Chapter Eighteen #2
Warily, I lean across the table and wrap my lips around the fries, our gazes locking. Holding. His intense stare has goose bumps breaking out all over my flesh as I chew slowly, then swallow hard. “Meh.”
He bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Meh? That’s your response?”
I start laughing as well. The entire moment is a little absurd. Feeding me mayo-covered fries and getting all sexy with it. “It’s kind of bland. That’s what your country’s cuisine is known for, right? Flavorlessness?”
“Ha. Ha,” he deadpans. But a smile quirks the side of his mouth when he says, “Is that why I’m so drawn to you? Because you bring flavor and texture and spice to my bland existence? You make me want to taste every moment we’re together. Savor it.”
Hot damn.
I love it when he talks like this, so open with his feelings.
I’m always on guard, worried I might reveal too much, but this boy has been an open book with me lately, and it fills me with guilt.
I want to share more with him. Tell him everything, though I know that’s not possible.
But revealing little, inconsequential personal facts about myself here and there—that’s okay, right?
“I have my own reason for being drawn to you,” I start, going silent when I see the light in his eyes. He definitely wants to hear those reasons, though I don’t want to list the obvious ones. “For one, I like that you’re an artist.”
Connor tilts his head, appearing confused. “Why is that?”
“Well, my mother is an incredible artist. Not that I inherited any of her talent.” I laugh softly. “I’m probably a disappointment in that area.”
Not that my mother has encouraged me to create any art in the last few years. She hasn’t painted for so long, I wonder if she’s forgotten how.
“Your mother is an artist? Has she shown her pieces anywhere?”
I shake my head, my appetite disappearing when I think about Mom.
“She doesn’t paint anymore. She’s … sick.
And it’s not the kind of sick that gets better, at least so far.
Though I have hopes she’ll recover soon and rediscover her artistic abilities.
It gave her so much peace and joy, being able to paint. I miss that for her.”
“I’m sure you do,” Connor murmurs. “Is it hard, being so far away from her?”
“Part of the reason I’m here is to give her time to get well.” It’s partially true, isn’t it? Part of my agreement with Peter was to get Mom into the best rehabilitation center money can buy. I know she has to want to recover, and I’m hoping this time it works. For her.
And for me.
“I hope she does.” The warmth in Connor’s tone makes my shoulders relax. I reach for another fry and pop it into my mouth.
“I do too.” A sigh leaves me, and I lean back in my chair. “I don’t want to talk about depressing stuff.”
“Me neither. Let’s change the subject.” He does exactly that, launching into a story about his father. “I spoke to him on the phone earlier. He sounds great, like the weight of an entire world has been lifted off his shoulders.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly how he feels.” I reach across the table and tangle our fingers together. “I’m so happy for you, Connor. That your father has been exonerated. I’m sure your parents are glad it’s all over.”
“It’s not quite over.” He curls his fingers around mine. “There will be all sorts of legal depositions and a trial. My father believes there’s plenty of evidence against William Pembroke, but he’s a powerful man with strong ties to even more powerful people. What if he gets away with this?”
“He won’t.” My voice is firm. “I have a feeling he’s not going to get away with this. I’m guessing he’ll get serious prison time.”
“He might, and then again, he might not.” Connor keeps his head bent, his focus on our connected hands. “I don’t know.”
“Hey.” He lifts his head at my strong tone. “Don’t let the doubts in. You’ve stood by your father through all of this. Have some faith and believe that justice will be served.”
I need to take my own advice. I have to keep believing there will be justice for Emily and Isla. We’re less than forty-eight hours away from Isla’s potential arrest, and I can’t let it happen.
“You’re right.” He lets go of my hand and pushes away from the table, rising to his feet. “Are you finished with your dinner?”
“Definitely.” I stand as well, and he takes my hand again, leading me across the greenhouse to a makeshift tent created out of white cotton sheets, with more white fairy lights strung inside.
A pile of blankets and pillows spills across the floor.
The cozy setup has me squealing and throwing my arms around Connor. “You’ve gone all out tonight.”
“I wanted to.” His arms slide around my waist, pulling me in close. “I know we’ve only known each other a short time, but I—I care about you, Billie.”
I stare up at him, getting lost in his dark-gray gaze for a few seconds.
