His eyes lock on mine, infuriating me all the more when I see how empty of emotion they are. Just two dark pools, staring back at me.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” His arms tighten reflexively as the words slip out, revealing his anger — a small breach in that impeccable control he usually exhibits around me. I’d normally be stunned at any show of emotion, but right now I’m too pissed to do anything but narrow my eyes at him and glare. Which is hard because, well… did I mention that his face is about three inches from mine, and I can feel every contour of his muscular body hard against my front?
“Those fucking heels are a deathtrap.” His voice is low, vibrating with sheer intensity, but that’s nothing new. Nate always sounds like he’s got one finger in an electrical socket— his every atom charged with tense, elemental energy that buzzes off his skin. His arms tighten around me again, as though he’s having a difficult time bottling up his anger. “Don’t know why you insist on parading around in them.”
I blink. Hard. “Excuse me?!”
His dark eyes flash with something I can’t name. “Think you heard me. Shoes like that do one thing — they break. Hearts or ankles, well, that depends on the woman.” His eyes flicker over my face and I get the sense whatever he sees, he finds lacking. “Guessing you’re the ankles variety, West.”
For a moment my mouth gapes, torn between shock that Nate has even noticed my penchant for designer footwear, and rage that he thinks, after years of barely meeting my eyes during the few mandatory social situations that have forced us together since we both became adults, I’d give a flying frack about his opinion on my fashion choices.
Boo is still running in circles around us, trying to get in on the action. Silently, I give him full permission to bite Nate’s calves.
It’d serve the Louboutin-hating jackass right.
My eyes narrow further. “I’m a grown woman! I’ll wear whatever goddamn shoes I want!”
“You used to wear flats,” he grunts out, his gaze still locked on mine. “Yeah, they were always covered in glitter and sparkly polka dots and shit, but at least you could run in them if you had to.”
I blink, shocked once again.
He remembers the shoes I wore in middle school?
Entirely too stunned to process that little tidbit of information, I instead search for the deep well of hurt and rage I’ve been harboring for the past decade. If I let it fill me up like acid bubbling from the depths of my soul, maybe it’ll incinerate the butterflies that have begun to swarm in my stomach. Maybe, if I’m burning with anger, I won’t notice how good it feels to be in his arms, my lips inches from his, those dark eyes finally focused on me with every ounce of his attention.
How many times have I dreamed of his hands on the bare skin at my back, of his nose so close it practically bumps mine with each muttered word?
Even after he joined the military and got all scary and damaged and distant, I still wanted him to hold me like this, so I could see the demons in his eyes up close… and so maybe, just maybe, he’d see me in return for once.
I just didn’t think, when it finally happened, we’d be talking about shoes.
“I’m not sixteen anymore!” I snap, trying on my iciest tone, which is kind of hard since I’m feeling so breathless. “And if you hadn’t shown up in the dark like some kind of creepy home invader, I wouldn’t be running around in the first place! I’d be gorging myself on leftover lo mein right now, instead of nearly tripping over my heels, dying young, and not living long enough to read the next Game of Thrones book, assuming George ever finishes writing it. I’ve been waiting four years to learn what happens to Jon Snow. You almost took that from me!”