Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(38)

Christopher.

His eyes meet mine. “Katerina.”

Reflexively, I hug the flowers tighter to my chest. The card pokes my skin and my stomach drops as I remember the name written on it.

Katerina.

No. It couldn’t be him. He’d never.

Would he?

I shift the bouquet in my arms and lift my chin, forcing myself to meet his eyes. Two glowing embers in the dying light, fringed with thick black lashes. Dark half-moon shadows beneath them. He looks exhausted.

Not that I care, of course.

“Christopher,” I finally manage to say. “What’re you doing here?”

He pushes off the streetlamp post and strolls my way, so intensely . . . there. Solid and sure, unmoved by the wind tugging his wool coat, whipping back his hair. Sunset gilds his profile and, when he faces me fully, lights up his amber eyes as it spills, burnished bronze down his body.

My breath is doing funny things, turning short and tight in my chest. I feel the danger, the draw of leaning too close to a roaring fire after a long, frigid day.

He’s so near now, I catch a wisp of his spicy smoke scent on the wind, see his chest rise and fall.

Snapping me from my reverie, he says dryly, “Apparently you’re ‘staying at the pub for dinner.’?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Are you following me?”

He arches an eyebrow back. “I asked relevant parties where I could find you after work. That was the answer I was given.”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“I don’t have your number, Kate. You never gave it to me.”

My stomach knots. “You never asked.”

His eyes hold mine as he says quietly, “Fair point.”

Suddenly, I am desperate to go.

I don’t want to look at him glowing in the sunset like he was made for light to love every angle of his face, every contour and powerful line of his body. And I really don’t want to think about why he’s here, the ways I might have humiliated myself in front of him last night when I was drunk as a skunk and half-awake. I want to move on. I want to walk past him and just keep walking.

“Well,” I say, falsely bright, “I’ll just be on my way.”

I start past him, when his hand darts out and clasps my elbow, bringing me to a stop.

I try to wrench my arm away, but his grip tightens, strong, yet still gentle, like when we crashed into each other that first night I was home.

“What do you want, Christopher?” I say between clenched teeth. I’m a raw live wire surging dangerously, my skin hot, agitated, too tight for my body.

His hand slides down my arm until it clutches my bare wrist. Despite the chilly weather, his palm is warm and dry, his fingertips rough as they graze my skin. His thumb drifts along my pulse where it flies as fast as I want to move down this sidewalk.

He takes a step closer, his hip brushing mine. Then he brings a hand to my flowers, to the wide-open rose slipping from the bouquet, its petals bruised by the wind. Gently, he slides the stem back, secure once more.

He meets my eyes again. “I need to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

“Let me walk you home. We can talk there.”

“Walk yourself home and go to bed. You look tired as shit.”

“Why, thank you, Katerina, I am. And I will. But you first. You shouldn’t be out alone, especially when it’s nearly dark.”

“This again.” I sigh, shifting the bouquet in my arms.

After a beat, he says, “I’ll compromise. Let’s walk and talk.”

I swallow nervously. “Is this about last night?”

“In part, yes.”

My cheeks heat. “I don’t want to talk about last night.”

“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Just let me walk you home. I’ll keep it brief, then leave you alone, I promise.”

I tug my hand away and take a step back. “I’ll pass.”

“Goddammit, you’re stubborn.”

“Goddammit, you’re bossy!”

Christopher holds my eyes and steps closer. His face softens. A sparkle settles in his eyes. “Katydid.” That ridiculous childhood nickname. My stomach does not do a somersault. “Let me walk you home.”

I roll my eyes. “Is this you trying to charm me? Make me swoon? Whatever it is, stop. It’s not working.”

“And yet you’re clutching the flowers I sent like they’re your favorite camera.”

I peer down at the flowers, my stomach souring. “You sent these?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

His mouth lifts at the corner. “Yes.”

“An unconscionably expensive, gorgeous gift? Trying to buy your way out of something?” I give him a wide-eyed, exasperated look. “Of course you did. It’s got you written all over it.”

“So you do think they’re gorgeous?”

“They’re obscene. I can’t stand them.”

His smile widens, those warm amber eyes heating as they dance over my face. “I don’t think so, Katerina. You love flowers. You always have.”

A sharp, searing pain slides down my sternum. It’s been so long since I let myself expect kindness from Christopher. I’m scared to trust it, bewildered by his sudden change in behavior. “Why are you doing this? Why are you sending me flowers and a card with some cryptic line on the back and enough pastries to feed the whole damn store?”