He shakes his head and stares at the table.
Is he thinking about the jab he made about me swallowing waiter’s dessert? Or the question about the wedding?
Maybe he’s just appreciating the coffee cupped between his huge hands.
Sometimes I catch him drifting off in thought while holding something so seemingly inconsequential, such as an ink pen, a television remote, a cup of coffee, or the necklace he’s never removed from his wrist. The little things people take for granted are the things he values most. The things he didn’t have access to in prison.
I take a few bites, savoring the creamy goodness while watching him in my periphery.
“You okay?” I lower the spoon.
He doesn’t respond.
“Lorne?”
He blinks, and his head jerks up. His body goes rigid, and his eyes dart around the dining room, searching every exit and window. Then he looks at me, and an odd grunt sounds in his throat.
His shoulders relax, and he returns his attention to the cup in his hands. “I used to make my dad’s coffee before I went to school.”
Across the table, Conor stiffens.
“The smell…” His eyebrows knit over pensive green eyes. “It’s nostalgic, in a good way.”
“I have good memories of him, too.” She smiles sadly. “It’s okay to miss him, Lorne. I miss the man who lived at the ranch. When he moved to Chicago…” Her expression shutters. “That wasn’t Dad.”
Out of compulsion, I slide a hand over his thigh. He grips it, trapping my palm against denim and muscle.
After a moment of wretched silence, Conor closes her eyes. “Will someone change the subject?”
Jake jumps in, redirecting the conversation into happier territory by announcing that the cattle operation will have its most profitable quarter in two decades.
As he talks, I finish off the dessert and squirm against the pressure in my bladder.
A hallway leads into the back, near the kitchen. The restrooms must be there.
“I need to use the lady’s room.” I move to stand.
Lorne tightens his grip on my hand, stopping me. “Wait until we’re home.”
“It’s a forty-five-minute drive.”
His jaw clenches, and he glares at the other patrons in the restaurant, as if they’re all concealing guns.
They probably are. I mean, we’re still in cattle country.
Blowing out a sharp breath, he adjusts his fingers around mine and rises from the table.
With my hand imprisoned in his, I follow him through the dining room and down the hallway. The tendons in his shoulders and neck are so taut they look like they’re going to snap.
He doesn’t stop at the door to the women’s bathroom. He shoves it open and hauls me inside.
A middle-aged woman stands at the sink, her eyes bulging at his reflection in the mirror.
“Get out,” he barks.
“I’m sorry.” I yank my hand from his and give her a grimace. “He didn’t take his meds today.”
She grabs her purse, walks a wide berth around him and darts out the door.
He swerves toward the stalls, checks each one, and wriggles the handle on the locked closet door. No windows. No bogeymen hiding in the toilets.
He prowls back to me, his gaze hard and threatening. He closes in and doesn’t just step into my personal space. He devours it.
His chest touches my nose, and the width of his shoulders blocks my view of everything behind him. Strong hands rest on the front of his jeans, thumbs hooked under the belt, fingers framing the metal buckle.
With his chin angled down, the black Stetson sits low on his brow, making his dark expression all the more darker.
I shiver. He’s brutally arresting and overwhelmingly intense. His meanness runs deep, but when he directs that malice at me, it’s always followed by remorse.
“You lash out at me when you’re upset.” I tilt my head back, searching his eyes.
“I lash out when I care.” He cups a hand beneath my chin, and his thumb feathers across my cheek. “I’m sorry for what I said at the house.” He sets his brow against mine. “You’re stunning, and I don’t want to share the pleasure of looking at you with anyone else.”
My breath catches. The next one comes out ragged, clawing at the air between us. “I won’t fall for your sweet talk.”
“You fell apart for it last night when I sweet talked your pussy.”
My nipples tighten, and a quiver races along my inner thighs. He wrecked me so thoroughly with that insatiable tongue I still feel him inside me.
“I’ll be right outside that door.” His thumb kisses my lips and slips away. “Then I’m taking you home.”
He steps out of the bathroom, leaving me standing in the lingering tingles of his touch.
I try to shake it off, but it sticks. He sticks. His words, his gaze, his captivating presence—he’s holding me under water without a breath of air.
My mind runs a marathon as I wander to the middle stall and empty my bladder.