“At least I don’t taste like onions this time,” she says, and I laugh. Pushing myself up, I look down at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips pink, light hair fanned across thepillow.
She’s so beautiful.
But the deadliest things always are.
For the next few days,I learn more about Monty Reid. Each time, she drops the fact at a random point of the day, so I find myself hanging onto every word to avoid missing it.
So far, I’ve learned the following:
Her birthday is July first.
Her first kiss was when she was fourteen, and she threw up in his mouth.
She’s left-handed.
She was born in Bath, England.
Her favorite fruits are cherries.
But the things I love most are the facts she lets slip without even realizing it. She tells me little stories about her parents, how they met and what they loved most about each other. She sings in the shower, and when I comment on how nice her voice is, she says when she was younger, she wanted to be a performer.
I tell her things, too. About Ella, about work, about playing football in college. She introduces me to some awful British bands, and I tell her American rock will never be beat. We watch movies. We try to cook and fail.
And she leaves me IOUs.
For kisses, for cuddling on the couch, for back rubs and hand holding. Every IOU used ends in orgasms ground out through dry humping, and I’m fucking desperate to sink into her. We almost did once when we bumped into each other in the hall in the middle of the night. I’d pinned her against the wall, and she’d kissed me until we were breathless, and I begged her to go back to bed before we went toofar. She did, and I had to take a cold shower before returning to bed.
And soon, it’s the night before she’s due to leave, and I don’t want her to go. She tells me she wants snacks for her flight, and since her ankle is better, we go to the grocery store, and as we enter, she slips her hand into mine.
“Just in case Vivien is here,” she says, avoiding my eye.
I should pull away, but before I can find the strength to do it, I’m interlocking our fingers.
It’s been a long time since I held hands with someone. I’ve never been much for public displays of affection, but I find myself easing into the feeling, enjoying the warmth of her hand in mine.
As we pluck things off shelves, if our hands ever detach, we quickly come back to each other. At one point, she rests her head against my bicep as we push the cart, and I release her fingers, only to slide my arm around her waist. My heart races as I do it, and I worry it might be too far, but she leans into me.
How has this happened? This woman turned up on my doorstep with murder in her smile, but she seems to have dropped the mask for me. It could be a lie. All of it could be a fabrication, but for what? What does she gain?
We finish shopping and return to the house. Fox bounds over to us, tail wagging, and I place the bags on the counter.
“I don’t want to go.”
Forgetting the bags, I hold my breath as Monty closes the space between us. My heart beats against her palm as she rests her hands on my chest. Her eyes don’t shine with false tears, and she doesn’t elaborate on what could be a lie.
So I choose to believe it’s the truth.
Cupping her cheek, I pull her closer. “Then don’t.”
I want her to stay. I want more IOUs and long nights on the couch talking. I want to wake up to her singing in the shower and go to sleep with her close. It could be the biggest risk I’ve ever made, but I’m willing to make it.
“I’m not a good person, Guy,” she whispers.
My next words surprise even me.
“You are to me,” I say against her lips. Her breathing picks up, the taste of cherries so damn close to my tongue. “Stay, Monty. Stay with me.” I kiss her, and she leans into me.
But any heat building between us vanishes when she pulls back.
