Page 31 of Punishing Penelope
I can’t help stealing glances at Peter. He has changed so much it’s unbelievable. He’s huge. He was tall back then, too, taller than me, which was a pleasant change. I tower over a lot of people, both women and men, especially in my four-inch heels. Now, he’s even taller, and he’s buff. He must work out a lot. Maybe that was his therapy after everything that went down.
I got physical, too, even more than I had already been. I ran but could never run fast enough or far enough. Savannah was always there, her limp body, her unseeing eyes, the ghost of her, and the hole in my existence.
I’ve never managed to outrun her.
I’ve worked my whole life since to make her death not to have been for nothing. If I can prevent even one family from experiencing the same pain, everything is worth it.
Now, I’ve gone and fucked it all up.
I side-eye Peter. Perhaps not? A glass of wine and some catching up, not a bad alternative to having my whole career ruined. I’ve never seen him look my way, for fuck’s sake. All these years, hovering on the periphery of each other’s lives and careers, and not a word, nothing.
Yet here we are, on our way to ‘catch up.’
There’s unbearable tension in the space between us, almost palpable. What—exactly—does catching up entail? Taking in his powerful hands resting on the steering wheel, the memory of how he held my wrists still tingles vividly. Damn, he looks good.
“So... Peter.” I clear my throat. “Long time no see.”
“Not really.” He glances at me, then back at the road. “Press conference the day before yesterday. Press conference last Tuesday. Press conferences, two of ‘em, the week before that. Do I have to go on?”
“I didn’t think you noticed me, I—”
“Now, how the fuck could I not notice the most annoying fucking reporter in the fucking country?”
I almost drop my chin at the hostility in his voice. Damn. Maybe catching up won’t be the hot sex my crazy, deprived hormones fantasized about?
“Oh, wow. Did I step on someone’s tender little toes?”
“Let’s put it this way. If you called 911 because someone broke into your flat, there’d be a lot of people laughing back at the precinct.”
“What in the actual fuck?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re a fucking dick, you know that? I don’t think I wanna ‘catch up’ anymore. Go to hell. Take me home.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.
“Peter?”
“Arrest it is, then. I’ll take the next exit.”
Oh, fuck no.
“No, I…” I swallow. “We’re only talking about a glass of wine and some chatting, right?” My heart pounds harder, and unease spreads through my limbs, almost making me want to tear open the door and take my chances with jumping out of a car in motion.
“What the hell else did you think?” Peter laughs. ““What the hell else did you think? I’m an officer of the law, Wilder. Do you think I’m kidnapping you?”
He makes it sound so silly. I have a vivid imagination, which makes for good writing, but it can fuck me up sometimes too.
“Of course not.” I force a laugh that doesn't sound all that convincing.
“Are you a white wine or a red wine chick?”
“Take a guess.”
He throws me a quick glance again. “Whisky.”
My lips almost twitch into a smile. “You’ve still got it. You know what I want. F