Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(23)

On our quick turn, her knee connects with my thigh.

I groan in pain. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Take that as a ‘no, and I’m pissed at you.’ You startled me, dipping me without warning.”

“You’re right,” I tell her, a pang of guilt echoing in my chest. “I startled you on purpose, and that was wrong.”

Kate nearly trips as we slide into a slow step, her head whipping my way. “What did you just say?”

“I said I was wrong. I know it’s hard to wrap your head around,” I tell her dryly, “but I can be wrong sometimes.”

She bursts out a smoky laugh that draws a few heads. “What’s hard to wrap my head around is that you’d admit it!”

My jaw clenches. “It’s not exactly a phrase you’ve practiced, either, Katerina.” Wrenching her to me, I pick up our pace and complicate the footwork, a thrill racing down my spine as she catches on and meets me, step for step.

“Guess what, Petruchio?” she says breathily, her hand clawing into my back to anchor her to me. “I have news for you. It’s a phrase I know very well.”

“Could have fooled me,” I grunt, my grip sinking into her waist.

“Because I reserve apologies for people who deserve to hear them.” She leans in, her breath hot on my ear, her mouth a whisper away from my neck. A rush of dizzying heat burns through me. “You just aren’t one of them.”

Her heel lands on the same toe, twice as hard as last time. And then she wrenches herself out of my arms and walks away.





? SEVEN ?


    Kate


I tell Bea I’m tired and heading back. I promise I’ll take a cab. I hug Sula goodbye and tell her happy birthday again, not that, based on her drunkenness, she’ll even remember. I hug Margo and let her cajole me into taking a shot with her that I needed desperately.

I walk the whole way home.

And because the brutally cold wind wasn’t enough to extinguish the aggravated heat pumping through my veins, I take a brutally cold shower, too.

I’m shivering when I get into bed, wrenching the sheets over me, and yet I’m still burning hot. I must have a fever.

Lying on my back, staring up at the dark ceiling, I count to one hundred in three different languages I’ve learned in my travels, and when I’m still wide-awake, I know I’m not ready, that I won’t be able to sleep for a while. There’s a pulse between my thighs, a fierce, nagging ache coiling through my limbs. I feel agitated and antsy.

And so goddamn unnerved.

How dare Christopher dance like that? How dare he be so good not only at the tango but also at getting so far under my skin?

Restless, I whip off the sheets and stomp into Bea’s room, flicking on her soft nightstand light. There sits Cornelius the hedgehog, doing his nocturnal hedgehog thing, snuffling around.

Sighing, I plop down beside his elaborate living space and scratch gently against the screen. “Hey.”

Cornelius perks up when he sees me, big, dark eyes and wiggly little nose. He waddles closer and sniffs my finger, then, when he realizes it’s not food, turns and waddles off.

I watch him snuffle around the tiny doughnut-print sleeping bag I made him and sent Bea in my last care package while I was gone. Reaching up, I ease open the lid and slowly lower my hand. “Want to hang for a minute?” I ask. “I bear no mealworm treats, but Mom says you can’t have too many in one day or it’s unhealthy, and we gotta do what she says.”

He makes an irritated snuffle sound.

“I know. She’s such a party pooper, making sure you have your best chance at a long, happy, hedgie life.” Gently, I bring my hand closer. He steps onto it, and I cup my other hand around him, bringing him out of his cage.

Settling back against Bea’s dresser, I savor the ticklish comfort of his paws against my palm. He peers up at me. He’s obscenely cute.

Unlike someone else. Who, with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his shirt collar still smelling vaguely of churro from a little girl he held and tickled, melding too well with the spicy warmth of his cologne, is not remotely cute. He is high-handed and pushy and very goddamn good at tangoing and holding me so tight it felt like the world could spin off its axis, straight into the universe, and I’d still be steady.

“I don’t care how Christopher dances with me,” I tell Cornelius. “Or what he thinks of me. I don’t care that he keeps staring at my messy bun and my ratty clothes.”

I’ve been telling myself for a very long time that I don’t care what Christopher thinks of me. Because if I do that, then all that time he ignored me growing up doesn’t hurt so much, his relentless disapproval of the path I’ve made for myself doesn’t sting so badly.

Most of the time, at least.

Cornelius gives me a skeptical blink and yawns.

“Hint taken,” I tell him. “I’ll let you get back to your fun.”

Sitting up, I return Cornelius to his cage and watch him waddle toward his little sandbox to scratch around. “I wish I had your prickles, Cornelius. It would make it so much easier to protect myself.”

My fingers slide along the screen, tracing the arch of his quills. “But my prickles are inside. And those seem to hurt a lot more. Me more than anyone, I think.”