Hidden Scars

by Amanda K. Byrne

  She could do this. Hug aside, Taylor never would have asked if she wanted to attend the reading if he wasn’t interested in spending time with her. If it turned out she had been wrong, and the attraction was all on her end, she’d still have made a new friend. In the weeks they’d been hanging out, she’d found herself a lot more comfortable around him — and that was a huge step forward for her. The strong possibility she could actually have a normal, caring relationship someday, thanks to Taylor’s patience with her anxiety, far outweighed the disappointment that said relationship might not be with him.

  The knock at the door had her springing off the sofa, heart slamming against her rib cage. Breathe, you moron. Air went in, air went out. She repeated the process twice more on her way to answer the door.

  Taylor stood on her porch, hands tucked in his pockets. His lips tipped up in a quiet smile when he saw her, and she had to remind herself to breathe again. Passing out would give him the wrong idea.

  Her own lips stretched in answer, and she stepped back and waved him inside. If he’d been anyone else, she would have taken a few precious minutes to show him the house, rambled on about the plans she had for painting the rooms, replacing the cabinets in the kitchen and bathrooms, fixing up the yard once she learned a thing or two about gardening. She said none of these things, pulling a jacket from the hall closet instead and slipping it on.

  She loved how they didn’t need to talk. By now, any one of her friends would have been nattering away, and so far he’d managed this entire exchange without a single word. It was calming, in a weird way, his silence. It went a long way toward eliminating her jitters over the botched hug from the other night.

  She set her alarm, locked the door, and walked down the steps to the car.

  Powell’s was crowded. Far more crowded than she’d expected. Rebekah Cross might be a best-selling author, and a homegrown one at that, but Sara’d seen the difference between genre author signings and snooty book award winning author signings, and Rebekah Cross definitely fell into the snooty book award winning category. There was a line out the door when the author of an insanely popular series of vampire books had stopped in, and she hadn’t even done a reading.

  They wove around tables and other patrons to the room where the reading would take place, Taylor’s hand on her lower back. She was getting used to it there. And if she found herself wishing he’d maybe slide his arm around her waist, well, the man wasn’t a mind reader.

  She wished she had the confidence to move his hand to her hip, snuggle into his side. Someday. Maybe someday soon.

  While the room wasn’t crammed full, all of the seats were taken. They found a spot in the back, and he stood behind her, ensuring her personal bubble wouldn’t be violated. The sweetly protective gesture made her smile. She took off her jacket and folded it over her arm.

  She could feel the heat of him behind her. Close behind her. Closer than he needed to be. What would happen if she stepped back, leaned against his chest? Better not tempt fate. She faced him instead. The reading wouldn’t start for another ten minutes, and she didn’t particularly want to carry on a conversation over her shoulder. “Thanks for mentioning this to me. I doubt I would have remembered if you hadn’t said something.”

  He nodded once, his face in its usual inscrutable mode. Carefully blank. Meant to appear non-threatening. To melt into the background. Like the rest of him. If she hadn’t seen his tattoo all those weeks ago, she might not be here.

  No, she would. Just not with Taylor.

  “How did you know I liked Rebekah Cross?” She was almost certain it had never come up in conversation, although she’d talked about books often enough, it was possible. And he had this uncanny ability to remember the tiniest detail.

  For a split second, he looked uncomfortable. It smoothed out as quickly as it came on. “You were reading one of her books at lunch a while ago. Invisible Wounds.”

  He really remembered the tiniest details. She’d reread Wounds almost two months ago.

  Someone tried to squeeze past her, sending her stumbling forward. She threw out her hands on instinct to catch herself and they connected with Taylor’s chest. Heat flared over her cheeks when he caught her hips, steadying her. “Sorry,” she mumbled, jerking back and peering up at him through her lashes.

  His hands stayed on her hips.

