Come As You Are(32)

But that time isn’t now.

The trouble is, when I see Sabrina that afternoon at the subway station, I wish she’d stop smiling at me like she was also wanting all the things we can’t have.





15





Sabrina



His green eyes gleam as he walks to me on the sidewalk by the Fifty-first Street subway station. He’s holding something in his hand. I can’t quite tell what it is, since his fist is closed. He stops inches away and for a brief moment, I imagine him kissing me on the cheek, or perhaps embracing me with a hello hug.

My heart beats a little faster. Stupid hopeful thing.

Instead, he simply smiles. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I have something for you.”

“What do you have?”

“I conducted a very daring halo-dismantling mission last night. The wire nearly nicked my hand, and the Monopoly money tried to give me paper cuts, but I soldiered on.” Flynn uncurls his fist and hands me the headband.

I tuck it into my purse. “Thank you. I appreciate you risking life and limb for a hair accessory.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “It’s a favorite of mine.”

“A duke always tackles dangerous tasks for a lady’s lovely hair,” he says and tingles spread down my chest from that private little reminder.

I curtsy and nod in a demure thank you.

His eyes drift toward the subway entrance. “And look. We won’t even have to queue up for the train.” He winks.

I laugh at the reminder of our clandestine exchange last night, as I give him a furtive once-over. It’s hard not to, since I like looking at him so much now that I can see all of him. Of course, I liked looking at him on Sunday night too, even shrouded by the mask. With it removed, he’s so handsome it hurts, but it hurts so good.

He wears jeans, brown shoes, and a dark-blue button-down, untucked. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing his forearms. Racquetball arms, I think. When I researched him, I read that he plays racquetball for a hobby, as well as softball, and I wonder if those sports have made him lean and ropey.

I raise my gaze quickly to his face, cataloging his features.

Flynn Parker has a boyish charm about him, with his clean-shaven jaw, twinkling eyes behind simple black frames, and flawless skin. But I doubt he shaved this morning. Stubble lines his square jaw and makes me wonder deliciously dirty things about how his face would feel against my thighs.

Things I should not entertain.

Especially since the prospect of his scruff near my lady parts is dangerously arousing.

I conduct a clean sweep and focus on the article, donning my imaginary super-reporter cape. “Thank you for making time for me. I’m curious about your favorite place.”

He gestures toward the stairwell that leads underground. “Let us go then, you and I.”

I grab his arm. “Did you just quote T.S. Eliot to me?”

“Hmm. Seems I did.”

I shake my head, amused and turned on. “I was an English major. That’s not fair.”

An impish grin appears. “What’s not fair about it?”

“You can’t quote the first line of a great love poem to an English major. Shame on you,” I admonish playfully, but I’m being honest too. He sounds too seductive reciting poetry.

“Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky,” he whispers, and my skin tingles.

“Bad boy.”

“Do you like bad boys?”

“Now I do.”

I’m flirting. I’m flirting times ten. I should stop. I really should.

“I’ll keep it up, then. She walks in beauty like the night.”

My pulse beats faster, and it’s too hard to stop when he quotes poetry. “You’re very bad, Lord Byron.”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he begins, and the little hairs on my arms rise in excitement, anticipation.

“You. Must. Stop.”

He tilts his head, and screws up the corner of his lips, fixing on a comical expression. “Arr, I’ll talk like a pirate then, ahoy, matey.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re terrible.”

Laughing, he tips his forehead to my skirt as we head down the stairwell. “I’ll shift gears for you. Is today’s outfit homemade?”

I’m wearing a simple black skirt with a pale pink satin ribbon down one side. “Yes. I suppose I’m predictable.” I glance at my skirt, which hits mid-thigh. I like them short, always have. Flynn seems to, as well, since his gaze follows mine and lingers on my legs.

“You’re hardly predictable. It’s more like a fun discovery each time I see you.”

“You’re kind of weirdly fascinated with my clothes,” I say as our shoes smack against the concrete, but truth be told, I like his interest in my wardrobe. I care about what I wear. I love making my clothes, and the fact that he notices—well, it delights me.

“It’s not so much that I’m fascinated. I’m more curious and impressed with how handy you are. I suppose, in a post-apocalyptic world, you’d have a seriously usable skill to barter with.”

I crack up. “That’s exactly why I learned to sew. To trade services at the end of the world. Speaking of, how will you manage, Mr. CEO? Will you organize the first company to sell post-apocalyptic supplies?”