The Kingmaker (All the King's Men, #1)(26)

“Oh, I was hoping we could take a canal ride, Nix,” he says to me, his eyes and voice private, intimate even though we don’t know each other’s bodies yet. The abbreviation of my name, for some reason, is so damn sexy. My father, all my friends shorten my name to Lenn. Nix is just . . . yeah. I want to be Nix this week. Tonight, I want to be Nix for him.

“We still can,” I assure him, my voice softening so only he will hear me. “There were lots of people. Maybe there’s one for just two?”

He folds the book facedown on the wall and clasps my hips, pulling me to stand between his legs. He reaches up to roll his closed fist around and down the length of my ponytail. “Exactly what I had in mind.”

He’s seated on the wall, but so tall, we’re almost eye level. We met four years ago for a couple of hours. We clocked some time last night and even shared kisses. How can we be here already? How can I want this with him after never wanting it with anyone else before?

But then he tugs on my ponytail and pulls me close enough to kiss. Every doubt and question follows common sense out the window. I cup his face and press deeper into the V of his thighs. I open to him, take him in, taste his groan, and relish how he tautens under my hands.

“Jesus,” he breathes, palming my ass. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About how you tasted last night.”

“You have?” I smile against his lips.

“Could you please ignore the eighty-four text messages and thirty-six missed calls on your phone when you get upstairs?” His husky laugh behind my ear makes me shudder. “Let’s just pretend those didn’t happen.”

“Do they escalate in desperation?” I ask hopefully.

“They do a little, yeah.”

“Then I’m saving them.”

He narrows his eyes and drops his hands from me, but the corners of his mouth twitch. How can lips be firm and so lush?

“I’m as bad as your dad. I kept thinking maybe something happened to you or . . .” His shoulders lift and fall, and he looks away.

“Or?”

“Maybe you changed your mind about getting to know each other.” He looks back to me and there’s an unexpected flash of uncertainty. Maxim doesn’t strike me as an uncertain man.

“I have the feeling you’re the kind of guy people like to get to know. I’m no exception. Sorry if I worried you.”

“You can make it up to me over dinner.”

“I’d like that.”

“Great.” He stands and picks up his book. “I’ll let you get inside to relax a little, get changed. Eight o’clock okay to come back for you?”

“Sure,” I reply distractedly, my attention caught by the cover of his book.

“Shackleton’s Way: Leadership Lessons from the Great Antarctic Explorer.” I turn down the corners of my mouth, simultaneously intrigued and already half dozing. “The Antarctic, huh?”

“I know Ernest Shackleton isn’t exactly a household name . . .” he laughs, picking up the book and closing it, holding it, “. . . but he’s kind of a big deal as far as expeditions go.”

“Are expeditions your thing then? Is there even any place left to expedition to?”

“Oh, yeah.” He lifts his brows and studies the cover. “On both counts. There’s a ton left to explore and most of it interests me very much. I’m actually leaving for Antarctica next week.”

My heart wobbles and my whole body goes still. If I counted up every minute I’ve ever spent with this man, it wouldn’t even equal a day, but hearing he’s leaving next week . . . hell, I’m leaving next week. Whatever this is or could be, it’s most likely short-lived. I need to remember that.

“Wow, Antarctica. A trip to the most remote place on the planet. Were you drafted? Is it a condition for your degree or something?”

“I applied and it’s actually a pretty competitive process. I’ll be there all winter and staying through November, which is Antarctic summer. The research you can get in the two seasons is completely different, and I want exposure to both. I’ll be inland until around September and then will study along the peninsula on an ice-capable ship for the summer. Some of the best clues we have, some of the best predictors of how the planet is changing and what the implications of it will be, are in the Antarctic.”

“When I say I want to save the world, I mean people, but you mean—”

“The actual planet, yeah, but that is people. The rapid changes in our planet—that’s one of the most urgent crises we face, and the people who can actually do the most about it aren’t paying attention, or don’t seem to care.”

I was mistaken. That flare, that spark in his eyes, I mistook for ambition? It’s passion. It’s zeal. It’s an important distinction, and I recognize it because it burns through me, too.

“If you ask me, there are plenty of things more urgent than melting ice caps,” I say, watching for his response to my words. “Like the fact that an astounding number of Native American women are sexually assaulted, and there’s barely any data or concern when we go missing. Or the fact that children in certain parts of the world, in America, don’t have enough food.”

“Agreed, those things are urgent, but to put it in perspective, the Antarctic holds ninety percent of the planet’s ice and seventy percent of our freshwater. Do you know what that means?”