The film hadn’t sold out, and he left Sara standing in line to get in while he dealt with the ticket seller. They were starting to let people inside when he joined her, and they found a pair of seats toward the back.
She popped up as soon as they’d sat down. “Popcorn,” she announced. “I need popcorn. Want anything?”
“A Coke would be good.”
The lights were coming down as she came back, juggling a bag of popcorn and two sodas. She sat, putting her drink on the floor and holding the bag on her lap. “I hope you weren’t expecting me to share,” she whispered, the soft glow of the screen lighting her face as she grinned. It sparked something inside him, something warmer, more intimate than desire. Something far more dangerous.
Then she handed him a napkin.
Like she had in the hotel room, she forgot about him minutes into the opening scenes, hand dipping into the bag absently. Having to continually scan the writing at the bottom of the screen kept him from the same immersion she was experiencing, and he wondered how he might be able to get her to watch something in English next time. If he was going to be trapped in the dark with her, he needed something more engaging so he wasn’t passing the time thinking of what she looked like under her clothes.
Going for a handful of popcorn, he reached down for his soda at the same time and didn’t notice Sara’s hand heading for the bag as well. Their fingers brushed against each other and she froze. He didn’t give her a chance to pull back. He scooped out the popcorn he’d come for and withdrew his hand, covering his smirk with his hand as hers stayed in the bag a few seconds longer.
A tiny step of progress.
She’d probably expected him to try and hold her hand. Hardly. It had been a complaint he’d heard quite frequently from women he’d dated in the past, his lack of obvious affection in public. Fights usually ensued, and break ups followed, all because he wasn’t willing to break long-held habits.
With Sara, he wouldn’t want to stop at holding her hand. The slender waist and rounded hips begged to be held closer. And those were not the thoughts he should be thinking in the dark when he didn’t have anything to distract him.
The movie ended, and the lights came back up. He studiously kept his eyes off her ass as he followed her out of the theater. Blinking in the brightness of the theater lobby, she tilted her head. “Hungry? There’s a good Thai restaurant a few blocks from here.”
More progress. He grinned. “Sure.”
Chapter Six
“I told you I had plans for them.” Taylor stared at the tickets on his desk, half listening to Paul’s pleadings. “Sorry, man. They’re mine, and I’m going to use them.” Unless Sara said no. She might.
He’d have to find a way to convince her to go.
Paul grumbled and hung up, and he contemplated the tickets a moment longer. The NCAA tournament tickets had been difficult to come by. Pulling some alumni strings had gotten him into the session, although they’d miss the Carolina game. He had to settle for West Virginia.
Did she even like basketball? She’d asked him about the Carolina/Duke rivalry. It was the main reason he’d gone after the tickets. He couldn’t imagine someone who wasn’t at least a casual college ball fan paying attention to the animosity between the two schools.
Fuck it. He was acting like a pussy. Scooping up the tickets, he stuck his head out into the hallway, making sure it was empty. While he knew their lunches were fueling office gossip, he preferred to keep it to a minimum. So, it seemed, did Sara. Not that there was much to gossip about. Yet.
Skittery. As careful as he was not to surprise her or catch her unawares, sometimes it couldn’t be helped. She no longer jumped, and sometimes he caught a flash of fear in her eyes, but it was becoming less and less frequent. He wanted it completely gone.
He wanted to strangle whoever had done this to her.
He needed her to feel safe with him. Wanted to see her confidence in full bloom. He wouldn’t feel comfortable asking for more without it.
The hallway was empty, and he strolled down to Sara’s office. Her smile had subtle changes from when he’d first seen it, the warm, approachable expression taking on something a bit more personal. Something she only brought out for him. A sweet warmth expanded in his chest whenever he saw it, and he hoarded it, craving more.
“What’s up?” Sara sat back in her chair, and he wondered if her shoes were off, lying under her desk.
