Page 77 of Finding Denver

“If he can make it through me.”

A smile twitches her lips. “How very heroic.”

“I’m fucking serious. In fact, let me call him. I’ll tell him about what happened tonight.”

She laughs. “Yes, I’m sure that’ll go down really well. A man calling him in the middle of the night to say his wife almost died, but you’ve got me covered.”

“Maybe it’ll do him good to realize he might lose you.”

“Toyou?”

Now I laugh. “Is that so unbelievable?”

She’s fighting a bigger smile, her teeth in her bottom lip. “I’m not in the habit of fucking my enemies.”

“Is that what I am to you still? Your enemy?”

Her eyes sparkle in the dimly lit room. I’m suddenly hyperaware that we’re alone, and it’s quiet. The television isn’t even on. The only light is from the lamp in the far corner, and there’s very little space between us.

All things I shouldn’t be noticing.

Even in the darkness, I spot the flush climbing her cheeks. “No, you’re not my enemy. I actually think you might be my friend.” Her swallow has my gaze dropping to the slender movement in her neck. “Isn’t that strange?”

“What?” I ask, suddenly desperate to keep this conversation going. But how long have I been sitting here?

Not long enough.

My heart begins a slow and steady climb in rhythm, and my fingers ache to reach out to her, to brush my knuckles softly against her cheek, to see what she’d do if I did.

“That we’re not enemies anymore,” she says, just as quietly. “I quite like it, though. Being your friend.”

Friend. Right.

Friendship.

Not … whatever I’m thinking about. Not wondering what her skin would feel like against my lips. Not wanting to kiss the pulse in her throat. Not wondering how breathless she would sound if I whispered what I wanted to do to her.

“I should get some sleep.” She sighs, and I blink back into the now. “And I need to call Ranger. I’ll get you some sheets.”

She goes into the bedroom and I run my hand down my face. What the fuck am I doing, thinking about her like that? She’s telling me about her mess of a marriage, and I’m thinking about kissing her goddamn neck. I’m supposed to be protecting her. Supporting her. Being a fucking friend.

Denver reappears with two pillows and covers. She places them on the couch beside me. “Need anything else?”

Do not answer that question honestly, Colt.

“No, but do you want to do something tomorrow night?”

She tilts her head. “Like what?”

I shrug. “I’ll think of something. A friend thing.”

Friend. That word is getting cut out of my fucking vocabulary.

“Sure.” She smiles. “Night, Ghost.”

“Night, Deluxe.”

She closes her bedroom door, and I rub my face again, my beard scratching against my palms. “Fucking get it together, Colt.”