Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(33)

The cushioned window seat was my bed for the night and I used one of the many plush blankets piled high in the linen closet. They smelled of geranium and rose. The housekeeper had layered the blankets with linen squares scented with essential oils, as per my mother’s instructions. She had a sensitive nose and had always been very particular about how things smelled.

Other than my looks, I’d never considered that I might share any traits with my mother. She was very glamorous, vivacious, and charismatic.

I was . . . not.

But as I tossed and turned on the cushioned seat, and despite the aroma of geranium and rose, I couldn’t stop thinking about Abram and how delicious he smelled and how the fragrance of him fogged my brain.

I’d always enjoyed good smells—fresh baked bread, warm cookies straight out of the oven, cinnamon, donuts, apple cider, orange blossoms, lavender and lemon—but I’d never thought of myself as being sensitive to them. Until now.

Thoughts of Abram’s heady scent on my mind, I forced my eyes closed by laying a forearm over my eyelids. I must have eventually fallen asleep because I dreamt of him. I dreamt of that moment in the hall and all those infinite possibilities.

I looked into his eyes, hazy and velvet and trusting. Instead of saying my sister’s name, he’d said, “Mona . . .”

And knew what I wanted with a clarity that, even though I was merely dreaming, it was jarring.

In general—in my experience—good decisions were always made by default. Living your best life wasn’t about active choice, it was about the risk/benefit ratio, an equation that balanced the greatest good against the least harm. The logical path forward was the only path forward.

But I wanted him.

So, I made an active choice to be reckless.

I placed my hand against his cheek without an invitation. I dropped my eyes to his lips and thought of nothing but my own selfishness and how much I wanted to taste them. I stepped closer, into his warmth, absorbing his heat, pressing my body to his without asking for permission, and finally—finally—took his beautiful lips with mine.

And then inexplicably, just as an explosion of heat and taste invaded my mouth, he said, “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

The soft slide of fingers brushing loose strands off my forehead paired with his soft, grumbly whisper made no sense. We were kissing. How could he be speaking when we were kissing?

But we aren’t kissing, not really.

Rousing reluctantly, I turned my face toward his voice, stretching languidly, feeling relaxed and calm and inhaling a chest-expanding breath.

“What time is it?” I asked, brushing the back of my knuckles against my lips.

“Ten,” he said.

He said. . .

Who said?

Abram.

And just like that, I was awake. But I didn’t open my eyes. Nor did I tense, or shrink away. Instead, for reasons unknown, I held perfectly still.

His hand made another pass over my forehead. His fingertips, rough and callused, pushed into my hair gently, curving back around so that his knuckles skimmed over my upper cheek, down my jaw, the pad of his thumb caressing a little circle around my chin. It felt like he was tracing me, drawing me into wakefulness, and—once I stopped attempting to calculate the risk/benefit of this moment—it felt really, really nice.

“Sorry I have to wake you,” he said, sounding sorry, and sleepy, and extremely close. “But we have to go.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, still not opening my eyes, hoping he’d trace my face again.

He did, his fingers followed the same lazy path. “To Michigan.”

“What’s in Michigan?”

Finished with his third tracing, his hand paused on my shoulder, and then slid slowly down my arm. That felt good too. The rough spots a surprising texture, his touch a three-dimensional, complex experience. He had nice hands.

“My parents’ house.”

My eyes flew open, reacquainted themselves with his big, pretty ones—which were currently smiling down at me tiredly—and blinked. “Your parents’ house?”

His warm hand made a return trip up my arm and came to a rest on my shoulder. “Yes. It’s my mom’s birthday. We have to be there by two thirty, so we have to leave soon.”

“We?”

“I let you sleep as long as I could, and I didn’t sleep.” He stopped here to yawn, taking his hand away to cover his mouth. “Sorry,” he said around his display of exhaustion. “But we have to go.”

I shook my head and squinted at him, at the circles under his eyes, at the ashen quality to his skin. “You didn’t sleep? Why didn’t you sleep?”

“I couldn’t.” He smiled, plainly happy, standing and shrugging.

“You couldn’t?” I sat up and held the blanket to my chest, tracking him as he backed away.

Abram pointed at me with both index fingers. “Too many ideas, my muse!”

“Ideas?”

“Be ready in a half hour.” He yawned. “You’re driving. I’ll sleep in the car on the way. I’ll be fine.”

I’m driving?

How could I drive? I had my (Mona’s) driver’s license, but I didn’t have Lisa’s. Obviously, I couldn’t take mine. Wasn’t it illegal to drive without a license? And what if I were pulled over? Who would I say that I was?