Reynolds

Is he seriously trying to pick her up when I’m right fucking here?

“If it were me you were talking to, doll, I wouldn’t have stood you up.”

“Just wondering what the title for my murder documentary will be,” I tell him without thinking.

“What?” His brows drag together as he lets out a low chuckle.

“Well, I don’t have my phone, I hardly know you, and now I’m in your car, and no one knows where I am.” I shrug one shoulder.

“Since I just had my tongue in your mouth and you were making that hot-as-fuck noise down my throat not that long ago, I’m trying to figure out why you’re suddenly set on keeping distance between us.”

“Talk to me. What has you freaked out now?”

“You being on top of me and not getting off,” I pant, and he stills completely.

“I would never hurt you.” His voice is so deep it vibrates across my skin, causing goose bumps to break out in its wake. “Did someone…?” I feel his muscles bunch under my fingers as his eyes scan over my face.

“No.” I stop trying to push him away while I slide my hands up to his shoulders, hoping to reassure him, because he looks about ready to come out of his skin. “Never,”

“Sorry I’m late.” He places his hand against my stomach, pushing me back into the house, then closes the door as I blink at him. “I would have called, but my cell isn’t working.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket—or what’s left of it, anyway.

“Some dickhead on a motorcycle almost ran me over when I was walking across the street to pick up your flowers.” He shakes his head. “He missed, but when I jumped to get out of his way, I was sideswiped by a truck going the opposite direction.”

He stands and takes off his jacket and probably thinks I don’t notice the way he holds his breath, but I do. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I’m—”

“If you say you’re fine one more time, I’m going to scream,” I hiss, and he grins like he thinks I’m cute, then takes a seat and reaches for my hand.

“So you think someone purposely shot at my house?”

“Or someone purposely shot at you or me,” he says, and a sense of dread fills the pit of my stomach.

“Talk to me. Tell me what’s got you so freaked.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” I whisper against his chest, and his fingers slide back into my hair so he can cup my scalp.

“No one is going to hurt me.”

“You were shot at last night,” I say, and his muscles bunch as his fingers in my hair tighten.