“I’m sure.”
Chevy crosses his arms. “Their lawyer should be here any minute. If you want a chance to talk while he’s behind bars I’d do so quickly.”
Why did talking to Pat seem like a good idea, again? Oh, right, because he and his family—a good portion of whom are also crowded in the cell and every bit as caked with mud—bought my freaking town. I cannot wake up every morning knowing at any moment I might run into the man who has that feral cat in me clawing up the furniture. Pat is simply too big of a risk.
I need to make sure he knows this—us—isn’t ever going to happen again.
It can’t. I’ve lost too much. I won’t make the mistake of offering him my heart again. Because Pat isn’t just offering me a second chance. He’s holding out hope in a shiny, wrapped package with a bow. Hope is not a luxury I can afford right now.
I mentally check the zipper on my bulletproof heart vest.
Do bulletproof vests zip? ANYWAY.
I try to take a fortifying breath, but the air somehow tastes like stale coffee and pickles, and I end up coughing. Winnie pats my back ineffectually.
“I’m okay,” I croak.
“Yeah, you are,” Winnie says. “I wish I had popcorn for this. Chevy, is there any popcorn in the break room?”
“I’ll check.”
Ignoring them all, I draw in a steadying breath and stride toward the cell. My eyes stay fixed on Pat. His smile grows as I approach.
My heart tries to do some kind of flippy thing it definitely has no permission to do, and I tell it to stand down. The zombie butterflies try to stir, and I stomp them with the heel of my boot. The feral cat seems to be trying to figure out how to claw through the fabric of my bulletproof vest, and I kick her out of the way.
I’m vaguely aware of Val and Winnie flanking me a few steps behind. They’re making sure I know they’ve got my back while giving me enough room to do my thing. Not sure what my thing is yet, but I’ve always been pretty good on the spot.
I stop short of the bars, just out of reach. Pat’s touch has the power to undo me, so I can’t give him that chance. I may be strong, but I’m not that strong. I point my finger toward the center of his chest. If I had a laser, it would blast right through his heart, making this a heck of a lot easier.
“You do not get to smile at me that way.”
That’s not what I meant to lead with, but I guess it’s a start.
One corner of his mouth kicks up a little higher, and he flutters his lashes at me. Long, thick lashes people like Tabitha pay good money to poorly emulate.
“Whatever do you mean?”
I hate how well I know him. Because I immediately know Pat is quoting Tombstone, a movie we watched together at least half a dozen times. It is a Pat staple, for watching and for quoting. I haven’t been able to sit through a Val Kilmer movie since. The man ruined Val Kilmer for me—just another thing to add to the list of his crimes.
“You can’t keep showing up here, interrupting my life, buying my town, making trouble.”
“Trouble? Me?” He puts a hand to his chest, mocking offense.
“Yes. You—the one in the cell. I’d call this trouble.”
Pat grabs the bars in his strong hands. They are the kind of hands made for catching footballs. But I also remember the way those same hands cupped my cheeks tenderly or squeezed my waist with a possessive strength that always made my stomach tumble like an Olympic gymnast performing a floor routine.
Winnie puts a hand on my arm, and I regain some control over my wayward self, taking a big step back.
“What—is this town not big enough for the both of us?” Pat teases.