Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters, #2)(45)

His forearm muscles twitched beneath her knees. “I . . . No.”

“Yeah,” she insisted softly. “Opal thought Henry might be where I got my love for music. It’s weird to think it came from somewhere. Like a little boop of DNA makes my spine tingle during the opening notes of ‘Smoke on the Water.’”

Fox’s chest rumbled. “It’s ‘Thunderstruck’ for me. AC/DC.” A beat passed. “All right, I’m lying. It’s ‘Here Comes the Sun.’”

His warm T-shirt absorbed her laugh. “There’s no way to hear it without smiling.”

“There really isn’t.” He stroked his fingertips down her right arm, then seemed to pull back, as if he’d done it without thinking and realized it was too much. “I always wonder why you don’t play an instrument.”

“Oh, do I have a story for you.” Her arm still tingled from where he’d touched it. They were sitting in the dark, speaking in hushed tones on his bed. She was in his lap and wrapped in his arms, and there was nothing uncomfortable about it. None of the awkwardness that would normally come from blubbering in front of someone who wasn’t Piper. Although Hannah couldn’t deny there was an underlying tension in Fox. Like electricity that he didn’t know how to turn off but was clearly trying to. “I went through such an obnoxious hipster phase when I was thirteen. Like I thought I was truly discovering all these classic songs for the first time and no one understood or appreciated them like me. I was terrible. And I wanted to be different, so I asked for harmonica lessons.” She tilted her head back, found his eyes in the dark. “Word to the wise, don’t ever learn the harmonica while you have braces.”

“Hannah. Oh God. No.” His head fell back briefly, a laugh puffing out of him. “What happened?”

“Our parents were in the Mediterranean, so we walked to our neighbor’s house and they were in France—”

“Ah, yes. Typical neighborhood problems.”

She snorted. “So their landscaper offered to drive me and Piper—who had actually peed her pants laughing—in the back of his truck.” She could barely keep her voice even, the need to giggle was so great. “We were driven to the closest hospital in the back of a pickup truck while the harmonica was stuck to my face. Every time I exhaled, the harmonica would play a few notes. People were honking . . .”

His whole body was shaking with laughter, and Hannah could tell he’d finally, fully relaxed. The sexual tension didn’t leave completely, but he’d shelved it for now. “What did they say at the hospital?”

“They asked if I was taking requests.”

He was laughing before, but now he fell backward, the sound booming and unrestrained. Hannah yelped as the mattress dipped, causing her to roll without warning on top of him. She ended up sprawled with her hip against his stomach, her upper half twisted so their chests were pressed together.

Fox’s laughter died when he realized their position.

Their mouths were only an inch apart—and Hannah wanted to kiss him. Terribly. His darkening eyes said he wanted the same. If she was being honest, she wanted to straddle his hips and do a lot more than kiss. But she listened to her instincts, the same ones she’d heeded that afternoon, and held back, scooting away so they were no longer touching and her head was resting on his pillow. Fox watched her from under his hooded eyelids, his chest rising and falling, then carefully arranged himself across from her, his head on the other pillow. As if following her lead.

They stayed like that for a while, several minutes passing without either of them saying a word. Almost as if they were getting used to being in a bed together. Being this up close and personal without the weight of expectations. It was enough to simply lie there with him, and Hannah needed him to know that. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important for him to know that nothing needed to happen between them for this time together to be worthwhile.

“All right . . .” he started, watching her steadily. “I guess we’ve worked up to it.”

Hannah didn’t move. Didn’t even swallow.

Fox shifted on the bed, held out the wrist on which he wore a leather bracelet. “This belonged to my father. He worked down the coast a ways. A fisherman, too. He married my mother after she got pregnant with me, but the marriage didn’t last beyond a few pretty miserable years.” He twisted his wrist, making the leather turn a little. “I wear this to remind myself I’m exactly like him and that will never change.”

*

The way he said it dared her to recoil. Or issue a denial.

But she only held his gaze and waited patiently, her fist curled into his pillow, eyes and mouth puffy from crying. Cute and compassionate and singular. One of a kind. And she was interested in this sob story?

What the hell was this, anyway? A heart-to-heart in the dark with a girl? His headboard should be cracking off the wall right now. She should be screaming into his shoulder, drawing blood on his back. The cornered animal inside him bayed, begging him to distract. To reach over and fist her dress, drag her across the bed and roll right on top of her, make her dizzy with his tongue in her mouth.

His weapon had been taken away, though. She’d disarmed him this afternoon.

No armor. Nothing to deflect with.

And part of him seriously hated the vulnerable state in which she’d left him. The railing of his ship had disappeared, no barrier to block him from toppling into the turbulent sea. He didn’t want this kind of intimacy. Didn’t want sympathy or pity or understanding. He was just fine continuing to guard the wound. Pretending it wasn’t there. Who the hell was she to come and rip off the bandage?