The Lie(38)

“Nah,” Max says, taking the money. “It was more interesting to watch you two.”

Brigs’ gaze slides to me, his eyes warm from the effects of the alcohol. I feel a sudden urge to keep the night going, to see where it could go. I’m drunk and comfortable, and I’m not ready to say goodbye to this. It’s that kind of combination that makes you keep drinking long after you should have stopped, regardless of right or wrong, good or bad, early mornings or not. Consequences don’t matter at this point; they are something fuzzy in the future to worry about later.

I get off the stool, trying to keep my balance, but Brig’s hand shoots out and places a firm grip on my arm, steadying me.

“Thank you,” I tell him, clumsily grabbing my purse.

He lets go but takes a step forward until I can feel the heat of his body. He studies my mouth and then reaches forward, gently running his thumb underneath my lips.

My heart catches in my throat and I can’t breathe.

“Your lipstick is all smeared,” he says huskily.

And for none of the right reasons, I can’t help but think.

Oh, this is so dangerous.

He drops his hand. “Would I be a good host or a bad one if I invited you into my flat?” he asks.

Oh Jesus.

My cheeks are on fire. I have to be smart about this, but the more he stands there, staring at me, the stupider I get. “I’m not sure if I’m in the right frame of mind to make that decision,” I whisper.

He smiles kindly. “Let me walk you to the tube.”

I exhale in relief, even though my body is demanding a recount.

We step out into the night, the air cool and crisp, perhaps signaling an early fall, but I’m burning up inside. The station is right across the street, and as we go over, Brigs points up at his building, a stately beast made of brick and white trim.

“I’m just up there,” he says, pointing to the third floor. “If I ever get bored, I just stare out the window and wonder what Mr. Holmes is doing.”

I see a shadow pass across his nearest wall. “That one? Is there someone there?”

He laughs. “That’s just Winter. My dog.”

I give him an incredulous smile. “You have a dog?”

“I told you my brother rescues them, right? Well, he kind of rubbed off on me.”

Now I really want to go up into his flat. It would be the greatest excuse, too, to pet his dog and maybe, um, other things.

But somehow my willpower is still in control.

I do manage to say, “Maybe I can say hello next time.”

That was brave of me. Assuming that there would be a next time and all.

“That would be nice.”

We stop walking just outside the entrance to the station. He exhales heavily, brows pulled together, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his fingers linger there a moment too long. “I still have to get used to the blonde. I still have to get used to this.”

I’m not sure if I’m breathing or not. I’m so singularly focused on him, his fingers in my hair, the way his troubled gaze rests on my mouth.

Kiss me, I think. Let’s see what else we can get used to.

“Goodnight Natasha,” he says, and there’s a beat of hesitation, like he’s about to lean closer and place his lips on mine. I’m acutely aware of how much I want him, how much I ache.

Then he turns and walks away to his flat.

I watch his tall, lean frame go, admiring his ass beneath that motorcycle jacket, before I head underground.

When I finally get back to my flat, I’m utterly exhausted and still a bit drunk. I open the door and am immediately bombarded by Melissa in her bathrobe and a zillion questions.

“How was the date?”

“Fine.” It was better than fine. It was…luminous.

“Did you get laid?”

“No.” My conscience stepped in.

“Did he at least kiss you?”

“No.” But I wish he had.

“Are you going out with him again?”

“I shouldn’t.” And I mean that.

She looks utterly crestfallen for a moment then looks me up and down with a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe if you wore the mini-skirt like I told you.”

“Maybe,” I concede, even though I know I could wear a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter. His soul speaks to me, regardless of what it’s dressed in.

I go into the bathroom and wipe off my makeup in the mirror, before getting undressed and glancing down at my underwear. “Well, Sponge Bob,” I say. “You did good.”

Yet when I crawl into my bed and set my alarm for the morning, my chest feels carved out. Hollow. I knew that seeing Brigs tonight wasn’t going to be easy. I just didn’t anticipate how hard it was going to be and not in the way I thought. I expected that being in close proximity to him, away from the prying eyes and bustle of school, would have brought on an overwhelming sense of grief and pain, a reminder of the damage we had done together. I thought I would relive his last words to me, that I would remember that epic fall into darkness where I couldn’t even save myself.

And while it was there, a potent undercurrent between us, it only came second to what really blindsided me: desire. The overwhelming need to be possessed by him, to have his heart, body, everything. It’s like we are picking up where we left off—not on that phone call, but in my old London flat, with hope and promises and the memories of his stubble razing my skin as he kissed my lips and neck. God, even my nipple had been in his mouth.