Page 184 of Micah
“I guess so,” I whisper.
I can’t recall the last time someone bought me a present.
It’s not flowers or jewelry, but it feels big to me.
Very big.
His eyes lock with mine.
“Good. So that’s all this is. A present from me to you, okay?”
It's impossible to argue with his logic.
“You're impossible,” I mumble, though there's no heat behind it.
A corner of his mouth twitches.
“So I've been told.”
“But—”
“No buts.” His voice softens, and he reaches out, his fingertips brushing gently against my wrist before dropping away again, as though he isn't quite sure how much touching is allowed. “Let me do this for you.”
Something in the way he says it makes my throat tighten.
Not demanding. Or controlling. Just certain.
Like helping me is as natural to him as breathing.
Then his expression turns serious again.
“Now,” he says quietly, “have you been worrying about the bar?”
I nod.
“A little.”
“And Patrick.”
That one isn't a question.
Before I can ask what he means?—
“You didn't tell her?” Benji blurts from the table.
Micah cuts him a look sharp enough to stop a charging bull.
“Not yet.”
Benji lifts both hands.
“My bad.”
The room goes quiet.
When Micah turns back to me, all the hardness leaves his face.
His voice drops.
