G cackles. “Hey. Watch yourself. My mother can reheat just about anything.”
I join in the laughter but feel wary. There’s a weird type of energy coming off Esme in waves. The air’s so tense with the excess electricity, it crackles.
“So it took you until you got here to hook up?”
Gareth’s questioning is persistent enough to piss me off. “Does it matter?”
“Seb’s mother was a maid in our house,” Esme says, and the world slows down around me, a frigid chill sweeping in from nowhere. The only hot points on my body where they touch against hers.
“Oh, isn’t that sweet? A real life case of upstairs downstairs.”
“We had to let her go because she was stealing, so my parents were hardly going to let us hook up at home.” She turns to me, a smile twisting her pouty lips, a glint of fear in her eyes. “Isn’t that right?”
If we were alone, there are a thousand things I’d do to her in that second.
Fuelled by anger, at a minimum, I’d twist my hand into her hair until she retracted her words, not that she’d be able to do that with her mouth stuffed full of everything else I’d give her.
At a maximum, I’d smack her taunting arse until my palm was too sore to continue, and she’d never sit comfortably again.
Words launch themselves into my mouth and I struggle to swallow them down again. Beneath my rush of fury, I understand she’s poking at me, prodding to find the weak spots, trying to prove to the both of us that my sea change is a lie.
As a test, it’s a good one. My fury is hot enough to burn. Once again, I admire her capacity to creep under my skin. Even guessing what she’s doing, I still come close to throwing everything away in an angry retort, one that my family pride demands.
But if I let those words come bubbling out of me, she’ll slip away, pointing the finger of blame because I couldn’t keep my promises for even a day.
So, I take a breath and force a smile, pretending my skin isn’t on fire. Rather than contradict her, I scoop her closer, watching her frown deepen while my hand records her stiffening spine.
“Is that true?” G asks, salivating for gossip.
“She certainly worked for them.” After a second, I can’t stop myself from adding, “For the rest, recollections may vary.”
Gareth smirks and I doubt he’s storing up the subtle differentiation. I guess my student portfolio is now going to include a reference to my mother—a woman who worked hard for every scrap she got in life—being a thief.
Esme’s hard gaze rests on me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip deep enough to leave blood-red marks.
I lean closer to whisper, “Don’t chew on your lip when I could do that for you. If you crave punishment, let me deal it out, then we’ll both get satisfaction.”
Crimson streaks flare along her cheekbones and the worst of my anger blunts at the sight. My hand moves down to her hip, cupping her curves while my thumb strokes her, slipping under the loose hem of her tee shirt to touch her bare skin.
Gareth moves away as his order is called from the tuckshop window.
I keep my voice calm and say, “If you’re going to attack, it’d be nice to get a warning first.”
She shrugs, bowing her head while her hands wring together in her lap. The tension eats at my comfort levels until I wish I could sprint away from here, run laps or, better still, run to tackle an opponent until my head is back where it needs to be; exhaust myself into being stable.
Esme unlinks her hands, gripping the edge of the bench, then moving one across to rest along the inside of my knee. There’s a buzz to her skin, a tremor so faint I can barely feel it.
“You’re not eating?” I ask just for the value of saying something, of moving this awkward moment into the past.
She bolts like I issued a command, heading for the vending machine while I watch every movement, trying to read between the lines, to work out where my fledgling peacekeeping effort landed.
The obsession that’s kept me aloft for so long is now flailing, trying to find a safe place to rest.
She has to stay. If she walks away, I won’t be able to stand it. Not another rejection.
I take out the food I held over from breakfast as Gareth returns, smiling at being shot down once again by the girl serving at the counter.
“She rejected me,” he happily informs me. “But it took her a minute longer than last week. Give me enough time and she’ll be eating from the palm of my hand.”
