‘Right,’ Lissa agrees, making her voice both firm and upbeat. ‘Not for a long time. And not seriously.’ For fuck’s sake, why does this city have to be so bloody small?
Mark glances between Ash and Lissa. His arm is still around Jen, though he has loosened his grip. ‘So are you guys hanging out now?’
Ash shoves his hands into his pockets, rocks back on his heels. ‘Depends what you mean by hanging out. I mean, we are currently hanging out, but we’re not “hanging out”.’ He lifts his hands to do the air quotes.
‘Right,’ Mark says, nodding slowly.
‘Well, this is brilliantly awkward,’ Jen says brightly. Lissa decides she quite likes her. ‘So I reckon either we all do tequila shots together, or else we leave these two to it. Mark, what do you think?’
‘Yes.’ Mark’s hand moves to her waist, squeezes lightly. He nods at Ash and Lissa. ‘You guys have fun.’
Ash moves to the side to allow them to pass. ‘Catch up later?’ he asks, sounding a little sheepish.
‘Yeah,’ Mark says. ‘Sure.’
He and Jen step through the doorway, and when they are definitely out of earshot, Lissa thumps Ash in the ribs.
‘Ouch,’ he says drily.
‘You didn’t tell him,’ Lissa hisses.
‘No. Sorry. Although, to be fair, you didn’t either.’ She wrinkles her nose at that. ‘I was going to,’ Ash continues, ‘but I wasn’t sure what exactly there was to tell him.’ He looks at her then, his blue eyes intense, so that it feels like a question. One she doesn’t think it’s best to answer.
Instead she jerks her head towards the bar. ‘Drink?’
‘Good idea.’
Lissa’s skin feels itchy as she stands next to him at the bar, like something has changed between the doorway and here. Like Mark seeing themmeanssomething, when really it shouldn’t. The music, some sort of jazz fusion, thrums inside her, and she feels too hot even as she strips off her jacket.
Ash downs his drink in one, sets the glass on the bar. His knee is moving, like he’s trying to siphon off some energy. ‘Let’s dance,’ he announces.
‘Er, why?’
‘Why not?’ He takes her hand and pulls her onto the dance floor without waiting on an answer.
He keeps hold of one of her hands, places his other on her waist. Beneath her top, her skin heats, and when she looks up, feeling the weight of his focus on her, she thinks he can tell. Thinks he can feel it. He moves her across the limited space, lifts one arm for her to twirl under, and she obliges.
‘You can dance,’ he states.
She grins. ‘Why, surprised?’ She’s never exactly loved dancing in public, what with the whole being-the-centreof-attention thing, but she’s always been able to do it.
His fingers skim lightly down her spine, and it’s all she can do not to shiver. The space between them feels flimsy, and not just because they’re so close. He’s watching her, his gaze holding hers. She should look away. But she doesn’t want to. She moves her hand from his shoulder to rest on the side of his neck instead, sees the pulse in his throat jump. His hand slides back to her waist, his fingers curling there, and heat flares between her thighs. Her heart is beating fast, a warning drum that she doesn’t want to listen to.
The pub blurs around them as they dance, colours swirling in a way that doesn’t feel real. She’s back there in that speakeasy with him. Music swirls around them, urging them on – not his band this time, but another one.
‘Did you think any more about it?’ he asks, his voice low, meant only for her. She knows what he’s talking about. He wants her to move out of the city, to take her art more seriously.
You could be the next Augusta Savage, he told her the last time she saw him, as they walked through Central Park hand in hand.
‘I’m still thinking,’ she hedges, not wanting to let him down. ‘But I’m needed here, for now.’ And it’s a stupid dream anyway, to paint, to do something with that. She knows she is destined to stay here in New York. She only wishes he would stay too.
A slight crease furrows his brow – he knows a little, about her sister, the way her parents are broken because of it. She takes her hand from his, places it on his chest. ‘Let’s not talk about it now, okay? Let’s just enjoy tonight.’ Because he’s leaving in the morning, off with his band to the next city.
He smiles a little, nods. At her waist, his hand moves in a slow circle, and she tries not to shiver. She can almost taste the subtle edge of his cologne, and she breathes in the smell of him, deeper than that. His fingers move to the small of her back, tightening their grip, and she sees the way his Adam’s apple bobs as she holds his dark gaze.
I love you.She wants to say it then. Wants to let the words loose, to taste them on her tongue. But she can’t – not yet. Because he is only ever passing through. Because, as much as she’d like to pretend otherwise, she can’t leave until her mother is better.
He bends his head towards her, his mouth a hair’s breadth from hers. She closes her eyes, waiting for the kiss. Only it doesn’t come.
