Her smile diminishes, and she looks perplexed with her nose scrunching and eyebrows pinching together. Yet another expression of hers that I don’t remember seeing over our time together.I must have a lot to learn about the multi-faceted Lucy Spence. I feel like I’m in an alternate universe.
And I really need to turn off my scrutinizing brain.
“Oh, um. I just, uh…” she trails off, looking anywhere but at me now. She snaps her fingers as if she just remembered. “That’s right. I needed time to warm up to you, that’s all. I feel more comfortable with you now that you’ve told me about yourposition.”
Ah, so I was right. “So, you’re saying I have free reign to touch you now, maybe even kiss you, since we are officially dating?” I smirk as her face reddens. But then she schools her expression and turns to face me, her free hand trailing up my arm.
I fully expect shivers to erupt through me, but there’s… nothing.
“Yes, Finley Andersson. You have free reign to touch me.” She stares into my eyes, a smoldering emerald. “And kiss me.”
She steps closer and drops my hand, opting instead to run her hand up my other arm.
Do I want this?
Right now?
Her arms loop around my neck, and every fiber of my body screams at me to back up.
So I listen, and I take a giant step back as Lucy’s arms remain outstretched towards me.
The woman I’ve fallen for sinks into a puddle of utter sadness and confusion, her arms finally collapsing to her side, her chin drooping.
I don’t know what came over me, but I have to fix this.
“Lucy.” I step towards her, but she still doesn’t look at me. I place two fingers underneath her tucked chin and lift her headuntil she’s meeting my eyes, a thousand questions rushing through her own. “Iwillkiss you. But please allow me to initiate our very first one.”
Though even as I make the promise, I’m still unsure if I’ll be able to. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. I was craving her lips on mine by the end of our first date.
She swallows, the bottom of her chin moving with the motion. I drop my hand and grin, trying to work through this unease.
“Okay,” is all she says. I lace my fingers through hers once more, and I guide us out of the treeline and into the first part of the gardens. Hundreds of various flowers and shrubs and trees sprout colorful and tall around the fountains and white fences and butterfly decor. The smell is intoxicating, a blend of sweet and stark spice, and I make a mental note to spruce up our royal garden when I return to Korsa for good. It could use a section devoted to chrysanthemums alone…
We walk in silence, Lucy only speaking up to compliment a flower on its beauty. Instead of calling them by their names, she simply uses the term “flower.” I try to engage her in conversation surrounding the history of Bellina Gardens (I spent a few hours doing a thorough search, mind you), but she only nods along and doesn’t add in any of her knowledge. Did she not look into this place, supposedly a place she’s been wanting to go to for a while? Weird.
Come to think of it, she didn’t engage me in conversation regarding history, philosophy, or law. She spoke up when I brought up Thomas Paine, but she went radio silent other than a few vaguestatements when I spoke about Aristotle, John Locke, and William Blackstone.
“Oh, look, Finley!” I follow her point to a bevy of swans in the nearby lake. “Swans are beautiful birds, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are. But do you hear their song? The term ‘swan song’ comes from the ancient Greeks. They believed that if you heard a certain song coming from a swan, it was about to die. Do you think their song is one of death?”
Lucy’s still gazing out on the white fowl, her eyes mesmerized. “I don’t know about death or the Greeks, but swans represent purity. Something I’ll never—” She cuts herself off, a certain despondency seeping into her expression as her eyes fall to the ground. After a fleeting second, she meets my eyes and smiles softly. “Do you want to go down to the lake?”
“That would be lovely.”
As we begin our walk down the stoned pathway, Lucy lightens and begins to talk about her books. She’s going on about fantasy creatures and a genre called urban romantasy and different plot lines and how she plans to make every book she ever writes tie together in some way. It’s truly fascinating to get a glimpse into her brain like this as I know a writer’s stories are highly personal, but I can’t keep up because it’s a lot of information thrown at me at once at high speed.
“What do you think about that idea?” she asks, and I redden in the face because I have no clue what she’s referring to. Was it a pirate? A vampire? Maybe something about a ghost…
“I, uh…” I drift sheepishly as I watch her physically deflate. My heart pinches, and I decide honesty is the best policy. “I’m sorry.I was trying to keep up but it was a lot and I kind of got lost in thinking about how it was a lot. I’m not huge into fiction. I prefer nonfiction.”
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes, her nose scrunching up as she evaluates me. Yes, she looks me up and down like she’s making a judgment call at this very moment. Then, she chuckles as she fiddles with her hair, leading us down to the lake in silence.
What’s going on with her today? It’s as if she’s reverted back to the woman I met in December, but I had already started falling for and entertaining the differences I’ve noticed in her—the stimulating conversation, her muted character (and I don’t mean that in a derogatory way by any means), and her soft but straightforward speech. During those few moments back at her apartment, when I made eye contact with her sister, all those feelings surfaced, and—
Wait.
Have I been…?Can I ask that question?
