Page 78 of Finding Denver

I keep the lamp on as I lie on the couch, covers over me, my gun on the coffee table.

Nothing happened. Nothing even almost happened. Denver is totally unaware of the almost-thing I’m currently obsessing over.

I’m almost asleep when I hear Denver talking on the phone.

Talking and laughing quietly.

Talking to her husband.

Chapter 20

Denver

The evening cold is like a constant lashing of ice against my skin. I’ve never felt chill like it, and even our brisk walk with my arm through Colt’s does little to warm me.

After Colt left the hotel this morning, I didn’t hear much from him, just a quick text asking how I was feeling and if I was still up for doing something tonight. Given the bruise on my jaw, the ache in my ribs, and Spider’s eagerness to snatch me, I really should’ve said no.

But I’ve somehow convinced myself that last night dissolved into what it did because I left Colt’s side. The moment he was with me again, I felt secure, and he pulled me from the depths not once but twice. He saved me, again, so I figure as long as I stick with him, I should survive my time in New York.

And then what?

Do I go home to Ranger? Do I hope that he’ll get some fucking therapy, and our marriage won’t be a disaster?

The letter my dad wrote to me is in my purse, something else I want by my side, and I’ve read and reread it ahundred times. He said I’m still so young, and sometimes I forget that. I feel like since meeting Ranger, I’ve lived a thousand lives, and all of them have exhausted me. I don’t feel almost thirty. I feel like my life is already ticking close to the end, and changing everything now is too damn daunting.

Or maybe I’ll look back on this time and wish I’d had the strength to leave.

“You’re pretty serious for a fun night out,” Colt says.

I sigh, my breath fogging around me. “I’m just thinking about Ranger.”

Where my arm is linked through his, he tenses, and when I try to meet his eye, he won’t look at me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

The cold suddenly feels colder. “My dad said in my letter than I’m still young and if I’m not where I want to be, it’s okay. I still have so much time. But it doesn’t feel like that.”

“He’s right. You’re young.”

“Don’t you feel older than you are? We’ve been through so much shit.”

Colt’s smile is weak. “I definitely think about other thirty-two-year-olds and what they consider a stressful day.”

“Being late for work?”

“Forgetting my wallet.”

I grin and lean my head on his bicep as we keep walking. “Scratching your car.”

“Definitely not getting shot at.” He sighs. “Wanna pretend again?”

My groan is one of relief. “Yes, please.”

He stops, and across the street I see security coming to aslow halt, too. There are six men out with us, but you wouldn’t know unless you were looking.

Colt faces me and adjusts my scarf. “So, you’re not you, and I’m not me.”

“Then who am I?”

He thinks for a moment, brow furrowed as he reties my scarf. “Denver DeLuca. Grew up in New York a few blocks over. Always had a crush on me but—” I laugh loudly, and he covers my mouth as he grins—“never had the courage to tell me.”