That had been an interesting scrap. He’d startled her about a week ago to the point where she’d shot to her feet and he got a good look at the socks she was wearing that day. Polka dots. Bright blue and pink polka dots on a black background.
He drew out the tickets. “Session tickets. New Mexico versus Creighton, and West Virginia versus Dayton. Tomorrow.”
She actually squealed, then clapped a hand over her mouth, her gaze going to her open office door. Darting around her desk, she plucked them from his hand and grinned, an almost manic light in her eyes. “I thought the sessions were all sold out. How did you get these?”
He kept his surprise at her response to himself. “Carolina alumnus, remember? They’re in the tournament. I called around, found someone who couldn’t use his. Thought maybe you’d want to go.” He stole a peek at her socks. Dogs? He swore there were dogs on her socks today.
“Yes. Oh. My. God. Yes. I’ll even pay for the beer. Or the hot dogs. Or both.” She plucked the tickets from his hand and danced around the desk, and he had to laugh at her face as she cooed over the tickets in her hand. She glared at him. “Shut up. I love West Virginia basketball.”
“School pride?” When she’d evaded his two previous questions on where she’d moved from, he’d only grown more curious.
“Nah. Attended Cal Poly.” Her response was absent as she stroked the tickets in her hand. “My dad’s really into college ball, though, and I’d help him with his bracket for the tournament every year.” She stopped hopping, her stillness so absolute she could have given lessons to a squirrel. Too late, he saw his mistake. She’d admitted something she’d avoided before.
“Why West Virginia?”
She shrugged it off, the movement jerky. “The first time I really remember them being in the tournament was like, 2006. They weren’t one of the big name flashy teams, like Kentucky, and I thought they were…scrappy. You know?” A faint blush stole over her cheeks, and she handed the tickets back to him. “Anyway. West Virginia’s been my team ever since. Well, them and the Zags.” She sat, relaxing now that the desk was between them. “I can’t make it to the first game. Too much to do. That okay?” He nodded. “I’ll need to head home and change before, too. What time do you want to meet?”
He pushed back at the offer on the tip of his tongue, to come pick her up. Better if she met him at the arena. The idea of her riding the bus alone, late at night, sparked a fierce protective urge inside. Compromise. He’d let her take the bus there. Then he was giving her a ride home. “Five thirty?”
She grinned, and he got to his feet, intent on leaving before he did anything else that might step over some invisible boundary. He hesitated at the door. “Rebekah Cross is doing a reading and a signing at Powell’s this weekend. Three o’clock, Saturday. I could pick you up around two.”
Fuck. He scanned his mental catalogue of info. Had she said Cross was a favorite author? She hadn’t. He scrambled for a plausible lie. He didn’t want her to freak out on him if she realized he’d figured that out just by paying attention to her.
She blinked, once, twice, before her head bobbed. “Okay,” she whispered.
* * *
The cold snuck through his sweatshirt from the cement pillar at his back. Hands in his pockets, he scanned the crowd pouring into the Rose Garden. He hadn’t spoken to Sara since he’d left her office yesterday, and while he assumed she’d show up or otherwise text him if she was running late, there was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind.
The invitation to the book signing was something he’d thought o
f doing a while ago and ultimately decided against. He hadn’t quite been ready to let her know how closely he’d been paying attention. It had slipped out anyway, and if it hadn’t been for his offer to pick her up, it wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary for them now.
It hadn’t taken long to figure out that the big gestures needed to be Sara’s move if this relationship was going to go the way he hoped. The gradual buildup of information, likes, dislikes, even hobbies, was natural and plausible for a casual friendship. The film festival movies, the game tonight took it a step further. Willingly attending a book signing she’d probably rightly figure would bore him? Another step. A big one.
But she’d said yes. So assuming this evening didn’t go down in flames, he’d be picking her up Saturday afternoon at two.
