I retrace my steps to the first stop sign and go left again. At the next one, I take a right instead and comb through the driveways on that street. Still no truck.
I’m about to turn left at the next stop sign when I see the back end of a black truck sticking out of a driveway up ahead. I go straight through the red octagonal sign and stop in front of what looks exactly like Sig’s truck.
I glance around, looking for what I don’t know. I feel like I’m doing something wrong, even though I’m not. It’s not like I’m casing the joint to break in later, which I did once or twice in my stupid youth.
Shifting into park, I cut the engine and head for the front door. Just as I’m raising my hand to knock, it swings open to reveal the very aloof face of Sig.
He says nothing as he stares at me and, for a moment, neither do I. I just look at him, take him in. He’s so beautiful, his eyes so rich and deep, his features so handsome and strong. He practically fills the entire doorway with his tall frame and wide shoulders. An involuntary shiver runs through me, one that registers a small frown on his brow.
He takes a step back and tips his head for me to come in, so I do. I stop just inside the front door, looking around his barely-there living room, which consists of an olive-green couch and matching recliner, a coffee table and a big screen television mounted to the back wall, and then the tiny kitchen that opens onto it. I see a few boxes stacked against one wall, but certainly not enough to contain all that would be needed to fill up this space.
“Still getting settled?” I ask.
“I travel light,” is his only response. He closes the door and then comes around in front of me, crossing his arms over his chest. “As flattered as I am that you’re concerned over my state of unpacking, I seriously doubt it brought you all the way over here.”
I laugh uneasily. “No, it didn’t. I, uh, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Another frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I shrug with one shoulder. “Since I didn’t see you when I left Lance’s this morning, I wanted to make sure you didn’t get in trouble for not sticking with me.”
“How can I get in trouble when you took off?”
Again, I shrug. “Lance is unpredictable.”
“I told you that you don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know, I know,” I say, looking down at the shaggy beige carpet and digging at it with the toe of my ratty Vans. “I wish I could not worry about you.”
I see big boots enter my field of vision and then a finger touches my chin, bringing my gaze up to his. There is still some aggravation in his eyes, but now they hold tenderness and heat and…possessiveness, so much so that they take my breath away.
“I’m not a sadist, but I actually like that you worry.” One side of his mouth twitches up into a lopsided grin. “I just wish you weren’t so damn slippery.”
“Slippery?”
“Hell yeah. I can’t get a bead on you.”
“You know how a woman loves her mystery,” I say, nonchalant.
“You may, but I don’t. I want to know what’s going on behind those eyes, what’s going on inside that beautiful head.” His voice is soft now, his touch whisper-light as he brushes the back of his finger along my jawline.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“Oh, but I do. I want to know. I want to know you.”
“I told you–”
“I know what you told me. I’ve heard every word you’ve said. The problem is, it doesn’t make any difference. I care about you, Tommi. I care about what happens to you, what you’re going through. I care that you don’t smile much. I care that you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, but you won’t tell me why or let me help. I care that you put yourself through awful shit for reasons that I don’t understand. Because I know you don’t give a rat’s ass about Tonin.”
“That’s not true,” I begin, rushing to disabuse him of his very accurate observations. “I–”
“Stop it!” he snaps, but not unkindly. It just seems that he’s as tired of my lies as I am. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’d rather you not answer, I’d rather you not say a damn word than to lie to me.”
I search his eyes. For what I don’t know. All I find is sincerity. “All right then. No more lies.”
“Good,” he says, exhaling, his breath ruffling the hair at my temples that has escaped my up-do. “That’s a start. Now if I can just make some progress elsewhere.” He rolls his eyes and sighs in exaggerated frustration.
“Like where?” I ask, trying not to smile. For some reason, he just makes me feel light. And happy. And carefree. Only I’m not. I’m about as not carefree as they come.
“Like you trusting me. Like you opening up a little.”
“I told you–”
“I know, I know, but I think you’re caving. Bit by bit.”
“You do? And why is that?”
“Well, let’s see. You’re here at my house without a gun to your head.”
This time I do smile. “As far as I can recall, I’ve never been to your house with a gun to my head either.”
“See? Caving. That’s progress,” he says, taking a step even closer. His hand moves down to my left shoulder, which is bared by the stretched neck of the shirt I’m wearing. He slips a finger just inside and follows the wrecked hem around to my chest. I catch and hold my breath. I know I should back away. In fact, I shouldn’t even still be here. But I can’t go. Not just yet. “Also, I can tell by what you’re wearing that you’re getting soft toward me.”
“By my clothes? Why?”
“Yep. You’re finally wearing something that doesn’t belong in a New York City boardroom. Or a club. And I sooo like it.”
His eyes flicker down to where his finger still hangs just inside my neckline, the warm digit like a brand against my skin.
“You don’t like the way I dress?” I ask, hating that my voice is so obviously breathless.
“You’re gorgeous in anything you put on, but I have my favorites.”
His eyes glow, like they’re backlit with fire. And I can feel the heat. Oh god, can I feel the heat! “And what are your favorites?”
I shouldn’t ask. I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m playing with that very same fire. But the only burn I’m worried about at the moment is the one that comes from my body as it strains toward Sig’s.