Page 60 of Colt
I let her. I turned my hand over under the table and pressed it flat against my thigh and said nothing.
“Thank you,” she said. “For seeing me like that. Most people just see a single mom.”
“Most people are idiots.”
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine. God, I’d missed that sound. Missed the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the way her whole face lit up.
“You’re staring,” she said, a blush creeping up her cheeks.
I wasn’t about to apologize. “Can you blame me?”
Her blush deepened, and she looked down at her plate, but she was smiling.
Chapter 23
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— Colt —
She’d kissed me. For the first time in seven years, mywifehadkissedme. I’d felt her lean in before it happened—the slight shift of weight, her hand coming up to press flat against my chest. And then her mouth was on mine, soft and careful, and every muscle in my body had locked down at once.
She was leading. That was the only thing that had mattered. I’d kept my hand on the door frame and I did not move, did not pull her closer, did not do any of the ten things my body was screaming at me to do. I’d just breathed through it and let her have whatever she’d needed from that moment. I counted the seconds because I knew it wasn’t going to last long and I wanted to remember every one of them.
Three. Maybe four.
She’d pulled back, and I’d opened my eyes.
Her hand was still on my chest. I could feel the warmth of it through the shirt like a brand. Her face was close enough that I could see the slight part of her lips, the uncertainty working its way back into her expression.
“I don’t know why I did that,” she’d said.
My voice, when it came, wasn’t entirely steady. “I’m not complaining.”
That almost got a smile. She drew her hand back slowly and folded it in her lap, and I made myself straighten up, mademyself give her room. Everything in me wanted to close the space back down. I didn’t.
Instead, I’d reached over and closed the door myself.
I stood in that parking lot for a count of three and talked myself into being calm. Then I got back in the truck.
The drive back, I kept it light. Made her laugh once. She’d turned the radio on, hit some old station by accident, and the song that came through was one we’d danced to at an MC wedding, second year we were together. She didn’t know that. She just let it play, her fingers quiet in her lap.
I let myself have those four minutes and nothing else.
At Betty’s I told her to stay and came around to her side. Opened the door. Held out my hand. She took it without hesitating. When she was standing on the gravel she looked up at me in the porch light, and I thoughtI would wait another seven years if that’s what it took.
I kept that to myself.
“I’m not—I’m not ready for—” she started.
“I know.” I kept my voice even. “One thing at a time, Lil. One thing at a time.”
Her shoulders settled. I stepped back. I tapped the roof of the cab twice—our old signal, the one she didn’t remember—and let her go.
“Goodnight, Colt.”
“Goodnight, baby.”
It came out before I could catch it. I saw her pause—just a fraction—and an expression crossed her face I couldn’t name. Not memory. Not quite. But something adjacent to it. Her body remembered even if she didn’t.