He spotted Sara coming toward him, and stayed as he was. She’d find him. And it gave him a few moments to pull his head back into the present. To wipe clean the inappropriate thoughts of how good her ass would look in her jeans, and to forget about the vaguely disturbing email from his younger brother Jamie. Tony had sent one of his men around to casually inquire how he was doing. Jamie didn’t think anything would come of it, since he hadn’t been dumb enough to fall for the man’s false interest and tell him where Taylor was living.
But if Tony wanted to find him, he would.
Sara’s face brightened when she saw him, and she came bounding up, excitement radiating from her. “This is going to be fucking awesome.”
Another thing he liked about Sara. Outside of work, she had a mouth like a trucker.
She chattered on as they joined the masses entering the arena, spouting player stats and commenting on the dubious sexual practices of the opposing team’s starting five. Her level of knowledge was impressive, her snarky opinions pushing away dark thoughts of Tony and what he might want. The grin formed and stayed put as they found their seats, and she popped back up again. “Beers. Stay. I’ll be back. You hungry?”
“You won’t be able to carry two beers plus food without someone bumping into you.” He gave her a gentle push toward the center aisle, and they inched through the crowd toward the concession stand.
The throngs pressed in, and his hand found its way to the small of her back, keeping her close. Safer, he reasoned, than sliding his arm around her waist.
What would she do if he’d done that instead? Would she let him, or ease away so she didn’t offend him?
She’d stiffened slightly at the first touch, the tension dropping almost immediately. He’d made the right choice, then, waiting a while longer to hold her, press her against his side.
He left his wallet in his pocket when it came time to pay. She’d insisted, after all. He always took her at her word. They had a deliberate, delicate balance, one he could sense was important to her. She needed a measure of control, an escape hatch.
Hands full, they braved the crush to find their seats again. Any attempts to restart the conversation would have been cut off, because Sara leaned forward, beer clutched in one hand, hot dog in the other, and looked to be holding her breath while the players arranged themselves on the court.
Dayton grabbed control of the ball at tip-off, and they settled into the hypnotic rhythm of the game. Dayton’s point guard was good, excellent even, running the show from the top of the key like a seasoned conductor, although Taylor was pretty sure Sara had said he was a freshman. The ball whipped around the court, sailing through the air, bouncing off the rim and landing in the huge hands of West Virginia’s center.
Back and forth, up and down the court, the noise level rising and falling depending on the action below. Sara’s hand slapped down on his thigh more than once, and she caught his fingers and strangled them during a particularly fraught battle for control. The warm pressure of her hand on his imprinted on his brain, and he shifted her grip so he was more comfortable, waiting to see if she’d notice. She didn’t, merely squeezed and relaxed, squeezed and relaxed, as the intensity of the game kept her on the edge of her seat. She craned her neck when he edged past her and returned ten minutes later with two bottles of water. She smiled her thanks as she took it from him before giving her attention to the court.
As focused as she was on the game, she didn’t catch him sneaking glances. He’d remember this for certain. Little Sara Andrews went nuts for WVU basketball. The way she lit up, her guard completely down, the pure joy on her face had him thinking of more ways to bring that out. Maybe they’d take in a Timbers match. He’d never been to a soccer match before. He wondered if her enthusiasm extended beyond college ball to other sports.
Only one way to find out.
Her energy level remained up after the game. “Want to grab a drink?” he asked.
When she tried to talk, though, she winced, and he was right there with her. She’d screamed most of the game and her voice was shredded. “Ow,” she whispered. “Fuck fuck fuck ow.”
He chuckled. “Hot tea. Hot water, at least. I’ve heard it’s what Hawks fans drink after games.” Or drank once they’d left the bar for the safety of their own homes. The decibel level in the Rose Garden was nothing compared to the volume at the CLink, home of the Seattle Seahawks. He’d gone to his first game the previous fall, and his buddy and tour guide had been mute by the time the game was over.
Outside, a mist had settled over the city, dampening the streets. There had to be a quiet bar or cafe where she could get a cup of hot tea before he drove her home for the night.
