Page 117
“Yes. The Mothers are willing to talk.”
Just the thought of it made me wish I’d stolen a Xanax from Vivienne’s pantry.
“Oh god.”
He placed his hand over mine. “I’ll make sure you’re ready.”
“Ready?”
He hesitated, which didn’t help.
“It’s always better to be prepared,” he said, glancing in his side mirror.
“Can you say something less terrifying?”
“The best way to win this is to be underestimated. And they’ve already underestimated you, so you’re halfway there.”
“And the other half?”
“Knowing how they operate.”
At home, I checked my phone, curled against Damian on the couch. His duffel bag sat on the floor.
The group chat was quiet except for a few messages:
Priya: actually starting to really hate him
Jess: honestly mine’s been so sweet lately. like he’s not even in a cult lol
Priya: Callie you’re so quiet
Callie: right here. just super stressed out by work RN
I texted Callie separately: remember to play along. they can’t know anything changed with Kai
this subterfuge sucks, she texted back.
I napped against Damian’s chest for two hours, cradled in the bliss of him.
We ate Chinese takeout at the kitchen table, both of us avoiding Friday by unspoken agreement. We needed one small, ordinary night.
The kitchen had slid into disarray, so I busied myself restoring a little order, stacking cartons and snapping lids on leftovers, aware of Damian watching me as he cracked a fortune cookie. Even with the meeting nipping at our heels, his attention was addictive.
When I tried to shove an oversized Tupperware into the cabinet above the stove, stretching an inch too short, he was suddenly behind me, taking it from my hand and slotting it into place. The cabinet clicked shut. He didn’t move.
I turned. He stepped in.
He touched my wrist, then my jaw. Heat caught in the hollow of my throat.
I tipped my face to look at him. He was looking at me in a way that made the blood rush through my veins. Pupils wide, hungry, like he was charting all the things he was waiting to allow himself. I could have written a book about what that look did to me, and how much I wished he’d stop being noble.
The first kiss was slow. He let go of a small gasp against my lips that I felt in my spine. The kitchen still smelled of ginger and the waxy paper of takeout cartons, and I knew I’d never smell ginger again without thinking of this. Then I opened my mouth, my breath already unruly, and we forgot about trying to hold ourselves together.
He pulled me in by the small of my back. My fingers slid under his shirt. I’d been thinking all day about his warm skin and the way my touch made him almost shudder.
My legs bumped awkwardly into the stove. He eased me onto the counter by the window, the one stretch of wall with nothing overhead, or maybe I scrambled up; I only knew his hands were under my knees, drawing me closer, his hips closing the last polite space between us. The counter was cool against the backs of my thighs.
The hard line of him against me dragged a raw sound from my throat.
