Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) by Reinhardt, Liz (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

and flash of a face. It lasts a single instant, but it was there, and he’s trying to hide it behind a neutral, calm, phony look, so I call him on it again.

"You can't deny that look! It meant something; I just have no idea what. C'mon, I'm not an idiot, Winch. There's no way you can deny that something notable went through your head when you gave me that look. So tell me."

He shrugs, and I can read that I'm wearing him down.

"Tell?" I request nicely, and when he holds firm, I spread on the guilt. "Tell because you left me all alone last night and I didn't even whine about it all that much."

He winds down a side street and pops out in a place that's both long-ago foreign and memory-filled familiar.

He parks the car and announces, "I'll tell you after we eat, because I'm starving. What's the matter?"

I shake my head and swallow hard, the ghosts of my mama and daddy in happier days shaking their chains just outside Clary's. I get out of the car and he's instantly around the front end, at my side.

"I used to come here as a kid."

His hand is cupped under my elbow for support, for comfort, for something to lean on if I need it.

"Say the word and we'll leave."

"Nah." I shake my head and look right into those blue eyes, like faded denim flapping on the line in the summer sun. "If I'm going to come back here and enjoy a peanut butter and banana sandwich, I want it to be with you."

He locks eyes with mine, and I can read this expression perfectly. It's pleased possession, and it makes my skin go hot.

"You eat the Elvis?" His lips tickle close to my ears.

"No," I admit. "But my daddy always did."

This time he loosens his hold on my elbow, and his arm is, instead, strong and sure around my waist as he leads me to a table in the back. A waitress hurries over and calls Winch "Mr. Youngblood." He's cool but polite, ordering two orange juices without asking if it's what I want.

It is, but still.

"You sure you're okay here? I'll have us somewhere else in three minutes if you want."

He taps the menu absently on the wood table and bores a look into me like he's attempting to demolish my mental walls and read my mind for real.

"I told you, it's fine. Really."

I look around at the mismatched interior with the black-and-white tiled linoleum and the stained glass behind the counter, and it feels comfy, homey. If I block all the times my daddy came here so full of disappointment he couldn't walk straight, it's actually a very charming place.

The waitress hurries back and Winch orders the sourdough French toast, and I get the eggs Benedict Florentine.

"Good choice." He rearranges the little black box of sugar packets with quick fingers. "I think breakfast choices say a lot about people."

"Funny. I think peoples’ very telling looks do. Since you already know what my breakfast choice is, let's analyze that weird look you gave me."

I blow the wrapper from my straw at him and he blocks it with the palm of his hand like a ninja.

"You're relentless."

He looks up, I'm positive because he's praying the waitress will come back and interrupt this uncomfortable confession time.

"I'm shamelessly relentless. A watched breakfast order never cooks. Attention here." I cup him under the chin and turn his face towards mine. "Now, spill. Why the weird look before?"

"I barely remember what we were talking about," he evades with a lazy shrug.

"You and your mysterious looks. And your mom."

At the word, his shoulders go stiff and he drops all the sugar packets haphazardly into the container.

He leans back in the chair, spreads his legs, and clasps his hands behind his head. Anyone who didn't know Winch would think he was comfortable as could be, but I notice the tic in his jaw and the incessant nervous tap of his toe. I notice, but I don't let them stop me from peeling back, layer by layer, the enigma that is Winchester Youngblood. I stare at him, eyebrows raised, mouth set, eyes fierce, just to let him know I'm not backing down.

He lets out a dramatic sigh and feigns confusion again.

"Okay, what are we talking about again? Oh, right. You and my mom and my looks." I nod for him to go on. "Okay. Alright. So you are a gorgeous, sexy, brilliant woman."

He leans across the table and takes one of my hands. I try to yank it back, but he tucks it in his and kisses the knuckles.

"Flattery will get you nowhere. Spilling your guts? Well that's the key that unlocks all kinds of interesting doors."

I let my voice purr out with my best sexy feline persuasion technique.

Winch blinks. "Okay. Spilling my guts and those interesting doors." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "My mother," he says finally, "is not an easy woman to get along with."

"You'd be shocked how much parents like me. I'm not kidding. I've never met a mother yet who didn't immediately think I was great."

Well, that's a partial lie. I'm pretty sure Brenna's mom thinks I'm an obnoxious, pushy pseudo-brat. I say it takes one to know one. Other than that, my record is fairly squeaky clean. I give off a good-girl vibe mamas just eat up.

"But my mother is nothing at all like normal mothers. Nothing. At all. Okay?" It's like he's desperate for me to take his warning seriously. "She has really old-fashioned ideas. And she's so stubborn."

"Okay."

This actually doesn't bode well. My grandparents aren't very old-fashioned at all. They're very laid back, very open to suggestion. I'm not exactly sure they'd eat Winch up knowing his background and shady present, but they'd hear me out if I wanted them to meet him.

"So, am I some kind of secret girlfriend?"

The look on his face makes me feel like he suddenly popped me into the freezer and pressed