Free The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) by Aubrey Parker

but the silence that follows is more damning than words. Because the way we’re posing here in the middle of this busy restaurant, me standing and him sitting, it’s clear there’s something between us — or something begging to be.  
    I need to say something. I need to move on.  
    But he’s watching me with his knowing, come-on look. Sly. His teeth seem very white. His eyes are outwardly friendly, inwardly predatory in just the right way. He can see through me. Right through this stupid little waitress uniform that someone like me, if I hadn’t got pregnant, should have no business wearing. Right through the sensible undergarments beneath, worn by a woman who’s practical, not flighty, always responsible.  
    My wild days are supposed to be behind me. I’m not like that anymore.  
    But it’s as if Chadd, looking at me now, knows none of it.  
    He’s looking at me like an object worth desiring.  
    He’s looking at me like he doesn’t know what a good person I try to be.  
    He’s looking at me like he has no clue that I’m struggling hard with the right way to break it to my daughter that yes, she could join Brownies, but no, there’s no real way I could ever take her to enough meetings and events to matter.  
    It’s as if I’m just a woman to him.  
    It’s as if I have no worries. No challenges. No hurtful past. No scars.  
    Just a woman.
    I drop my pad. It falls from my hand and hits the floor, as if my fingers have forgotten how to grip. Chadd goes for it before I can. He takes his time on the way up, following the contours of my leg, lingering where they vanish below my skirt. When he’s upright again, his face is right at my middle. Everything in me is on fire, and I’m sure — I’m begging — that he’ll reach beneath and touch me. That he’ll simply lift the front of my skirt here and now, pull aside my sopping panties, and put his tongue to use.  
    “I … I … ”  
    “Maybe you should go splash some water on your face,” he tells me.  
    I turn to go. I turn to obey. I get a look or two from my tables, who probably need their water refilled or a general check-in. But a second later I’m in the ladies’ room. It’s a single-occupancy so I almost press the lock out of habit, but then remember why I’m here and don’t.
    I look in the mirror. I see the same red hair. The same wide lips. The same face that everyone looks at and thinks I’m a good girl. The same face that volunteers so often. The face I found it hard to look at in the mirror after the first few times I had sex because I was convinced that intercourse was something to be ashamed of. The devil’s work.  
    My heart is pounding when the door opens again. The way the mirror is angled, I can’t see who enters without turning, but this time, I hear the lock click.  
    Hands find my skin, below my hips, below the fall of my skirt. And when I look up, I see Chadd’s smooth, charming face for a few seconds before I stand tall and he leans in, pushing my hair aside to kiss my neck.  
    I can still stop this.  
    Oh, God, I don’t want to stop it.  
    I know it’s wrong. I know it’s terrible. I know that every time I’ve done something like this in the past, it makes me into a hundred things I don’t want to be: a slut, a whore, a tramp, easy. But I don’t stop it. I seek it out. I drew a line in the sand years ago, ever since those first shameful, rushed, sinfully exciting encounters, and put half of myself on each. It’s like I’m two women. One is good. The other is bad. And the idea that there could be any overlap — that someone like I should be could ever enjoy the things I do — seems absurd.  
    And still, I want him to kiss me more.  
    I want him to slide his hands higher, bringing my skirt up with them. And he does, making me cold and hot at the same time.  
    He cups my breasts. Then his hand is below my shirt, under my bra, pawing them for real, rubbing my nipples, bringing me to life.  
    Stop