Page 41 of The Saint

A way to get her to talk.

I leaned back against the seat behind me, letting my hands settle against my plate. My shoulder brushed hers with every breath we took, but her legs in my lap were unmoving.

“Did you like it out there?” I asked without looking at her. I couldn’t have looked if I wanted to. Because there was a chance there was something there that couldn’t live up to what I had to offer.

Jael set her nearly empty plate aside, then gulped down the remainder of her wine. It was a long moment before she moved again. Before she sucked in a breath and let it out, swallowing so hard I could hear the click of her throat.

“It was work,” she finally said, voice void of emotion. “It’s what I was directed to do.”

“But the people?”

“The people were fine.”

“You got along with them?” I pried.

“I didn’t need to. They were my charges and my men. It was just a job.” There was something like a plea in her voice, like she was trying her hardest not to let out a cry. It made me turn in her direction, but she wouldn’t look my way.

I placed my plate to the side, rubbed the crumbs from my hands. Then I reached for my bag and pulled it open. Pulled out the two things I’d debated bringing at all.

Jael gasped, legs shifting slightly in my lap. “Did you…? Rolly.” Mossy eyes lifted to mine, away from the brown paper bag in my lap. Her bottom lip quivered as she sucked in a breath, and it shook something deep inside me.

Emotion like this wasn’t something that came naturally for her. In all our years as friends, those few we had as a little bit more, she’d always been the strong one. The brave one. Quick to anger, but never to cry.

“Is that what I think it is?” She gestured to the bag without pulling her gaze away from mine. But with my nod, that gaze shifted to the horizon. “You bought that for me?”

“Of course, I did.” I slid an almond croissant from the bag, reaching across her to set it on her plate. I was close enough to smell the salt water on her skin, the scent as tempting to me as her warm flesh.

As I started to pull back, her hand found my face, fingers spreading across my rough jaw. “Rolly…”

“It’s your favorite,” I said, then pulled away. “At least, it was.”

This time, it was me who found interest in the horizon. The ghost of her touch lingered, distracting me from what I needed to know.

“It still is,” she told me, her voice a whisper. “Is this why you were late?”

Unease flooded me as I blurted out only the smallest portion of the truth, “Times Square in the morning is a bitch.”

She let out a laugh, and I gave her the false smile I’d worn like a shield since she left. Her legs shifted, the movement enough to disturb the paper bag in my lap. And as my croissant slid out of the bag on to the towel beneath us, her laughter died an uneasy death.

For the bag had covered my sketchbook, the same one she’d found at Zio Paulo’s and returned to me two weeks ago.

I lifted the pastry and placed it on my plate, pushed the bag aside and picked up the book. Jael removed her legs from my lap, and I knew I’d made the right choice doing this here.

On my boat.

Far out from shore.

Her swallow was audible, her fingers clenching so hard in her lap I wouldn’t be surprised if they broke. Her entire body jerked as I thumbed through the pages to the picture of her I’d drawn that night.

Those mossy jade eyes flashed to the book, her face and body flinching as if she’d been hit. She pulled her legs to her chest, shifting slightly like she wanted to give me her back.

“I told you, that’s not the truth.”

I set the open sketchbook on the floor between us, that picture of her staring up at the moonlight on display. “Why don’t you tell me what is?”

Muscles rippled across her arms and back, shoulders bunching, her anger growing, the girl ready to fight. I let her sit in it, let her anger bubble and broil, until it came to a head and finally popped.

Like a slow leak, she deflated, those muscles sagging, parts of her relaxing while others were on edge. Her jade green gaze twisted toward me, face screwed up as if in pain.