I bite down the shiver at his word choice.
“With you?” I toss over my shoulder. “Always.” I smooth down my flyaways and return to work, hoping the next hour never comes.
11
A Spoonful of Sugar
“Fortheloveofgod, Liam Kelly, will you please stop grinning like some lovestruck fool?” I flash a scowl his way, arms crossed, leaning against the unsavory silver pole in the middle of the Métro car headed for Trocadéro, a platform with the ultimate view of the Eiffel Tower at night.
A languished expression remains plastered on Liam’s face, and after watching him wear it for the past hour, I’m ready to wipe it right off.
He’s annoyingly convincing in his role already.
Whichshouldbe a good thing.
But I, apparently, can’t handle it. At least my body can’t. It doesn’t care that this is fake, or that I remind it of that fact on the regular—the butterflies still cause massive gastrointestinal distress whenever his teeth graze across his lower lip, or he looks at me with an unfamiliar softness.
I need a break.
“What? Can’t a fella be happy to be taking a stroll with his darling girlfriend?” Liam places his palm over his heart, his thumb still rubbing where I drew circles on it. It’s something he’s done a lot since Harmony left.
“Did I cut you?” I ask, motioning to his hand.
“Huh?” He blinks, apparently taken aback by the sudden shift in questioning.
“Your palm, you’ve been rubbing it since I grabbed it earlier with Harmony, and I’m worried I might have cut you or something.” The announcement for our stop repeats in the background.
“Oh.” His eyes widen, and his thumb halts as he puts his hand back to his side and flexes it. “Just a tic, you’re fine.”
The cabin slows to a stop. I assess him skeptically. It’s a new tic then because I’ve certainly never noticed it. “As long as I didn’t hurt you.”
The doors slide open, and we step out of the cabin on the poorly lit concrete platform. “All good, baby.” He winks. “But I appreciate the concern.”
I glare, an irrational part of me sparking alive—like I shouldn’t like him calling me baby, and yet... “No, no freaking way am I letting baby pass your lips in reference again to me. Off-limits.”
“What would you prefer me to call you, then?” He scratches at the scuff on his cheek. A phantom memory of the rough hair sliding over my skin sends a shiver down my spine. “Sugar?”
“I’m sorry, are you a forty-year-old man with a toupee and too much chest hair?”
“Damn. You caught me. Don’t tell Natale, though. We have a good mom/son dynamic going.”
I hold back my snort because the last thing this man needs is encouragement. Unfortunately, the snort ends up sticking to the back of my throat, and I soon reenact cat-coughs-up-hairball in an Oscar-worthy performance.
His lips tip into a knowing smirk as he springs up the staircase two at a time. I sigh, breathing through the pain radiating in the crook of my thigh after working on my feet, and ignore how this moment is a metaphor for our entire life.
“Sweetheart?” He pauses a few steps to the top. With his left dimple imprinting on his cheek, he offers out his hand to me.
“That’s a Caroline-ism.” I reach out, needing the stability. “Thank you.”
We march past a hundred tiny glittering Eiffel Towers spread out for sale along the sidewalk, and the grump in me intensifies. Well, really, the pain does. I release his hand and stride forward, hiding my face while I breathe through the spasm. It feels like my uterus is about to go “so long suckers, it’s been real” and plop out of me onto the slick square tiles below.
My stress level’s becoming more of a problem because it intensifies my flares, which adds more stress, so . . . I’m flaring more. It’s a vicious circle nearly impossible to escape, but if I don’t figure it out soon, I’m doomed to flare at catastrophic levels during my brother’s wedding in three weeks, which is less than ideal. Nobody wants a bridesmaid curled up in the fetal position during the procession.
“Would ‘Duck’ fit the bill?” Liam continues behind me. My patience is way too thin for this, and I round on him with a glare. “Okay, so duck puts you in afowlmood, got it.” He puts his arms up in surrender.
My lips twitch, my love of puns at war with my general sour disposition. “I’m delighted that my misfortune is bringing you so much joy, and I admit I deserve it, but if you could drop the act for five minutes so I can breathe before I take on Harmony Part Deux, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’m not reveling in your misfortune, Peaches.”
