Chapter Twenty-Three
All the hurt comes rushing back into my chest when I see Roxi sitting at my table. In spite of that, I take her in like a man starved for nourishment. She looks… like water in the desert. If I’m critical, I can see that her cheeks are hollowed — like she hasn’t been eating enough. Her mouth is pinched, and her eyes have lost the sparkle that made my stomach do flip-flops. Her hair’s pulled back into a low ponytail, and she’s wearing a leather motorcycle jacket over jeans and a white tee-shirt. But damn if she isn’t as lovely as always, in spite of the stress she wears.
She flashes me a tentative smile and opens her arms. “I’m not armed.”
“What are you doing here, Roxi?” I’m wary. How could I not be? The last time we saw each other, I was in a holding cell, life crum
