Deadly Past. Kris Rafferty

      “You’re clearly not.” He walked away, leaving the room, and it felt like a reprieve. From Charlie’s alarmed expression, she feared her head laceration was worse than she’d supposed. He returned moments later, a bag of frozen peas in hand. When he pressed it to her head, her pain spiked, taking her breath away. She gasped, batting at him.

      “Hold still.” He took her hand and pressed it to the frozen bag before releasing it. “Keep that in place. The cut can’t be stitched if the wound is too swollen.” Head bent, she stared at his boots, focusing on the sensation of the cold bag against her overheated hand.

      “Stop treating me like a child.” The bag slipped from her grip, forcing her to use both hands to adjust it back in place. “I’m all grown.” He sat next to her, doing the whole “manspread” thing, and the heat of his thigh pressed against hers made it hard to concentrate, especially since she suspected her stringy, matted hair, and hunched back from holding the bag to her wound, made her look like a crone.

      “I’ve noticed.” His smile confused the hell out of her, until he raised his brows suggestively. Her heart curdled with embarrassment. Leave it to Charlie to think now was a good time to talk about the-kiss-that-shall-not-be-mentioned.

      “Listen, Romeo.” She swatted his thigh and scooted away from him on the couch. Cynthia didn’t do humiliation well, so she defaulted to anger. “Yes, I kissed you, it was a disaster—”

      “A disaster?” His smile was kind, and playful. She would have preferred a swift kick.

      “I’ve kissed loads of guys, and sometimes it’s good, and sometimes, yes, it’s a disaster, but not one of them acted—months later—as if the sky was falling.”

      His cheek kicked up. “It sure felt like the sky was falling. Or maybe that was the earth moving.”

      “Stop.” They both knew he’d rejected her. Why was he acting as if he hadn’t? “I don’t appreciate you embarrassing me.”

      “I’m not.” His eyes widened as he shook his head.

      “Yes, you are! Can you just leave it alone? The kiss was a mistake. I didn’t like it either—”

      “You didn’t like it?” His brows lifted again, skeptically this time.

      “No, I didn’t, and please do us both a favor and pretend it never happened. I had too much tequila. We both know what happens when I drink tequila.”

      “We’ve drunk plenty of tequila and you’ve never stuck your tongue down my throat before.”

      “But—” He had her there, and as she struggled to piece together a suitable comeback, she found herself studying his features. He was enjoying himself, and here she was injured, bleeding, for heaven’s sake, and he was torturing her.

      “Yes?” he prompted, giving her his complete attention.

      “As I said, I didn’t like it. So…just stop, will you?”

      He sighed, and then finally averted his intense stare, only to give her the side eye. “One disastrous kiss shouldn’t ruin a friendship.”

      The very idea was ludicrous on both counts. “I never said that!”

      “We kiss. You think it’s a disaster, and then you avoid me like the plague. If I were a better kisser, would you still have cut me and my parents off?”

      “I didn’t.” A bald-faced lie. She did. She really did.

      “And I’ll have you know, plenty of women think I’m a good kisser.”

      Plenty? She didn’t want to think about it. Struggling to say the right thing and keep her pride, she floundered. “I’m sure you’re a good kisser with…well, with someone else. Or…I don’t know.” Who was she kidding? Their kiss had been fabulous, and try as she might, she couldn’t get it out of her head. “It’s just—” His eyes narrowed and Cynthia gave up, groaning as she leaned her head back on the couch, squeezing her eyes shut.

      “What? Talk to me.” He took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

      She’d kissed him. Took a chance, and now it was time to suffer the consequences. She’d earned this comeuppance, and it was only right that she take it like a…well, a woman.

      “Go ahead. Have at it,” she said, allowing her head to loll to the side so she was forced to see the male arrogance on his face as he declared his superiority. For Charlie didn’t want Cynthia as she wanted him, and that put her at a disadvantage. They both knew it. “Say what you will.” Only she didn’t see male arrogance radiating off him. She saw kindness.

      “Okay.” Charlie tugged her to his side, and when she was comfortably enfolded in his embrace, he gave her a brotherly squeeze. “I’ve been worried since ten last night, after you called, and I’ve been checking police scanners ever since, fearing they’d find your body on the side of the road.”

      Guilt, guilt, guilt. Her bottom lip pushed out. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember calling you.” His long silence, coupled with his body tensing, told Cynthia he was going to make a big deal out of this, and she wasn’t sure she had the energy to argue with him.

      “Explain,” he said.

      “I blacked out. What did I say on the call?”

      “Nothing,” he said. “I answered, and the line went dead. When I hit redial, it went straight to voice mail. I called your landline. No answer. I called Benton, Gilroy, O’Grady—”

      “Dammit!” She groaned. He’d called her supervisor, and her teammates, so they’d been worrying since last night, too. “Who didn’t you call? Now they’ll—”

      His arm around her shoulders squeezed, making his embrace more restraint than comfort. “I was trying to track you down. I was worried. Tell me about this blackout you suffered.” His protective tendencies had been triggered, and Charlie had slipped into big brother mode. He’d spent the last ten years—even the year he’d been flat on his back after the accident—worrying, doing his best to be a big brother because of a misguided belief he could have stopped her brother from driving drunk and dying. Cynthia knew better. Everyone who had ever known her brother knew there was no controlling Terrance.

      “I’m sorry.” Cynthia pressed the frozen bag to her head again, feeling the weight of those familiar words. Sorry she’d made him worry. Sorry he felt responsible for her, for Terrance’s death. Sorry. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Their tragic history linked them forever, and couldn’t be ignored, because it’d shaped their identities, and now their lives were a mutual tapestry of obligation. Pull one thread, risk unraveling it all.

      Kissing Charlie had pulled a thread.

      “I’m such an ass,” she whispered, and then pressed her face to his chest, resting there, finding comfort in the beat of his heart, so steady and strong. She couldn’t hold the frozen bag anymore. It was too cold, so she dropped it on the cushion next to her and warmed her hand against Charlie’s bare arm. “Why do you put up with me?”

      It was a rhetorical question. They both knew why, but Cynthia felt it was important to ask once in a while, just on the off chance Charlie might start asking that question himself. He deserved to cut bait and live his life out from under the obligation of Cynthia, the little sister he never asked for.

      “Who hurt you?” He picked up the bag, gently pressing it to her injury. “Where were you last night?” His scruffy chin abraded her forehead as his lower lip pressed against her skin. It felt like a kiss, but was simply his lips moving, asking questions.

      “I don’t know. I mean, I know bits, but”—she shrugged—“not everything.”

      “Tell me.” He didn’t bother hiding his worry.

      “I told you,” she said. “I blacked out.”

      “Last night,” he said, “Benton said you’d left