The Lies I Told(12)

His gaze caught mine, heated, and I didn’t look away. I moistened my lips. He was savvy enough to read the cues, and I wondered whether my come-hither look mirrored Clare’s.

He came around the counter and cupped my face in his hands. “I love your eyes. They’ve always tempted me.”

My eyes. So like Clare’s. I stood still, knowing sex would burn off the sizzling nerves that hadn’t gone away after the candles were blown out. I’d coped with these anxieties for several years with drugs and booze. But with those off the table, the sharp edges of my worries cut deeper.

He tilted his head down and kissed me on the lips, as if he’d once been familiar with my body. I leaned into him but kept my hands at my sides. My blood pulsed. His lips tasted of malt and sensuous energy. The bands twisting inside me eased a fraction, and I was on the verge of telling him he could do whatever he wanted to me.

“You taste good,” he said as he rubbed my jaw with his thumb. When he kissed me again, his right hand slid up under my shirt, cupped my breast, and teased the nipple. Desire exploded, and I hissed in a breath.

As I teetered closer to letting go, I suddenly imagined Clare standing behind me, watching, more curious than annoyed. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do?”

I ignored the voice and concentrated on his lips, that hand squeezing and fondling. Let me just have this moment.

“He’s going to disappoint you,” Clare said. “Nothing is ever as advertised.”

I stiffened, drew in a breath.

“What’s wrong?” He gripped a handful of my shirt, keeping my body anchored close to his. “You used to like that,” he said.

You. “Clare did. Not me.”

His grip on my shirt eased, and I stepped back, pulling the fabric from his slackened grip. He stabbed long fingers through his hair. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Did you mean me or Clare?”

“Don’t turn that comment into a thing,” he said softly. “We’re here, and we’re doing just fine.”

But it wasn’t just us. It never would be. Picturing Clare standing behind me, I took another step back. “Were we? Are we both looking for a way to bring her back to life for a little while?”

“You’re overthinking this.” Frustration leaked from the words.

“I don’t think so.”

“Clare would want you to get on with your life.”

If he thought he’d said the magic words, he was wrong. “I’m not going to do this.”

“Why not? Marisa, I know it’s us in this room.”

“No, it’s not just us. She’s here, too.”

“That doesn’t sound rational.” Nervous laughter rumbled, but the need still lingered in his gaze, and I doubted he cared whether I was reasonable.

“It’s not a day to be rational,” I said.

“I’m not looking for Clare,” he said.

I shook my head and moved farther out of his reach. “No. But I am. I’ve been searching for her for thirteen years.”

“What’s to search for? She’s dead, not missing.” His too-rational tone cracked the veneer, exposing my fragility. Maybe I was a little unstable. “I miss Clare, too,” he added.

I closed my eyes. If I were still drinking, we’d have already been in bed naked. “We need to honor that feeling and try not to cover it up with sex.”

He slid his hand into his pocket, a muscle in his jaw pulsing. “You’re not being fair.”

“Maybe not. But it is what it is.” The platitude rumbled out on a sigh.

“Okay. I get it.”

I wasn’t sure he did understand. I thought he was horny and wondering whether this could still be salvaged. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

I thought for a moment he’d reach out to me, but he stilled, finally nodding. “Nothing to be sorry about. Can’t catch lightning in a bottle, right?”

“Something like that.”

“I’d like to see you sometime soon,” he said. “I’d hate for thirteen years to go by before we see each other again.”

“Why did you come to my party?”

The desire melted from his gaze, leaving him more clear eyed. “We were friends once. Time to let the past go, I guess.”

“Have you been able to do that?”

“I’m working on it.”

“I’m not sure I ever will,” I said.

He studied my face, searching for hints of the desire I’d felt just moments ago. He found none. “Guess that’s my cue to leave.”

“Right.”

As he turned, he spotted a collection of framed black-and-white photos that I’d taken last fall. They were the ones I’d exhibited in my art show in January, right before the car accident. Odd, but I still didn’t remember the show or bringing these pictures home and rehanging them.

Kurt studied the images closely. “You took these?”

“Yes. Sometimes I really do identify as an artist,” I joked.

A smile quirked his lips. “Don’t let what Jo-Jo said get to you. It’s good to be a dreamer. She can be a moron and always found a way to take a swipe at you.”

“That’s not true.”