I lean in so she can hear me above the deluge. “Do you remember when I first learned to ride a bike again?”
The corners of her mouth tug up a little. “Yeah, I remember.”
“And we only had your girly bike, so you sat on the handlebars and I pedaled?”
She nods.
“And one day, I was going way too fast and we hit a rock, and both of us went flying. I didn’t want to ride like that anymore, because I was afraid you’d get hurt. Do you remember what you told me?”
Her eyes meet mine. “I said . . . I said we had to keep riding . . . because the ride was the only thing that made falling worth it.”
I nod tenderly.
And she adds, “Then you called me a fortune cookie.”
And we both laugh.
When our chuckles settle, I hold out my hand. “I’m not going to let us fall this time, Kennedy.”
Her eyes are back on my chest. “I’m not sure—”
“All you have to do is take my hand.”
It’s like I was saying before—you never really know who someone is inside. That someone as magnificently ferocious in court as Kennedy could be hiding such a fragile, delicate soul. And don’t think for a second it’s because she’s weak. The fact that she’s even fucking standing here shows how strong she is. It’s just . . . instinct.
We shy away from the things that hurt us—that have hurt us in the past.
That’s what scars are for. They protect the wounds. Cover them with thick, numb tissue so we’ll never have to feel that same pain again. The bottom of my stump is one big, hard callus.
But the scars Kennedy has inside? They’re even tougher.
When she continues to stare at my hand, I plead, “Please, just come inside.”
Slowly, tentatively, her small hand slides into mine.
And we go in out of the rain.
• • •
Her teeth chatter as she sits on the edge of my bed. I throw a blanket over her shoulders, rubbing her arms, sliding down to cup her hands.
“Jesus, you’re freezing. How long were you out there?”
“Awhile. I was walking . . . thinking.”
“Your family has more money than most small governments. Next time you go a-wandering, stop and buy an umbrella.”
Kennedy shivers as she laughs. I pull the blanket closer around her and rub her back.
Her voice comes out soft and wavering in the dark room. “None of this is going like I imagined.”
“Me neither. I figured I’d be busy getting you out of your clothes, not wrapping you up like a burrito.”
That gets me another chuckle. “I meant coming home, seeing you again . . . I thought it’d be so different.”
I hold her hands between mine, rubbing the chill from them. “Different how?”
“I knew we’d run into each other eventually. But when I saw your name on the Longhorn case, I thought it was fate. My opportunity for payback. I thought you’d be bowled over by my new look. Infatuated with me.”
She can check that one off the list.
“I pictured flirting with you, toying with you—and then totally crushing you. You were going to be devastated. And I was going to laugh over the remains of your broken heart.”
“You’re a vengeful little thing, aren’t you?”
Her eyes drift to the ceiling and she shakes her head at herself. “Sometimes. When it comes to my cases, the victims, I want to punish the people who’ve wronged them. But you . . . you’re still you. And when I saw you . . . it all felt exactly the same. Like how it was before the dance, before I went to your dorm room that morning. Like I was seventeen again, just hoping you’d . . .”
Her words trail off and my chest clenches with that sublime mix of excitement and trepidation. Of wanting something so much it’s like every cell in your body is stretching, reaching for it, yet there’s a gray shadow of worry that you might never get to touch it. And keep it. That all you’ll be left with is the memory of how great it could have been.
“Does that make sense, Brent?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Perfect sense.”
I cup my hands around hers and blow into them. Another shiver vibrates through her.
“You have to get out of these wet clothes,” I say gently, with no teasing suggestion.
Because we’re right on the precipice. I can feel it. And I have to tread so carefully, because one wrong move could send Kennedy away, truly lost to me.
The room is quiet. I peel my soaked shirt off and let it drop to the floor. Only her eyes move, trailing over my shoulders, down the bronzed peaks and valleys of my torso. I stand and slowly unbutton my jeans, then push the heavy, wet fabric down my hips, sliding one leg out before bracing my hand on the bed to pull them over my prosthetic, leaving me in black boxer briefs.
Free of the cold, damp clothes, my skin feels hot. Like the surface of a furnace, warmed from the fire burning within.
Her wide brown eyes follow my every move, looking up at me. Waiting.
I push the blanket off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. My tongue wets my bottom lip as I grasp her sopping sweater at the bottom and lift slowly, taking note of every inch of creamy skin as it’s revealed.
Kennedy raises her arms. I pull the sweater over her head and it lands with a plop on the floor. I saw her naked last night, but that was different. I couldn’t enjoy the view; I was trying too hard not to look.
But I look now.
And, oh, do I enjoy it.
Firm, round breasts encased in white lace. Her nipples, dark mauve and taut, tease beneath their sheer covering. Her collarbone is delicate, her shoulders and arms toned. Her stomach is flat, with a hint of muscle, and I bite the inside of my mouth—because I want to suck on that skin, slide my tongue across it, press my teeth against it until I hear her moan.