Say the Word(86)

I laughed again and this time, though he seemed almost uncertain how, he joined in with me. His deep chuckle resonated through the room in perfect harmony with my own giggles, and filled me with an unrelenting joy. I watched his face alight. Unbeknownst to him, his expression revealed his own surprise at the sound of years of shored up laughter spilling out into the air around us. It was clear he’d not laughed like this for a long time — perhaps so long he’d become convinced it was no longer possible.

I’d forgotten how wonderful it was to laugh with Sebastian. I savored the moment, memorizing the sound of his rumbling laughter, the warm look in his eyes, the faint smell of his aftershave. I bottled up the memory and tucked it away in a far corner of my mind so that one day, when he was once again just a thread in the fabric of my past, I could replay it, relive it, as many times as I wanted.

When our breaths grew short, we finally fell silent, staring at one another across the sofa. We’d ended up in identical poses, with our bodies turned inward toward the unoccupied cushion between us, our sides pressed against the couch back, and our heads leaning against the fabric.

He reached over slowly, his hand moving to my shoulder blade where the thin strap of my silk tank had fallen down over my left shoulder. His entire body moved toward mine, and I held my breath as he entered my space. I pressed my eyes closed when I felt his light touch on the skin of my upper arm, and shivered lightly when he dragged the strap back into place. The graze of his finger was featherlight as it traveled down the length of the strap to the space below my left collarbone, where it stilled abruptly and pressed into the skin with more pressure than before.

“A tattoo?” His voice was husky.

My eyes flew open. Shit. He could not see my tattoo.

With my inhibitions dulled by the wine and — fine, I admit it — the pull of his presence, I hadn’t realized that the small line of script was visible near the edge of my tank top. Only a portion of the last word, but still — enough to make him curious about the phrase I’d inscribed in ink over my heart.

My hand came up to cover his, shielding the tattoo from his eyes.

“It’s, uh, it’s nothing really.” My mind searched desperately for an excuse to keep him from seeing the mark, and when my eyes landed on the small door to my bathroom, I blurted the first words that popped into my head. “I have to pee!”

I jumped to my feet as Sebastian laughed, my abrupt admission clearly a case of over-sharing. God, I was such a dork. I averted my eyes from him and hurried for the door. “Be right back!” I called.

He was still laughing when the door closed behind me. I leaned against it and sank slowly down to the floor, the cool tiles chilling me through the thin fabric of my pants. I curled my knees to my chest and proceeded to smack my forehead repeatedly with the open face of my right palm, hoping it might knock some sense back into me.

Seriously, what the hell was wrong with me?

Where was my self-control? My common sense? My ability to ignore the fact that the most beautiful man in the world was sitting in my living room?

Ah yes, that’s right. They’d fled somewhere around the time I’d poured that third glass of wine.

Crap.

I had to go back out there and regain control of the situation. I could totally do this — be his friend, without letting him see how much I still loved him. Pretend I felt nothing more than mutual respect. Restrain myself from staring at him like I’d given up ice cream for Lent and he was a large, delicious cone of mint chocolate chip, begging to be consumed.

Damn, Des had been right. I really was hungry. Even my mental metaphors had devolved to become food-oriented.

I scrambled to my feet and stared at my reflection in the mirror over the sink, trying to collect my thoughts. I reached up and pressed my fingertips against the still-swollen bags beneath each of my eyes. Staring into their cloudy grayish depths, I prayed for composure, straightened my shoulders, and shook my fingers through my hair from root to tip, as though I could somehow shake out my nerves.

When I stepped back into the studio, I saw immediately that Sebastian was no longer sitting on the couch. He was standing by the far wall with his back to me, examining my mosaic of research. I was silent as I approached him, coming to a stop by his side with a few feet left between us.

“What is this?” he asked, all laughter gone from his voice.

“It’s for a story,” I explained, my serious tone matching his. “It’s nothing.”

“This isn’t for Luster.”

“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”

His eyes caught on the photo of Vera and me — our matching smiles stretching our cheeks so wide they’d ached with happiness, our arms looped around each other’s waists in an embrace, my silver bangle gleaming in the summer sunshine. Sebastian’s slow gaze migrated from the pinned photograph on the wall, down to where my wrist hung at my side. Its only adornment was the same beautiful thin bracelet I wore in the picture and, when his eyes came up to meet mine, I knew he’d figured out that my involvement in this story was more than that of a simple reporter.

“Why haven’t you gone to the police with this?” he asked.

My eyes moved up to examine the photo of Santos. “It’s complicated.”

“So un-complicate it.”

“I don’t want you to get involved,” I deflected, crossing my arms over my chest. “It’s none of your business.”