  His expression didn’t offer an explanation. Stupid to expect one there. Stupid to expect an explanation at all. By now she knew he didn’t do anything unless he meant it. Tilting her chin up, she took a step forward, forcing his hands to slide from her hips to her lower back, the steady buzz of the room around them muting to a low drone as their eyes remained locked. She could stroke a hand up, over his chest, along his neck, tug his head down to hers. Find out if his lips were firm or soft or both. Find out if he ever lost control. She wanted to see it, wanted to be the one to make him lose it. Their kiss wouldn’t be tentative and searching. It would be pure heat, setting fire to the blood. Heart pounding furiously, mouth dry, she let her gaze drift to his mouth. Need trickled in and warmed her, softened her, had her leaning forward and inching a hand up his chest, imagining what he’d taste like. Temptation, she decided. Temptation and freedom.

  The sharp slap of dozens of hands clapping snapped her back to the present. Had she really been thinking of kissing him? In a crowded room? If their first kiss came anywhere close to what she’d built up in her head, she didn’t want to be here. They might end up arrested for public indecency.

  Desire a vibrant hum under her skin, she turned around and leaned against his chest, her hands coming down to cover his, bringing his arms tighter around her waist.

  * * *

  The words kept blurring. Blinking didn’t help. She was tired. And frustrated. Sexually frustrated, to be specific. Now that she’d had Taylor’s hands on her, on someplace other than her lower back, the need to feel them everywhere had morphed into a powerful craving. The restaurant was busy, Sunday brunch patrons chattering as Sara and Megan studied their menus. The reason Sara hadn’t canceled her brunch date with her friend was because she had no desire to be alone with only her thoughts for company.

  “All right. Spill.”

  Sara set her menu down. “Spill what?”

  Megan grinned at her, her blue eyes dancing. “Playing coy won’t work. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone before I made Brian come to the bout?”

  She frowned. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “Oh, come on. I’m not asking for all the dirty stuff. I think it’s pretty awesome. You never really seem to be interested in dating. Although he’s not the kind of guy I picture you with, you know? Pretty quiet. It’s new, isn’t it?”

  Christ. Megan was talking about Taylor. “Taylor and I aren’t dating. We work together. And we’re—” We’re what? Friends? Friends who were now officially awkward?

  He’d kept his arms wrapped around her while Rebekah Cross read from her newest book. Didn’t say a word when she had to wipe away the tears slipping down her cheeks. Invisible Wounds had torn her open in a way no other story had, and after hearing the passages Rebekah had selected from her newest, Rafter Dancing, she knew she’d have to stock up on tissue before she read it.

  She’d been on the edge of losing it and breaking down completely the rest of the afternoon. He must have figured something was off, because he’d taken her straight home instead of grabbing coffee like they’d planned. He’d tucked her loose hair behind her ear before she’d gotten out of the car, and it had been more than she could handle. She would either throw herself at him or run away screaming.

  The tears hadn’t freaked him out. He’d simply looked at her in that calm, intense way of his and told her he’d see her on Monday.

  “Hey.” Megan stretched a hand across the table. “I’m sorry. I thought you guys were together.”

  She pushed her lips up, hoping a smile would steer the conversation away from the topic of Taylor. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine.
It so wasn’t fine. She rubbed her hands over her face. “Shit.” Her fingers twined themselves in her hair and yanked. “I’m fucking screwed. This isn’t what I wanted, you know? I wanted to ease into the more serious end of dating, start by seeing someone for a whole month, maybe two, actually get to know them.” Which was what she’d been doing with Taylor. Her horror grew. “It’s all my fault. I had to let my curiosity get the best of me and try and get to know the guy and now it’s all getting out of control and it sucks, because I can’t handle anything other than super uber casual and we have to work together, which automatically makes everything worse.” She shut her eyes in defeat, slumping down in her chair.

  The continuing silence from the other side of the table had her opening them again. Megan was grinning at her like an idiot. “I honestly never thought I’d see this. Awesomeness.” She sobered when Sara glared at her. “No, this is a good thing. I know dating again after a nasty break up is difficult, and unlike a lot of people I know, you really did seem okay with being single. But if this guy’s so different, maybe that’s what you need to feel comfortable wading back into the relationship end of the pool, instead of sticking with the ‘three dates and I’m gone’ pile of pickings.”

