I’m not even in love with Sadie and I’m rocking a semi.Hemust be in one of the circles of hell. The circle of unrequited love and frustrated lust, on fire in the best and worst way.
I turn back to her.That’s all good stuff to know. Thanks.
Her mouth twists in amusement. “Well, when Liaden is a sweaty, quivering wreck of a woman underneath you, tell herfrom me that she’s welcome.” She snorts. “Just kidding, don’t actuallydothat…”
Leo leans over to the empty table behind him and grabs the spare menus, handing one to us both. “Food time,” he says through what sounds like gritted teeth. “My treat.”
“It’s OK - ” Sadie begins to say.
“You’re being taken out for lunch,” he interrupts gently with a wink, “especially after advice like that.” She smiles at him, and he goes back to the menu, staring at it like it’s got the meaning of life explained on it.
And in that moment, I decide to make my excuses and leave. They try to change my mind, but the more one on one time those two have, the better.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dean
You can do this.
I’ve been staring at her front door for what could be hours or microseconds, trying not to rustle the bouquet in my hand - buying it seemed like the right thing to do - and I’m steeling myself to knock. My gut is full of butterflies, my mind is racing at ten miles a minute, and my heart rate is even faster than that. I don’t know if this is a good feeling or a bad one, but…I kind of like it.
It’s one hell of a cocktail. Nerves. A hint of terror. A lot of anticipation. Andwant. Pure, unfiltered, and raging through me like a burst dam. I don’t know how this is going to go. I know everything changes after this point, and life opens up like I never believed it could. And I can’t wait.
But I also feel like leaving the flowers at the door and running home is probably the smarter, safer idea…
Get it together. I refuse to even entertain the idea. And I willnotthink about the past. This has nothing to do with Callie, or Whitmire, or anyone else from Nolan High. This is aboutLiaden. It’s about today. If I think too much about yesterday, I’ll spiral downwards, and that just can’t happen. So I focus on one more deep breath, staying in the moment, feeling it travel all the way to my toes and back up, the way several therapists taught me.
Any man alive would kill to be standing where you are right now.
Fistfuls of gorgeous pink hair. The smell of pears and wild flowers on the pulse point of her neck. The smooth sweetness of her lips, peachy soft as they brushed over mine. I want to taste them again. I want them running over the rest of me as well, like when we hugged that time and her mouth brushed my throat…
…and all I have to do to make that happen isknock on this fucking door.
Liaden
I was soright when I thought my dream about dogs was significant in some way.
“Listen, I think he’s at my door, but if we could drop by sometime to see him, that would be great,” I say to my friend Daphne via Skype. She’s helping me out with an idea I’ve had for Dean, and, having done my research, everything seems to be coming together so perfectly for this plan that it’s eerie.
“Sure,” she says easily, “just give me an hour’s warning whenever you like.”
“Thanks so much. See you soon.” I end the call and dash to the door, taking one final look in the mirror in the hallway. I’m wearing my favourite blue tea dress, and my hair is loosebecause I think he likes it that way. I’m not wearing much makeup because panda eyes after a roll in the hay is never the best look.
A shiver of delicious excitement tingles along my spine. My anticipation has been running high, especially after yesterday’s kiss, and I have a brief mental flash of opening the door and climbing his mouth watering body like a spider monkey. Ripping his clothes off with my bare teeth like a woman possessed. Fornicating with him where he stood.
Maybe another time.
When I open the door, he’s standing there holding the most beautiful bunch of flowers, the scent of pink roses and white freesias filling the space between us. They’re almost as gorgeous as his shy, nervous smile. I’m developing a genuine fetish about his beaten up leather jacket, and his black jeans and charcoal grey henley look brand new. His hair is still damp and curling at the ends from, I assume, a shower, since it’s not raining. Smart man, Dean. I’m gonna dirty you up like you wouldn’t believe…
“How lovely,” I say, pointing at the flowers, “are they for me?”
His smile widens in relief as he hands them to me.Glad you like them.
“Ilovethem,” I assure him as I invite him inside and he toes off his black trainers - again, looking pristine enough to be new. I pop the roses in water in my best vase, still in the plastic wrapping. Arranging them can wait. I love being given flowers as a gift, and it’s been a while since I got them from a romantic interest rather than my publisher.
He takes his jacket off and hangs it up, placing a small backpack on the floor in front of it. I watch him as he wanders a few paces, taking in my home. I wonder what he thinks of what he sees. The minimalist approach, the white walls, the alphabetised bookshelf. A few splashes of colour here and there,like the bright blue wall hangings from my trip to Peru and the yellow Orla Kiely cushions on the grey sofa. To me, my flat is just a place to sleep, easy to pack up when my fellowship at the university comes to an end and I need to move on. Now that I look around with a critical eye, itisa little showhome-y, but the girls seemed comfortable enough during our sleepover. They didn’t pass comment. So it can’t betoocold and sterile.
But if homes are a reflection of their owners…what does he see when he looks at this place, at me? Hopefully not a lack of warmth. Or impermanence.
