I shake my head. “Believe me, you made it very clear that I am not the type of man you see as a long-term partner.”
Even with my renewed hope, my voice has an edge to it, one I can’t seem to smooth out around her. She cut me deep when she broke up with me.
“Good.” She sounds a little disappointed, but I might be reading into it. “As long as we’re on the same page.”
I arch my eyebrows. “Can it be the same page of one of your romance novels?”
She furrows her brow. “I mean it, Bates. Do not fall for me. And don’t try to make me fall for you. We aren’t meant to be.”
The song comes to an end, and I spin her out before drawing her back in and dipping her.
I stare into her face. Even with five years of time apart, I still could draw the lines of her jaw and the slope of her neck from memory. I’ve pressed my thumbprint into the crescent-moon-shaped birth mark she has to the right of her eye more times than I can count. So many times that I’d like to think it has the stamp of the lines of my finger etched into it. My adrenaline pumps hard through my veins, and I pull her back upright with a little more force than she’s expecting. Her hand lands against my chest as she catches her balance. I gaze at her fingers pressed against my pecs. She’s looking at them too.
I half-consider that I should be self-conscious. There’s no doubt in my mind she can feel the way my heart is racing, pounding out a rhythm like it’s a member of the drum line. But there’s nothing I can do about it.
“No falling in love. Got it.” My voice is gravelly. I don’t agree with her. There’s a part of me that’ll always believe the two of us are meant to be. But I’ll say what she wants to hear…for now. “We have a deal, then?” I ask her.
She furrows her brow. “I don’t really know the terms. I’m not too thrilled with this arrangement.”
“Now you know how I feel.” I smirk. She opens her mouth to respond, but I cut her off. “You’ll have to go with the flow.” I pin her with a challenging look of my own, holding her gaze as I bring her hand to my lips and place a kiss on her knuckles. “It’ll be fun. Trust me.”
11
A Roomy Backseat
Rose
My brain feels like it’s a murky mixture of split pea soup. I’m jet lagged from the whirlwind trip to California. I put in a full morning of work at Mood Reader. Now I have to go “interview” Anton. How am I supposed to do that? I have no idea.
The trip to California turned out to be mostly pointless. It was nice to see Noli and Collin let loose and have a good time, I guess, but as far as Anton and his safety, nothing remarkable happened…crazed fan aside. If a crazed fan is the worst of his problems, then that’s a pretty good day.
I touched base with my dad and the rest of the team late last night. Now my pea-soup mush brain is swimming with intel and the information we’ve compiled about the threat against Anton. Our sources are pointing to an insider behind the threats. We haven’t been able to ascertain whether that means someone from the River Foxes or someone from Penwick. Queen Della is demanding that we stick to Anton like gum to a shoe.
There’s a tiny timer that I can practically see up in the corner of my vision—like the ticker on old-school camcorder recordings. It’s running a countdown, and there’s an end date.
Because that’s one thing our intelligence has confirmed: this attempt on Anton’s life will happen before Christmas. That means I’ve got to be on my A-game for the next month. Head on a swivel. Heart under lock and key.
I suppose going to California was good for one thing. It got Anton to agree to letting me interview him, which is my ticket to accessing him while he’s at work.
Then again, I’m not sure if I like the determined glint Anton got in his eye toward the end of our dance. Check that. I’m entirely sure I didn’t like it. It was like something shifted for him. He went from hating my guts and despising my presence—who can forget the mosquito metaphor, for crying out loud—to holding me in his arms as if I was a rare bird he felt fortunate to stumble upon for only the second time in his illustrious bird-watching career.
Just go with the new analogy.
I tried to head him off, telling him I wouldn’t date him again, but I don’t know what good it did. Anton is ridiculously competitive when he sets his mind to something. I shiver thinking about him setting his mind on me.
We didn’t make any definitive plans to connect back here in Green Bay before he kissed my hand and strode away from me on the dance floor.
And no, I am not thinking about that kiss. I refuse to acknowledge that the two knuckles he hit with his lips have been tingling on and off ever since. Like he seared them permanently, burning the skin right off the bone and leaving my pulse exposed to the air.
I flex my fingers to rid myself of the ridiculous thought. I fumble for my phone, pulling up the text message I received last night. He still had my number, which is another thing I’m choosing not to think about. But his message is the definition of cryptic.
Anton
Meet me at the Bay at 1:00pm. Dock 117.
What the heck am I supposed to make of that?
I’m fifty percent annoyed by the lack of details he’s given me about what to expect, and fifty percent scared he’s sending me to some abandoned dock and plans to off me. Not really. Anton would never. Maybe I’ve been reading too many murder mysteries, though, because his message definitely has that vibe.
