Page 22 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

I take the temporary steps two at a time and shoulder into the site office. Darren, the foreman, looks up from a stack of drawings.

“Blackwood,” he greets me, and I tilt my chin.

I scan the trailer before my eyes soak in the only person I came to see.

Celeste doesn’t look up. She’s bent over a set of plans with a pencil tucked in her hair and a dirt smudge on her wrist.

When she finally looks my way, her face is purely professional, and her eyes are icy. We’ve been doing this dance long enough to understand both sides.

“Ms. Morgan,” I say.

“Mr. Blackwood.” She eyes me head to foot and back again. “We’re in the middle of approvals.”

“I’ll wait.” I step fully into the trailer and plant myself next to her shoulder so there’s no mistaking why I’m here.

Darren clears his throat. “I need to go check the schedule for the concrete pour.” Then he heads out the door.

Celeste keeps flipping pages, pretending not to notice me. I let it go for twenty seconds, just long enough for her to feel me in her peripheral vision.

“Can I help you?” she finally asks, not looking up.

“I want a walk-through.”

“You have Darren for that.”

“I want you.”

Her mouth does that irritated little twitch I’ve been baiting for weeks. “Happy to.”

She snatches her clipboard and holds it to her chest.

“I didn’t know you were coming today,” she says, eyes on the chalk lines as we head toward the southeast trench.

“I like surprises.”

“Do you?”

“When they look like you, yes.”

Her head snaps around. “We’re in public.”

I look around at the crew. “No one here is listening. They’re all too busy staring at your ass in those pants.”

That gets me the reaction I want. “Is this why you really came here, to antagonize me?”

“It’s becoming a great hobby of mine.”

“Julian,” she says, sweet as poison, “so help me God, I will bury you in this ground and build your damn skyscraper on top of your bones. I’m not doing this with you today.”

Before she can storm off, I catch her elbow and pull her back.

“What now?” she snaps.

“As much as I enjoy the view from back here, I’m getting tired of running after you.”

She throws out the arm I’m not holding. “My prayers have been answered. Does that mean you’re going to stop?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

Christ. Did she just fucking growl at me?

“I need to ask you something.” I let the bite drop out of my voice. “A favor.”

That captures her eyes and the faintest flash of worry she tries to hide. “Okay? Is everything alright?”

“I think so. I’m in a bit of trouble, and there’s only one thing that will fix it.”

She narrows her gaze. “I swear to God, Julian, if you’re about to ask me for a blowjob, I will cut off your balls.”

I hiss a laugh. “Jesus, you’re violent this morning.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Promise you’ll do this, Celeste.”

She cinches the clipboard to her chest. “Fine. I’ll try.”

“Excellent. Don’t freak out.”

She immediately freaks out. “Julian, what?”

“Give me a smile.”

Her mouth goes dead straight. “Absolutely not.”

“Micro-smile. I won’t tell a soul.”

“I don’t smile on command.”

A forklift beeps past, but I don’t move my hand from her elbow.

“Come on. Consider it a warranty check. I need to know my architect can smile for pictures when all of this is complete.”

“That’s stupid,” she mutters.

“I know. Smile anyway.”

She sucks in her cheeks like she can vacuum-seal the corners of her mouth to the rest of her face.

Stubborn woman.

“Just a millimeter,” I coax. “Show me you’re still human.”

I see the slightest quiver.

“There.” I point, delighted. “Twitch.”

“No twitch.”

“Perjury. I saw it.”

“Shut up.”

“Say ‘cheese plate.’”

She tries to say it without her mouth moving. “I’m not saying cheese plate.” Her lips betray her, and the corner jerks. She bites it back, which only makes it worse.

“Come on. Give me teeth. One, maybe two.”

“No.”

I pause, trying to come up with something else that will break her. “Okay, say ‘Julian has a massive co—’”

The smile splits her face, and fuck, it’s a sight.

“Damnit,” she curses, stomping her foot.

“So, it’s the truth that makes you smile,” I tease before she shoves at my chest.

She stares daggers at me for a full beat before she exhales and lets it happen again. It breaks over her face, bright enough that I feel it in my chest.

“Beautiful.”

