He must have the same thought because his hand has found its way to my knee, resting there in a way that’s somehow both confident and tentative, like he’s sure he wants to do this, as long as it’s all right with me. He swallows thickly and I watch it slide down his neck. My fingers trace the motion before I can stop them, landing lightly just under his jaw. My sharp breath is drowned out by his own, which I feel under the pads of my fingers. We lock eyes and in that moment, we teeter on the knife edge. I’m searching for any clue in his eyes—have I gone too far, is this the Rubicon, does he regret it—but all I see is inky blackness.
“Abby—” he starts, but I’m louder.
I won’t cross the line.
“You nicked yourself shaving right here.” I brush my fingers over an imaginary cut, partly to show my nonchalance, partly to hide how much I’m shaking. “You should probably stop shaving altogether, if you’re going to be so clumsy. I’d actually like to see you with a proper beard.”
“Good to know.” He brings his hand up to his neck, interlacing his fingers with mine, guiding them to the cut we both know isn’t there. His pulse hums beneath my touch, quick and powerful. I curl one finger down, lightly caressing his throat. He gathers my hand in his, brings my palm to his mouth, presses his lips against it. “Good night, Stripes.”
As he walks to his bedroom, I feel it. I’m released from my dream sluggishness, my pointless attempts at running held back by invisible forces. I can go full-pelt, thrashing headfirst toward whatever I’m running at. Because now I know two things for sure: One, what I felt in the gym was real, and two? I don’t know how much longer I’ll have the strength to resist it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The World Cup ends andI haven’t said anything to Lachlan about what’s happening between us—and neither has he. But it continues to build, and I’m increasingly confident that all that’s standing in our way is this unfortunate piece of Scottish legislation. Amina texts me almost daily for updates, and we’ve taken to speculating on when, exactly, the year of separation started and how close we are to the blessed event. So, yes, much remains unspoken, and yet I’m happy. It’s nothing like what went unspoken between Steven and me that eventually broke us apart. If anything, all that remains unsaid with Lachlan only makes it more exciting. It’s our sexy little secret.
After our stretch session in the gym, we can’t stop touching each other. He’ll place his hand on the small of my back as I fix coffee in the morning, brush it along my hip as he pivots around me to open a cupboard, leave it there a moment too long, his fingers melting into the stretch of skin between my navel and my hipbone. I’ll press my fingers into his chest as I laugh at something he says and he’ll lean in, flattening my palm, which I’ll drag down his abs as he smiles at me. When we hug, my fingers will curl gently around the back of his neck and he’ll angle his face so his lips press against the spot right behind my ear, his hot breathsending shivers down my spine. It’s almost Victorian, these little touches here and there that wouldn’t necessarily look like anything to an outside observer but leave me breathless with want. It’s to the point where just seeing him walk into the room floods my whole body with a sharp, almost painful desire.
The one fly in the ointment is Josh. I haven’t spoken to him much since his visit a couple months ago, and I’ve barely responded to his texts. I know that with Amina being the devil on my shoulder, I need Josh to be the angel balancing her out, but I also…don’t want that. I don’t want to hear his strictures about what I’m getting myself into. I don’t want to be reminded that I should feel guilty and nervous about what’s happening. I don’t want to consider the very slim possibility that he might be right about Lachlan and me and my almost inevitable heartbreak. So when my office phone rings one day and I hear Josh’s voice on the other end, for the first time in the entire twenty-five-year history of our friendship, my heart sinks.
“Okay, just making sure you’re alive. I’ll go now,” he says.
“Wait, hold on, hold on. Hi. How are you? How’d you get my office number?”
“When you didn’t return about four hundred calls to your cell, I turned to this thing called the internet—not sure if they have it over there in England, but it has lots of useful information.” He’s trying to keep it light, but there’s a serrated edge to his words that slices against my nerves and settles as guilt deep in my stomach.
“I’m sorry, it’s been really busy around here,” I lie.
“I thought the World Cup meant it was quieter for you?”
“Yeah, but it’s over now so we’re back to business as usual.”
“Okay.”
I twist the cord around my finger and ponder what to say next.I can feel him bristling on the other end of the line, daring me to tell him that I haven’t called him back because I’ve been focused on Lachlan. That I haven’t taken his advice, haven’t moved out, haven’t moved on. Not like he needs to hear me say it, though: He knows. And I know he knows. So I take the coward’s way out: small talk.
“How’s Boston? Cold yet?”
“It’s the middle of December, so, yes, it is cold in Boston.”
I will not be defeated by his clipped tones. “It’s cold here, too. Not as bad as Boston, I’m sure, but pretty chilly, especially near the water.”
“Okay. Good update, Abby.”
I sigh. “Come on, talk to me. I’m sorry I’ve been a bad friend. But I miss you. Tell me about your life. What are you doing for Christmas?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line while Josh weighs whether to engage. “Going to Erica’s parents’ house. Her sister just had a baby.”
“Oh, that’s great! Emily or Elizabeth?”
“Emily.” He pauses again, but I can hear the thaw in his voice, the ice melting away over the telephone wires. “What are you doing? I assume you’re not coming home?”
“No. Mom’s pissed, but I told her Christmas basically doesn’t exist in the Premier League. We play four times between now and New Year’s, so it’s actually our busiest time. But hopefully next year I’ll be able to escape for a few days.”
“Next year?”
“I mean…yeah? I’m not planning to quit anytime soon, though I suppose there’s always the chance Charlotte remembers I don’t know anything about football and fires me.”
“Oh,” he says. “I guess I just figured…Never mind.”
