The Player and the Pixie(66)

I caught her hand, held it on the bed between us. “You said earlier that I’m a snob.”

“But you’re not a snob with me.”

“That’s because I like you.”

Her eyes widened, refocusing on mine, and she gave me an impish smile. “You like me?”

“You know I do.” I rubbed my thumb over the back of her knuckles, enjoying the exquisite softness of her skin.

Lucy’s gaze sharpened, this time with obvious suspicion. “Is this you trying to flirt? Practicing your new skills?”

“No, lovely Lucy.” I kissed her palm, sighed against her wrist when I detected a delicious hint of her perfume. “This is me being honest.”

We watched each other, residual traces of our earlier smiles fading with each passing second. Her breathing had changed, and something about her eyes was different. They’d grown a darker shade of blue.

“What are you doing, Sean?” Her voice held an edge of anxiety. I didn’t like it.

I brought her hand to my chest, cradled it there as a hostage. I didn’t want her leaving, not yet. Maybe never.

I responded honestly, because with her, honesty was a compulsion. “I don’t know, Lucy.”

Two wrinkles of worry appeared between her eyebrows. I wanted to kiss them away. Instead I held her gaze because the moment was an important one.

“You’re mad,” she whispered. “You’ve known me for a week.”

“I’ve known you much longer than that.”

“Fine, a few weeks. It’s the sex.”

“It’s not the sex. You know it’s not.” My hand reflexively tightened on hers, pressing her palm over my heart.

She shook her head, rejecting my words. “It is. You said yourself. You’ve only been with women when you’re drunk. Sloppy and quick. I’m just the first girl you’ve taken your time with, sober, mindful of what you’re doing.”

“We’re not having sex now,” I said through clenched teeth. Her words stung despite—or perhaps because of—their veracity.

“No. But don’t mistake deeper feelings for a good time in the sack.”

“Lucy—”

“No.” She wrested her hand away, squaring her jaw with resolve. She rose to a sitting position on the bed and wrapped her arms around her legs, a physical manifestation of the wall between us. “I like you. I do. You’re witty and funny when you allow yourself to be. You’re fun to be with. You have depth even if you won’t admit it. But I’m not fooling myself here. You hate my brother and we both know the feeling is mutual. These things you think you’re feeling? They’ll pass. Give it a week, a month at maximum. You’ll forget my name.”

Anger and its partner frustration had me growling before she’d finished. “You underestimate yourself if you think you’re so forgettable.”

“You know what I mean.” She waved her hand in the air. “I’m sure you’ll always think of me fondly—me and my blow jobs. But what are you giving up? Nothing, that’s what. And when you grow tired of the novelty, you’ll just move on. Meanwhile, I’d be giving up my brother, and that’s like asking me to give up my arms and legs. He’s the only one, the only one, who has ever been there for me. My whole life, he was the only person who cared about me. He loves me. And I love him. And I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”

She didn’t finish because her features crumpled with sorrow and tears strangled the words. My anger immediately deflated in the face of her distress and I reached for her, not allowing her to push me away.

Some instinctual need to calm her, ease her fears, take away her burdens had me holding her tightly and rubbing her back, had me promising to do whatever she needed, be whatever she needed.

“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Please, stop crying.” I didn’t know what I was saying; really, I would have said anything to put an end to her sorrow. It panicked me.

Lying against my side, I felt her chest rise and fall with several bracing inhales, as though she were doing breathing exercises to stem the tears.

“I’m not crying,” she said defiantly, her voice still watery.

“Oh?” I squeezed her, needing her to be happy. “I apologize for my hasty assumption. Clearly you’re not crying.”

Lucy huffed an unsteady laugh. “Clearly.” She sniffled.

We lay together for a time, surrounded on all sides by brooding silence and a fate-ish sort of finality.

I couldn’t stay in New York.

We’d been in each other’s orbit for a week, so why did it feel like the end of something vital? Why did my bones ache at the thought of not being able to speak with her, touch her, or see her? Why did I become absurdly furious whenever I thought of her with someone else?