She immediately rolls her eyes, yanks her elbow out of my hand, and pivots away.

“Walk-through,” she calls, already moving. “Try to keep up.”

I bark a laugh but follow.

Don’t I always?

I’m like a dog on a damn leash.

We round into the southwest corner, out of the main site. The wind funnels through the temporary wall and starts its own argument with the dust.

She turns to me. “This will be your—”

The gust of wind hits, kicking up dust and slapping us both.

She flinches and throws her hands over her face.

“Dammit.” Her right eye floods with tears. She blinks hard, but it just gets worse.

“Celeste?”

“I’m fine,” she says, voice too tight.

“Let me see.”

“I said I’m—”

“Fucking stay still.”

I step into her space, one hand cupping her jaw, the other steadying her hard hat so she doesn’t jerk away. She tries to bat me off with the clipboard. I take it and throw it on the ground.

“Don’t fight me,” I tell her.

“You’re overreacting.”

“You can’t even open your eye.”

“Because you’re hovering,” she snaps, as more tears fall.

I peel off a glove with my teeth and drop it.

Pressing my thumb to her eye, I lift her upper lid gently. “Look up.”

“No.”

I think that word is reflex for her.

“Celeste,” I grind out, losing patience.

She breathes and finally looks up.

The noise of the site falls away in my head until it’s just the clock of my own pulse and the hitch of hers. I lean in and blow a careful stream across the inner corner. The grit shifts, and she swears under her breath.

I do it again until I see the speck release and track to the outer edge. I swipe it away with the side of my knuckle .

“Better?” I ask.

She blinks. It works this time, but tears still cling to her lashes.

I should probably let go.

I don’t.

There’s a strand of hair stuck to her mouth. I hook it free and tuck it behind her ear. My fingers stay because they can, because there’s still a line we haven’t crossed, and I like standing on it.

She looks up at me from under her lashes, that right eye rimmed red now, her breath evening out. There’s the barest tremor in her jaw under my hand.

“Say it,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“That I’m fine. Say ‘you’re fine’ so you can feel like you’re in charge, and then we can get back to work.”

“You’re fine.” I don’t move.

Her mouth curves. “Happy?”

“Not even close.”

My phone buzzes, and I curse it under my breath.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull the phone out and answer without looking away. “Yes?”

“Mr. Blackwood?” A woman’s voice comes through the speaker. “This is St. Mary’s Hospital.”

The ground tilts a degree, and that old cold spreads from my sternum out.

“Go on,” I say.

“Your mother is requiring additional support services while she’s with us,” the woman says. “Some agitation at night, refusing meals. She’s also a wandering risk. We understand you are funding her care here, so we need your permission before we go ahead.”

I don’t know why, but the smell of old beer hits the back of my throat—memory disguised as scent.

I’m four, standing on torn linoleum in socks too thin, watching her smoke by the window and tell me there’s bread, maybe, or ketchup if I’m hungry.

The fridge hums empty. The corridor outside stinks of piss.

Someone’s laughing behind a door. It’s three steps to the sink, a climb onto the counter, and a stretch all the way back for the stale crackers I hide for when she forgets.

“Mr. Blackwood?” the woman says. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.” My hand is still cupping Celeste’s jaw, grounding me more than her. “Whatever she needs.”

“Thank you.”

When I hang up, the site slams back into focus.

Wind. Voices. Steel.

Celeste is still looking at me. Not the look she gives me when she’s ready to fight, and not the one she saves for when she knows she’s won. Something else.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.

I hate it. The question, the softness in it. The way her voice drops like she’s trying not to startle me. I hate the exact shade of concern on her face and how fast my body rejects it.

Pity looks like the social worker’s face when she found me asleep on the fire escape because it was cooler outside.

Pity looks like a teacher’s hand on my shoulder because I’d come to school hungry and mean and ready to destroy something.

Pity looks like the nurse who called me “sweetheart” while someone counted my bruises and asked where they came from.

Pity is useless. Pity is gasoline.

I bend, pick up my glove, slap dust off it, and pull it on. My face stays blank because it has to. Everything else goes back behind the wall where it belongs.

“We’re done here,” I say, and turn into the wind before she can try again.