  Megan reached for her mimosa. “I think he’s interested. You didn’t see the way he was looking at you after the bout. All intense and focused, like you’re the only one in the room.”

  Sara burst out laughing. “Taylor’s like that with everyone he has a conversation with. He’s an intense kind of guy. There’s no scary vibe coming off it, which is good, but yeah, I’m not special there.”

  “And I’m not sold,” Megan said, doubt lacing her tone. “Why don’t you ask him out or something? Satisfy your curiosity. Better yet, kiss him.”

  Yeah, because kissing Taylor was the best idea she’d heard in ages.

  She managed to steer Megan clear of dating and Taylor and their non-dating relationship for the rest of brunch, then begged off, saying she had to run errands. Instead she headed home, intending to spend the rest of the day with her new library book.

  Her plans changed when her phone buzzed with a text from Jeremy. He wouldn’t be in tomorrow. She could handle finishing the proposal without him, couldn’t she?

  Gritting her teeth, she forced her fingers to relax their death grip on her phone. Of course she could finish the proposal without him. Just like she’d written the last four proposals without him contributing a single word.

  Bringing it up to Larry wouldn’t do any good. No, if she wanted to fix this problem, she’d have to remove herself from the equation.

  She’d been growing more and more unhappy with the atmosphere at work, with Kaylin constantly pestering her for gossip, Larry’s insistence on a team atmosphere, and Jeremy’s laziness and general incompetence. While she’d liked her job before, she was fast approaching the point where she was staying because of the salary she commanded.

  Leaving Jones, Madison, and Compton would solve a few problems. She’d have a new challenge and she wouldn’t have to clean up the messes others made with their clients. The downside would be she couldn’t see Taylor every day.

  She worried her bottom lip. Could their fledgling friendship survive a job change? Would he still seek her out if he had to call or text her to make plans, rather than walk down the hall to her office?

  If she left, could it open the door for them to become more than friends?

  She bit hard into her lip, chasing the thoughts away. Taylor couldn’t be her reason for doing this. She was doing this for her, and her peace of mind. Rubbing her palms along her thighs, she got to her feet. Her resume needed to be updated and polished. She’d have to familiarize herself all over again with other firms in the area. A lot had to have changed in the last seven years. And this time, she wasn’t looking for a job to take her away from a horrific and embarrassing situation. She could take her time, make sure it was a good fit.

  Her phone buzzed with another incoming text message, and she scowled as she backtracked to retrieve it. When she glanced at the screen, though, her scowl faded, nerves fluttering to life in her belly. Yesterday’s reading must not have scared Taylor off, because he was inviting her to a Timbers match.

  The fluttering kicked into a higher gear. When is it?

  March 29th. Playing Real Salt Lake.

  Future plans. Not something a few days away, but two whole weeks. Her lips spread in a giddy smile. He wanted to see her again. Her thumbs shook as she typed in her answer. Yes.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday. Tuesday. Nothing more than a quick hello, a few words on a client. Sara dug her fingers into the edge of her desk, desperate to relieve some of the tension. It didn’t help. Her stomach clenched at the thought of food, nerves making her jumpy. All over the thought of a simple kiss.

  She’d built it up into this gorgeous, sweeping gesture that would forever alter the course of their relationship, when in truth, it’d probably just move them from spending time together as friends to spending time together as more than friends.

  Her open door mocked her. Why was she waiting? Why keep putting it off? If she was going to do this, it should be now, before she could talk herself out of it.

  Taylor’s head came up as soon as she stepped into his office, his smile of greeting tightening the knots in her stomach. “Hey.”

  He had no idea what that smile did to her. Trouble. She was in so much trouble. “Hey, yourself.” She shut the door, flushing when he raised a brow. “Um.” Shit. Whatever she thought she’d say, she’d lost it. “Saturday…” The words refused to come.

