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that had happened.
    I watched him as he watched me and saw the realization that played out in my mind play out on his face.
    “I’m leaving now,” he said.
    My first thought should’ve been relief, but that wasn’t what I felt. I felt a sad disappointment, almost crushing, and it got more intense when he lifted his hand from my shoulder.
    I missed its warmth, its strength, immediately.
    Last night, I could have blamed the shock for my reaction to him. But I had no such excuse this morning. So instead of examining it, I ignored it.
    “I… I feel like I should say something, but I don’t know what to say. ‘Thank you for not killing me’ doesn’t seem right,” I said.
    He chuckled. “It’s good enough,” he said.
    He started toward the door, and I reached out before my mind could process a thought. I barely grazed his hand, his skin warm, alive against mine.
    He stopped and looked back at me, curious, but not surprised.
    My heart boomed, and I could barely speak around it, but I pushed the words out in a rush. “Take care of yourself, Priest,” I said.
    He stopped and then retraced the two steps that separated us. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as he leaned forward, his warmth, the masculine scent of his body surrounding me.
    My heart stopped, everything inside me going still as he leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine.
    It was barely a touch, only a kiss in that his lips touched mine, but that featherlight touch was enough to set my body aflame and enough to prove to me that whatever I had felt last night, the desire for him had been real.
    He broke the kiss and then stood to his full, intimidating height, his eyes on mine.
    “You do the same, Milan,” he said.
    And then he was gone.

Eight
    M ilan

    B y midafternoon , I had almost completely convinced myself that I had imagined the entire thing. That the shooting, Priest, the whole day had been a particularly vivid dream.
    Probably would have been able to if I hadn’t still remembered how I had felt when I’d touched his fingers, remembered the searing heat of his gaze against my skin. Remembered the brush of his lips against mine, the faintest whisper of a touch that still tingled even now, hours later.
    So it had happened; there was no denying that. But it was over now and I had a life to live, and I was determined to focus on that.
    Around one that afternoon, the dead bolt turned and the door opened as much as it could with the chain slid across it.
    “Milan, open up,” Tiffany called through the partially open door.
    Ordinarily, she’d come breezing in, but that wasn’t possible now, and she pushed against the door trying to gain entry.
    I hopped up from where I had been sitting in silence and staring off into the distance and went to the door and unlocked the chain.
    “Why was the chain on the door?” Tiffany asked as she came in.
    “I…” I started and then trailed off and looked at my best friend.
    She looked beautiful, refreshed, and completely content in a way that I envied. She dropped her bag and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and threw herself onto the couch.
    She nodded and then took a swallow of her soda, seeming to have forgotten her question. “Last night was amazing, Milan! How was your night?” she asked.
    “I, uh, I…”
    Tiffany set her soda on the coffee table and stared at me, not breaking her gaze even as I came toward her and put a coaster under the damp can. I felt her gaze and her burgeoning worry, but I couldn’t look at her.
    “What’s wrong, Milan?” she asked, tension rising in her voice.
    I shrugged, still not meeting her eyes.
    “Milan…” she said.
    “I’m fine,” I replied.
    Tiffany could be flighty, impulsive, but she was not dumb, something I was reminded of as she eyed me suspiciously.
    “The wedding was that rough?” she asked, her voice still edged with skepticism as she watched me.
    It was a reasonable question; some of the events could be a real grind, but