Page 60 of Bitter’s Sweet

His expression locks up. The word slips between us and lights a match.

I should take it back. I should laugh and say I’m kidding, because Bitter looks like he might bolt straight into traffic or kiss me just to shut me up, and I’m not sure which would be worse.

Except the closer he steps, the more my traitorous body votes for the second option.

My attention drops to his mouth. I remember that mouth smiling when I rejected him, imagine what it would feel like losing that smile against mine, rough beard against my skin, one big hand curling around my hip. The thought comes hot and fast enough that I have to tighten my fingers around my phone.

He steps closer. “Careful, Sweet.”

“With what?”

“Putting names on things.”

I lift my chin. “I thought names didn’t bother you.”

“Some names do.”

“Like Lena?”

His eyes darken.

I wish I had not said it. Again. I am usually better than this, but he gets under my skin too easily, and I don’t like being the only one with exposed nerves.

“I’m sorry,” I say before he can answer. “That was mean.”

“Yeah.”

“You were being bossy.”

“Also yeah.”

A little laugh escapes me.

His mouth softens at one corner. “You always admit when you’re mean?”

“I try to. My mama said if you’re gonna be ugly, at least clean up after yourself.”

“Smart woman.”

“She was.”

The past tense hangs there.

Bitter hears it. I know because his gaze flicks over my face, careful now, like he’s cataloging every crack and deciding which ones not to touch.

“Was?”

“Not today.”

He nods once.

Fair.

That nod does something to me. It isn’t tenderness exactly. It isn’t permission. It’s respect, and I have been hungrier for that than I like admitting. The same man who has spent all day pushing and ordering and deciding suddenly finds one place I tell him not to go and stops at the line.

I notice.

I wish I didn’t.