“Not really. I was more worried about my algebra homework, frankly. Sorry, Lucas, but you’d really do better to ask Rachel about all this.”
That prospect didn’t sound too appealing. Yes, Rachel was beginning to loosen up a bit, mostly because she really did like Connor — pretty much everyone liked Connor, actually — but that still didn’t mean Lucas wanted to drive down to Jerome and grill her on the subject of Margot Emory.
Angela must have noted his distinct lack of enthusiasm, because she said, “If I had anything more to tell you, I would. And really, I’m the last person to get all judge-y about impossible relationships. I think you’d be good for Margot. Whether you can convince her of that?” She let out a tiny sigh, hardly more than a breath. “I don’t know.”
Neither did he. Even so, Angela’s remark that he’d be good for Margot buoyed him a bit. He had to keep trying. Sure, a smarter man might have decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, but Lucas knew better. Last night he’d gotten just a glimpse of who she could be, if she only would allow herself, and he wasn’t going to stop now.
“Thanks, Angela,” he said, smiling at her, hoping she could see from his expression that he’d found her input helpful. “I know what I need to do next.”
* * *
Margot lay in bed past her usual rising time of six-thirty, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if and when she finally got herself dressed and went out, whether the members of her clan would see the stain of Lucas Wilcox’s kiss on her mouth like some latter-day scarlet letter. Surely it had to be visible; she swore she could still feel the pressure of his lips on hers, even twelve hours later.
No, that was silly. She knew what she had done, but since the McAllister clan didn’t currently number any mind readers within its ranks, her secret should be safe enough. Apart from Connor, no one from either family had even been at the gallery walk the night before, so she hadn’t been seen with Lucas. It was going to be fine.
But was it, really?
She showered and dressed, applied her makeup with care, dried her hair and ran a brush through it. The heavy locks lay loose and gleaming on her shoulders, and she decided not to pull them back today. No real reason, except that it promised to be cold, and her hair was warm against her neck. As she did each day, she scrutinized it, wondering when the first strands of gray would appear, and whether she’d wear them proudly or would cast just the teeniest, tiniest illusion spell to cover them up.
Or do what everyone else did, and go to the drugstore for some dye to hide the evidence that she wasn’t twenty-five anymore.
No white hairs had appeared overnight, despite the way she’d tossed and turned, and so she left the bathroom and went to the kitchen. The ritual of making tea calmed her a bit, and by the time she’d sat down at the small round table by the window with her Darjeeling and her sourdough toast, she could almost convince herself that this was just an ordinary day like any other.
Except it wasn’t. It was the day after the night when she’d kissed Lucas Wilcox, had felt her whole body come alive in a way it hadn’t for a very long time. Trying to ignore the effect he’d had on her was like telling the green grass not to grow after a much-needed rain.
And that was it. As much as she wanted to deny what he’d done to her, she couldn’t. Even now, as she sipped her tea and tried very hard not to think of anything at all, memories of him kept crowding her mind — the dark eyes with their heavy fringe of lashes, the mouth that managed to be sensual and amused at the same time, the way the laugh lines around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. And the harder she tried to banish those images, the more they seemed to be the only thing she could think about.
“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, even as she rose from the table to wash out her mug and clean the crumbs off the plate. The house had a dishwasher, but she hardly ever used it. Wasteful, when it was only her living here.
Only her. In that moment, she realized how much she hated the very idea of being alone in this house. No one to talk to, no one to care what she did or didn’t do. She kept it clean because it wasn’t in her nature to do otherwise, but really, when you came right down to it, she could let the place go completely, and no one would even notice. Well, except her mother, maybe; Sylvia hadn’t been the world’s greatest housekeeper, and it was Margot who’d taken on that responsibility from about the time she was fourteen. But she’d still make a comment when she dropped by, if it turned out the place wasn’t being kept up to Margot’s usual high standards.