He got all grabby as soon as you left. When I told him to stop, he just tried harder, so I kneed him in the groin and bailed.”
My blood’s nearly boiling at this point.
“You want me to go back there and hit the message home?” My hand is back in a fist. “I’ll do it, Bree. Gladly.”
“I could do it myself if I thought it was necessary. So thank you, but no.” Bree sighs, her expression suddenly tired. It’s this that makes me relax. She’s annoyed and furious, but not hurt.
“Why are guys like that?” she says after a moment. “I didn’t give him any sign that I felt like making out in a filthy pub.”
“A girl like you—confident, gorgeous? Can you really blame him for trying?” She gives me a look. “At least the first time,” I clarify. “The second advance was uncalled for.”
“Which is why I kneed him.”
“Naturally. He deserved it. Probably worse.”
She grins at that. “He definitely deserved worse. I think he put something in my second drink. It tasted off. You sure read him better than I did, huh?”
I clap a hand to my chest. “Are you admitting that I was right for once?”
“Sadly, yes. But if you keep rubbing it in, I’ll never do it again.”
“You know, I could get used to this feeling. Being right. I think I only need about”—I make a show of counting my fingers—“a million more outcomes to go in my favor for us to be even.”
“A million? When on earth did I rack up all these points?”
“I think it started when you told me I was fighting us.”
The street seems to grow incredibly quiet as she turns toward me. Her expression is curious, her brows raised.
“You also said we challenged each other in a good way. Correct again. And that I hadn’t given you everything . . . that I was distracted . . . that the fire was good . . . Correct, correct, correct. Should I keep going?”
“Yeah, I kind of like this list.” She moves nearer, just one step, but our proximity changes from friendly to something more. There is mischief in her eyes, a playful twist to her lips. She hasn’t looked at me this way in two months and suddenly I can’t think straight. I open my mouth, but no words come out.
The scar above her left eye is brilliant in the moonlight. Brilliant and my fault. I reach for it, and this time, Bree doesn’t recoil or twist away. She lets me touch her. I trace the scar with my thumb, and when I finish, she leans into me slightly, presses her cheek into my palm.
A small sigh escapes her.
A yearning sigh.
The sound sends a flare of heat through my chest. I grab her face with both hands and press my lips to hers before my nerve vanishes. She flinches with surprise, then relaxes, opens her mouth to mine. She kisses me back, desperately, rushed, and it’s so perfect—us pressed together, breathing each other in like it’s never been any other way—that my blood nearly dries in my veins when she whispers, “Stop.”
I open my eyes. She’s staring at my chest, how her palms lie against it.
“I . . . I can’t,” she says, drawing them back like she’s been burned.
“You just did.”
She shakes her head. “I want to be friends.”
“Friends don’t do that, Bree. Friends don’t kiss like that.”
“I want to be friends,” she says again.