Stopping and waiting were not strong concepts for him. #51 | | |
“Cole,” I said. I thought I might drown in this blue alley. #52 | | |
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I started to say stop again, but that wasn’t what I meant. I said, “Give me a second. God!” #54 | | |
He let me have my hand back. I stared at him. This was Cole St. Clair: sharp-edged jaw, brilliant green eyes, tussled and spiked dark brown hair. His smile would have been famous even without NARKOTIKA. I could tell he liked me staring at him. I could tell that he liked everything about this moment. #55 | | |
Everything about it had been designed to catch me off guard, to make me react. #56 | | |
Hope and terror rose in me in equal measure. #57 | | |
I asked, “Why are you here?” #58 | | |
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It was the perfect answer said in an imperfect way. He’d answered so fast. Just like that: You. It was so easy to say just one word. I wanted him to say it again, so that the second time around, I’d have a chance to feel something. #60 | | |
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“Okay,” I said. I could feel a smile trying to happen. I hid it, fast. No way did he get a smile without calling me first. “Dinner. #63 | | |
Are you picking me up?” #64 | | |
Cole laughed, a sound utterly unattainable in its pure joy. “I just did.” #65 | | |
