Come As You Are(46)

“Absolutely.”

We say hello to the shopkeeper who glances up from the counter and smiles, letting us know she’s here if we need anything. She’s dressed as Rita Hayworth, with a bust-exposing dress and a red wig.

We head toward the masks.

“Now that you’ve seen me, would you recognize me in, say, this?” He covers his face with a fox mask.

“You’re foxy, but yes, I can tell it’s you.”

“Good.” He reaches for a dog. “As Fido?”

I smile. “Absolutely.”

“What about this?” He tries to sound silky and sultry as he slides a pink pig mask over his face, adding a most unsexy oink, oink.

“Still you.”

He locates a mask of a clown with a tear sliding down its face and a big red ball for a nose. He positions it over my eyes then peers at me, studying me. “Yup, it’s you.”

He holds the mask to his face. “And now? Can you tell it’s me?”

I slug his arm. “Yes, yes, yes. Of course, I’d recognize you.”

“Just like you ‘recognized’ me at The Dollhouse?” His tone is somewhat challenging.

“I told you, I recognized you, but I didn’t want it to be you,” I say wistfully.

He wraps a hand around my arm, and flames lick my body. “Sometimes I still feel that way. Sometimes I see you, and I wish you were someone else.”

“Me too,” I admit.

“Do you want me to be the duke?”

I nod. “Yes, and we’ll go to costume parties. Maybe I’ll dress as Marilyn Monroe at one.”

He groans and steps closer to me. It’s dark here in the corner of the shop—we’re out of sight of the windows. Red velvet lines the wall, and masks, swords, and shields hang from it. “You’d look so hot as Marilyn Monroe.”

“I’d get a mask just for my eyes. You could cup my cheek while you kissed me.”

“Fuck,” he says in a long, low rumble. “And what would I be?” He rests his hand on a rack of poodle skirts.

“You’d be Joe DiMaggio, of course.”

He pumps a fist. “I always wanted to be a star athlete.”

I lift my hand and run it up his arm, grateful he’s wearing a T-shirt today. I trace a path to his bicep. His breath hisses as I travel higher then squeeze his muscle. “You’d wear your Yankees uniform, and I’d admire how it fits you. I’d admire your arms too. I’d touch them.”

He swallows harshly. His eyes are fire. His voice is sandpaper as he whispers, “And I’d slide in for a dance and wrap my arm around your waist while you had on that white satin dress. And nobody would know who we were because we’d wear masks.”

“We’d know.”

“But we’d pretend.”

“Can we pretend now? That we’re at a costume party?”

He glances over his shoulder. Rita is on the phone. She’s looking the other way, and we’re partially hidden behind the racks. “Let’s pretend. If we pretend, it’s not really happening.”

Permission. We’re giving each other the permission we both so desperately want.

“We’re at a make-believe party,” I say, as we move closer to each other, and he glides his hand around my waist.

I want to melt into him. My bones dissolve into honey as I raise my hands to his shoulders, sliding over them, looping around his neck, then drawing him near. “You never know what might happen at a costume party,” I whisper as we glide closer. Inches separate us. Inches and air and restraint that’s frayed so thin it’s unraveling at breakneck speed.

“One dance, maybe more.”

Music plays softly in the background, and I swear it’s Linda Ronstadt crooning the opening notes to “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Or maybe that’s how my body feels. Like it’s become a torch song. Like I’m living inside the lyrics to a smoky, sexy tune of desperation and wanting.

My eyes flutter closed for a second, and warmth spreads from the center of my chest all the way to the tips of my fingers. A shiver runs through me as his hands tighten around my hips.

Once again, we exist on two planes. We seem to slip back and forth in time like we did when we visited the subway station. Like we exist here as Flynn and Sabrina, and we exist in the past as Angel and Duke.

I dance, though I shouldn’t.

I sway, though it’s risky.

I look into his eyes, though that only makes me want him more. Wanting is such a painful emotion. It aches and throbs and hurts even as it asks for more of the torture. More of the things that I can’t have. A real chance with this man. A real date. A real love.

“Sometimes you look at me like you did the other night,” I whisper.

“How did I look at you the other night?”

“As if you liked being kind of dominant.”

“I think you liked it when I was kind of dominant.”

“I liked it when you raised my hands over my head.”

“And you liked it when I hiked your legs around my waist.”

“I did,” I say breathily.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have to worry. I could get lost in the moment.”

“Do you want to get lost again?” he asks, in a voice that betrays his want for me. It makes me dizzy. It makes me high.