  He slouched in his chair, that damn brow going up again. “Want to get a drink after work? Talk then?”

  Relief unfurled in her chest. What was she thinking, wanting to have a personal discussion at work, where anyone could walk in and interrupt them? She nodded, then stood there. “What are we doing?” The words came tumbling out, and as soon as they were, she squeezed her eyes shut. “Sorry,” she whispered. As if an apology would unask the pathetic question.

  “Come here.” Her eyes popped open. He’d come around his desk and was sitting on the edge. She took his outstretched hand and stepped between his legs, her hands on his thighs as his rested on her hips. His hold was loose enough she could get away if she wanted. Her skin warmed at the contact, and she wanted him to tighten his hold, push through her nerves and just take, for once.

  So damn careful. “I’m not fragile,” she said, irritated. Her heels brought her to eye level with him, and she caught the hint of amusement in his eyes.

  His hands tightened on her hips, drawing her close enough she could smell his aftershave. “Better?” Oh yeah, definitely amused. “I don’t know, Sara. Haven’t given it any thought.”

  No, he wouldn’t. He didn’t strike her as the kind of person who sat around wondering about other people’s intentions. She ought to take her cues from him. “Probably a good idea. Less angst.” A stray lock of hair had flopped over his forehead, and she pushed it off, hesitating as her fingers slid into his hair. The silky warmth sent a tingle up her arm, and she leaned in, his breath warm on her lips. She flicked her gaze to his mouth, then back up to his eyes, sharp and aware. She wanted this. Craved it.

  There could be no hesitancy if she was going to make this move.

  But she held still, unable to close those few inches between them. She couldn’t do it here. It was the same as it was with the conversation they needed to have — anyone could walk in and interrupt, and this was too important to her to allow that possibility. Now she did ease back, intent on leaving before she changed her mind.

  She froze when his hand closed over her wrist.

  Just like that, her loopy, squishy, lusty feelings dried up and died, the spark of fear taking over. He dropped her wrist, staying as he was. Smart man. She wasn’t afraid of him. It was nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction, one she hadn’t quite managed to get rid of. Yet. Thanks to Taylor, she was working on it.

  Sh
e forced herself to meet his eyes, saw the anger glittering in their depths. “Did he hit you?” He had amazing control. There was no anger, no malice in his voice. Only calm.

  It gave her the strength to leave. “Not all scars are visible.” She opened the door, checked the hallway, and walked to her office.

  * * *

  She didn’t miss the almost affectionate shake of the bartender’s head as they wound through the tables to their usual booth. Though she did appreciate how their drinks appeared as soon as they’d gotten comfortable. The sweet potato fries would probably follow.

  Sure enough, the fries showed up next.

  Taylor studied her from the other side of the table. “Ever heard of Charlestown?”

  “Charleston? South Carolina, right?” She decided to risk her fingers and picked up a fry, wincing as it singed her fingertips.

  “Not Charleston. Charlestown. It’s a neighborhood in Boston.” Despite his relaxed demeanor, Sara went on alert. Taylor didn’t talk much about his family or his childhood. Then again, neither did she. She curved her hands around her glass and waited.

  “It’s a good neighborhood. Friendly neighbors, pretty working class, or it used to be. Lots of Irish. Been gentrified over the last ten, fifteen years. Gentrification is a slow process, though, and it can take a while to push the unsavory element out.

  “My folks are good people. So are my brothers. Didn’t stop me from running with Tony’s crew. Unofficially. They never fully accepted me into their ranks, which meant I could come and go as I pleased, without too much hassle. They left my family alone. But being affiliated with the gang meant I saw more than my share of fights. Got into more than my share of them.” His fingers flexed on his glass, and he stared down at it, a faint line appearing between his brows.

  The scars on his chest must have come from his old life. She mulled it over, this new side to him, and decided it fit. “Were you always quiet? Even then?”

  He nodded. “You learn more by observing. Listening. And you’re less likely to be a target.”