Free Reaper's Novice (Soul Collector #1) by Cecilia Robert Page B

violin. “May I?” I relinquish it to him. “My car’s this way.” As soon as his hand comes in contact with the small of my back, shivers connected like an intricately designed web race all over my body. Even through the light cotton blouse, I feel his fingers as though nothing separates his skin from mine, and I find myself leaning into his touch. As if he can sense my reaction, his hand lifts an inch off my back and his fingertips trace circles on my back, searing yet chilling. Pure bliss . I try my best to keep walking straight as he herds me down the street, past a Chinese restaurant. He turns right to where his Peugeot RC Hybrid waits in all its sleekness and silver glory.
    Once he makes sure I’m comfortably seated, he rounds the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and straps himself as well.
    After a few minutes of driving in silence with a weird kind of tension choking the air, he clears his throat. “You have a right to be mad at me. I’m mad at myself for hurting you, and I wish I could take those words back.” He keeps his hands gripped on the steering wheel.
    I study my hands, my fingers “I can’t make you trust me if you’re not ready to, Ro. I can’t tiptoe around half-expecting you to be mad because someone spoke to me.” I pause, curl my hands into fists, lean my head back on the headrest, and look at him. “What you said hurt.”
    “I’m so sorry,” he says softly. “I need to sleep tonight knowing you’ve forgiven me, Engel .”
    We drive in silence. It feels as if we’ve been driving for ages when he veers off the main road. Gravel crunches as he slows down, turns right, and parks the car in a small deserted parking lot.
    “I’ll be right back.” He smiles and exits the car. I check the time on the dashboard. Twenty minutes to four.
    I glance out the window at the wide stretch of flat green land with rows and rows of low growth and the occasional house in the distance. Rolf must’ve taken the longer route from the school, but why?
    Moments later he slips back inside the car. I turn and squeal—literally—when I see the bouquet of dark red tulips. Dark red, fresh tulips. The shade of my favourite lipstick.
    I peek over his shoulder. A white sign at a flower garden’s entrance swings lazily. Beyond that are rows of tulips.
    Without a word, he hands them to me.
    “You’re spoiling me, Ro. Thank you.” I hold them gingerly in my hands. Quickly I angle my head away from him and look out my window. I blink several times to clear my sight and smile at the same time.
    “Spoiling you is my hobby,” Rolf says in his usual quiet but deep voice. He sounds so serious. He runs his fingers up and down my arm, then squeezes my hand. “Ana.”
    I turn to face him, watching as his hand traces the tattoo daisy chains along my wrist, a frown on his face. He’s never seen the scars. The thought of his face clouding with confusion or an emotion entirely different isn’t one I’m ready to see. Maybe one day I’ll reveal them to him. In the meantime…
    His eyes track his fingers closely and intensely as they trace my arm, as they skim my jaw line, and finally they focus on my lips. My breath catches in my throat. “I am sorry.” His hands fall away and leave me feeling bare, out of breath, and wanting. More than anything, I want to throw myself in his lap, forget the event that caused this weirdness between us, and just make out. .
    I have kids waiting for me and a concert to prepare for.
    Exactly five minutes later, he drops me at the school’s entrance on the third district a few blocks from the Landstrasse U-Bahn and leaves. Without a kiss. I’ll strangle him for that.
    As soon as I’ve emerged from my cloud of lust, I walk inside the auditorium on wobbly knees, swerve around, and groan. I have my violin but not my tulips. I must have left them on the dashboard or my seat.
    I smile. I just might get my kiss after all.

 

    R IGHT AFTER MY TEACHING CLASS, I step away from the