Hand at her lower back, they picked their way through the crowd and headed away from where most of the fans had congregated. It grew quieter as the blocks passed, the fans streaming in the opposite direction. Up ahead, glowing lights highlighted an awning. By unspoken agreement, they headed for the lights.
It was a tiny bar, less than half full. He waited until she’d climbed up on stool at a high table in the corner and went to the bar. “Terminator and a cup of hot water with lemon.”
The bartender nodded and busied himself filling the order. Taylor took the opportunity to scan the space. Very much out of the way. No one they knew would see them here. It was the kind of place they could carry on an intimate conversation without the possibility of being caught by anyone they knew. Too bad her voice was shot. It was an otherwise excellent opportunity to learn more about her.
“Five bucks.” There was a thunk as the pint glass was set on the bar, and he dug some bills out of his wallet. He carried his beer and the hot water over to the table.
Her whimper at the first sip froze his hand to his glass. He could instantly imagine a hundred other scenarios where she’d make the same noise. All of them involved her at least partially undressed. Straddling him. Wrapped around him. Molded to him as he took her mouth, slow and deep and thorough.
The beer did nothing to chase the images away.
“Thanks,” she rasped out when her glass mug hit the half empty point. She winced at the words. “Scratchy as shit.”
“Probably will be for a while. Sleep should do the rest.”
On impulse, he covered her hand with his, curved his fingers around it. She stared at their hands, her gaze slowly coming up to meet his, awareness clashing with confusion in her eyes. No fear. Not even a trace of it. Pink flushed her cheeks, but she kept her hand in his as she finished off her water.
He helped her off the stool, and she smiled up at him. His smile. The one she kept for him. A hot bolt of possessiveness lanced his gut, and he embraced it.
The mist was still hanging around, the streets deserted now that the game was over. Time to make his offer. Cupping her elbow, he waited for her startled jerk and stiffness. It didn’t come. Instead, she stopped, a curious expression on her face.
“It’s late.” His voice was quiet. “You can insist all you want you’ll be perfectly safe once you get on the bus, but I’d feel better if you’d let me give you a ride home.”
She stared up at him, lips parted. Mist slowly became rain, the drops growing fat and hitting the sidewalk w
ith a slight patter. He was willing to stand there until she gave him the answer he was looking for, wet clothes and all. A drop hit her cheek, and he clenched his hands at his sides to keep from brushing his thumb over her cheek. Too soft. Too intimate. Not yet.
She wiped it away, frowning at the moisture it left behind on her fingers. Finally she nodded. “I’m out near Reed College,” she rasped.
Bonus points. It wasn’t too far out of his way.
He jolted as she threw her arms around his neck. She squeezed him in a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He wasn’t sure if she meant for the game or the ride, and he decided he didn’t care.
Chapter Seven
There was no reason for her to be nervous. Taylor was picking her up. Big woo. That didn’t stop Sara from pacing her living room, pausing every so often to peek through the sheer curtains covering the windows.
The closer it got to two, the more nervous she got. Why, oh why did she have to hug him? It had been the wrong move. His arms had been hesitant as they’d crept around her, the embrace loose. All that had been missing was the awkward pat on the back. There, there. Now get away.
It was really damn sad she’d gotten more out of the hug than she’d gotten from the handful of kisses she’d had over the last two years.
She couldn’t understand why he’d been surprised. He’d held her frickin’ hand in the bar. Friends didn’t hold hands. Or at least, she didn’t hold hands with her friends. Hadn’t since kindergarten. But the hug seemed to have thrown him, and she’d spent far too much time wondering if she’d been misinterpreting the little signs he’d given her.
Nerves had her checking, for the fifth time, that she’d remembered to stick her copy of Invisible Wounds in her purse. Her hands trembled as she glanced at the clock. Two minutes to go. He would be on time. It’s how he was.
Hidden Scars Page 5
