Jena took a seat on the sofa, and Cole found himself with another dilemma. Should he sit next to her or take the other chair? Such a decision shouldn’t feel momentous, but it did. It felt as momentous as a choice between the past and the future. It felt like a choice between friendship and maybe more than friendship. He sat next to her on the sofa.
You don’t like to talk to people, do you? I mean, slamming the door in my face was a clue that was hard to miss. I’m perceptive like that.
How ‘bout you, Jena?” He leaned closer, speaking in an exaggerated whisper. “We could go somewhere private. I know you probably got some scars from being shot, but you can’t see a scar in the dark, right?” The dickwad was offering her a pity fuck in a darkened room?
He’d danced around that story about why he’d moved to Terrebonne more smoothly than an Olympic skater on ice.
Everybody has scars; some are more visible than others, that’s all. But anyone without a scar is someone I don’t want to know because it’s someone who doesn’t feel things deeply. You have to understand loss to recognize a gift when you see it.” He leaned over and kissed her again. “You are my gift. I want to be yours, if you’ll let me.
We have unfinished personal business I do believe.” He smiled. “And I do love to make you blush.”,“It clashes with my hair.