Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I tilt my head, waiting for more.
“There was someone,” he says, voice going soft. “Last year. It didn’t work. We had nothing in common.” He looks at me, dead in the eyes. “I think I was just trying to prove I could still feel something.”
I’m not sure what to do with my hands, so I fold them in my lap. “Was it Claire?”
He gives a tiny nod, but there’s no drama in it. “Yes. She’s very different from you.” He pauses. “From me, too.”
I roll the stem of my glass between two fingers. “You want to talk about it?”
He shrugs, which is apparently his default setting. “There’s not much to say. Claire’s smart, driven, good at what she does. But we were just missing that spark.” He glances up. “The kind of spark that gets you called into the Dean’s office if you’re not careful.”
I want to laugh, but the mood is heavier now. He looks, for a second, like he might actually apologize for the way things started between us.
Instead, he says, “I’m not good at this, Simone. I want to be. I just don’t want to screw up again.”
He reaches for his glass, and our fingers brush. The contact is so brief, so accidental, but it feels like a spark plug arcing across skin.
“I’m not either,” I say. “But I want to try. With you.”
We eat more. The conversation wanders, then doubles back on itself. I tell him about Andie’s failed attempt at baking gluten-free brownies (the batter exploded in the microwave), and he tells me about his old roommate, who once took a full pepperoni pizza into the shower “for science.” We trade stories, not because we have to, but because it’s actually fun.
Between bites, our eyes keep meeting. Sometimes we look away at the same time and pretend it’s not a game.
After a while, he leans back and runs a hand through his hair, which is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. “You’re nothing like I imagined,” he says, the words almost a whisper.
I decide to risk it. “What did you imagine?”
He holds my gaze. “I didn’t think I’d ever care this much again.”
The words are a fire alarm in my chest, but I try to play it off. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.” He smiles, finally, and the room goes a degree brighter.
We finish the salad and what’s left of the wine. The candles are burning low, and there’s nowhere to hide from the gravity pulling us together.
He stands, collects the dishes, and when he comes around the table, he offers me his hand. I take it, pulse jittery. He pulls me to my feet, and we stand there for a second, facing each other.
“I don’t want to ruin this,” he says, voice low. “But if I don’t kiss you right now, I might actually die.”
I laugh, and he does too, and then we’re kissing, slow and hot and full of the promise of all the things we haven’t said yet. His arms go around my waist, and I’m melting, melting, melting.
For a second, the whole world is just breath and skin and need.
When we break apart, he brushes a thumb across my cheek. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, and I don’t even try to answer, because it would just sound like static in my ears.
The music is still playing, the candles still burning, but the real story is in the way his hands hold me. Gentle at first, then with more need. My body already knows what’s coming, and I want it, bad.
But I don’t want to rush it. Not this time.
We stand there, arms around each other, as if the rest of the night could wait forever.
But it can’t.
Not with him.
Not with us.
We end up on the sofa, wineglasses in hand, the last of the light sliding off the big windows like it’s embarrassed to intrude. The music’s softer now, just a shadow of piano and upright bass, the kind of thing that makes you want to talk about everything and nothing at once.
I tuck my feet under me, careful not to flash my panties unless I mean to, and face Liam full-on. He’s settled back, arm draped on the cushion behind me, but the angle of his body is totally locked in. He’s not playing it cool—he’s devouring me with his eyes, and it’s almost too much to meet his stare.
“So,” I say, swirling the wine and hoping I look casual. “Were you happy? In your marriage, I mean.”
He laughs, but it’s not mean. “That’s a loaded question.”
“I’m an English major,” I remind him. “I have to ask the loaded ones.”
He holds my gaze, and this time there’s no escape. “We were high school sweethearts,” he says, each word careful and deliberate. “You know how that goes? You’re supposed to go to prom together, then college, then get married, then do it all by the book. And we did, right down to the bad photos and the registry at Crate & Barrel.”