“It’s raining,” she states, watching the drops streak down her window as we approach Virtu on the way to Harold’s house.
“Hopefully it’ll stay light, at least until after I drop you off.”
“I think I actually need to go back to the shop,” she says slowly. “If you don’t mind? I, uh, might’ve left something there.”
“Oh. Okay.” I do not think Annie is telling the truth. And considering what she’s just revealed about her…crushon me—god, how bizarre, that someone like her could see me being a huge dweeb on TV and think,Yeah, I want that—I feel mildly nauseated. In a good way. I think. “I’ll park out front, then,” I say, doing so. “Since we’ll just be in and out.”
She makes a noise that sounds like,Will we now?Although maybe that’s only in my imagination.
Maybe this is all in my imagination.
Maybe I tripped coming down the stairs of Virtu two weeks ago and put myself into a coma, and everything that’s happened since—the call from Nicole, the goose, Harold and Inés, Annie—is simply a dream.
Yes, that must be it. Because none of this can possibly be reality. There’s no way that Annie wants me the way that I want her. How could she even exist in waking life? She’s too beautiful, too clever, too charming. Toorightto be real.
But if I am asleep, I hope I don’t wake up any time soon.
SEVENTEEN
Annie
My heart thudsinside my chest like a frustrated bird trying to bash its way out of its cage. No regard for how it might get hurt. No thoughts about the repercussions. It only yearns and yearns and yearns.
When I saw him on TV and then searched for him online, I built this image of Callahan Leitner in my head based on what I wanted him to be: charming, intelligent, passionate, funny. Then I met him and he seemed like none of those things. Okay, intelligent, sure. But in a way that was so cushioned in pretension it negated any admiration I might have had for him. Except now, after we’ve spent more time together, I see that he’s actually all of that and more. Since the night I found the goose in his apartment, he’s been unfolding slowly like a piece of haphazardly creased paper, opening up to reveal bits and pieces of what’s written inside. Now I have the strongest urge to unfold him the rest of the way, smooth it all out, see everything hekeeps hidden behind that thin veneer of haughtiness and dry sense of humor.
Very few people have had the opportunity. And if he’s willing to offer it to me…
Well, I’m absolutely going to take it.
So when he unlocks Virtu’s front door and closes it behind us as we enter the dimly lit shop, I waste no time, turning around and reaching up to run my fingertips over his jaw. His eyes are wide, pupils blown out so that his gaze is nearly all black. He looks slightly terrified, yet entranced. No one has ever looked at me quite this way, as if I hold the power over them instead of the other way around. I think I like it.
“I would like to kiss you, Callahan,” I whisper as I slip my fingers into his soft, dark hair. “Is that okay with you?”
Whether it’s my touch or my words, Cal responds by closing his eyes, almost as if he’s in pain. I’m about to back away, to let him and the whole idea of this go. But then his lips part, and the tip of his tongue swipes across the lower one. “Please,” he says, sounding so desperate and annoyed about it that I have to stop myself from grinning.
Instead, I’m smiling as I lean into him, using my fingers in his hair to pull his head down toward me and my other hand to grip the lapel of his black wool coat. Our lips meet, and I’m expecting his to be tense, but instead they’re soft, warm. So ready for me. Most of the men I’ve kissed have treated it like a small-scale war, a battle for control that I let them win after putting up just enough of a fight so they’ll feel victorious when I surrender. But Cal lets me explore, lets me take his mouth the way I’ve been dying to since last night when we were trapped in the mansion: slow, deep, thorough.
I retreat slightly, offering him a turn but not fully expectinghim to accept it. He surprises me, though, bringing his hands up to cup my face as he swipes his tongue over the seam of my lips, requesting entrance at the same time he guides me through the store until my tailbone meets a hard surface. The counter. I reach back and grab the edge of it to steady myself so I don’t topple backward, my legs going gelatinous as the kiss shifts endlessly. The minuscule brain capacity I have at the moment imagines it as a spectrum of sensations, the tactile equivalent of the rainbows produced by faceted crystal when the light hits it just right. We part, breath heavy, as Cal works the buttons of my peacoat. Once it’s open, he slides his hands inside, skating down the curves of my body as he brings me closer against him. His head dips and he presses his mouth hungrily to my collarbone, my neck, the spot behind my ear.
“Take off yours too. I want to feel more of you,” I say.
As he undoes his own coat’s buttons, endearingly fumbling the top one three times, I lift myself onto the counter. He glances up from what he’s doing and gives me an exasperated sigh.
“Gonna yell at me to get down?” I ask.
“Not this time,” he says after considering it, shedding his coat and throwing it directly on the floor. “But if you insist on sitting there like an objet d’art, I’m going to have to appraise you.” His slightly swollen lips tilt into a playful expression that I’ve never seen him wear before. For once there’s no tension, no stress engraved in his features. It makes him look younger. Vulnerable, yet free.
Cal approaches and takes hold of one of my ankles. His thumb slides over my skin in a back-and-forth motion, caressing, and I’m suddenly glad I decided against wearing tights this morning despite the forecasted cold front; I don’t think I could bear to have even that thin layer of material between us.
“Hmm,” he says, imbuing it with a quizzical quality as he lets his gaze slowly drift from where he’s touching me up to my face. “Very interesting.” His hold on my ankle loosens and his fingertips follow the curve of my calf up to the back of my knee, which has never been a particularly erogenous spot before but has suddenly decided it might be up for it after all. “American made, I believe. Definitely last century.”
I nudge his shoulder in faux outrage and he grins.
“While technically true, that is violence,” I declare.
His mouth falls into a more serious expression as he continues his slow examination. “I’m afraid this is where I’m a bit lost,” he says, tracing the hem of my dress where it rests over my upper thighs. “I don’t think I’ve ever had the privilege of handling anything so singularly beautiful before.”
The compliment sends heat rushing to my cheeks, but I also understand the admission as a request for reassurance. “I’m sure your experience has given you some idea how to proceed,” I say.