It’s too fast for us to have feelings this big for each other.
Logically, I know this, but I also know that being in a pressure cooker of drama and emotion, secrets and lies, life and death …
it can change a person’s perspective. Reveal what’s really important.
Make impossible intensity feel totally grounded in reality.
I try not to overthink the words on the tip of my tongue.
I just let myself feel. “I care about you, too, Connor.”
“I felt so hopeless before,” he admits, bending down so he can press his forehead against mine.
“What happened to my dad. My sister. I didn’t understand why you’d want to be around me at all.
I felt like a disease that would infect anyone who got too close.
But now, after my father’s been cleared, I feel more …
whole. Even before that, though, you were starting to bring me back to myself.
You made me feel needed. Wanted. Like an actual normal human being instead of the empty shell I’d been for the last few months.
I thought I wouldn’t be able to feel anything anymore, but you convinced me otherwise, and I can’t thank you enough for that. ”
You’ve done the same for me. The words crawl up my throat, demanding to be released.
But they come dangerously close to revealing what I can’t, so instead of saying anything, I press my mouth to his, cutting myself off.
He returns the kiss but pulls back too soon to stare into my face, concern overpowering the lustful haze in his eyes that must be a mirror of my own.
Can he sense my uneasiness? My need to forget my problems for the next few hours and just be? Does he understand that feeling?
He has to.
His mouth returns to mine, and he slides his hands into my hair, gently tugging, holding me in place.
I absorb him, wishing he would swallow me whole.
I run my hands up and down his back before pulling him closer.
He presses his big body close to mine, and I lean into his heat, his strength, letting him guide me backward until we’re both on the floor, lying on the pile of blankets he made just for me. For us.
He’s consuming me, and I match his hunger with an incessant, almost desperate need that beats like a drum in my chest. Between my legs.
It pushes me to yank on his shirt and pull it from where it was tucked into his trousers.
He doesn’t stop me, just urges me on with the low groan that sounds deep in his chest when I touch his bare skin.
I skim my fingernails along the smooth skin of his back, his side, his flat stomach, my touch making him shudder.
I spread my thighs, and he nestles his hips between them, slowly pushing against me as we kiss and kiss, letting me feel him.
He’s hard. Big. I’m not scared, though. I want it.
I want him.
We’re a scrambling mess as we strip off each other’s clothes. I marvel at the sight of his firm chest, and he traces the edge of my pale pink bra, his fingers making my exposed skin pebble with goose bumps.
It’s too much and not enough until eventually we’ve discarded our clothes and our legs get tangled up as we reach for each other, hungry mouths clashing, tongues tangling.
Breaths panting in time to the beat of our hearts.
He’s hot, his skin slick with a faint sheen of sweat, and he pauses at one point, reaching under one of the pillows for the condom he clearly stashed there earlier.
He wordlessly holds it up to show me, and I nod, afraid he might say something to ruin the moment, but he doesn’t.
I reach for him, our mouths connecting, chests pressed together, heartbeats matching time.
He works his way down my body, his mouth touching me in places that make me shiver.
Make me moan. His fingers explore between my legs, then begin to stroke, ratcheting my need for him higher and higher still, until I’m falling apart with his name on my lips, my entire body engulfed in shivery flames.
When he rolls on the condom and finally works his way inside me, I close my eyes, my body going tense.
His mouth finds the sensitive spot behind my ear, licking and sucking the skin there until a shudder shimmers all the way to my toes.
“You feel so fucking good, Billie,” he whispers as he begins to move.
I let myself go, shutting my mind off, telling myself I can forget why I’m here for one night. I want this. I deserve this.
I do.
…
Iwake up the next morning confused, unsure at first of where I am. But then it all comes rushing back to me in a flood of delicious memories and I fall back against the soft stack of pillows, closing my eyes with a smile.
Last night was … amazing. Magical. We talked long into the night, until we eventually fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, but now he’s nowhere to be found.
Sitting up, I push my hair out of my eyes and look around, spotting the white rose from dinner and a note from Connor resting on his empty pillow.
Meet me in the art room for breakfast. You’ve inspired me to paint again.
X— C
Giddy, I hurriedly get dressed and head for the art room.
It feels like I’m walking on air the entire way.
Are the birds chirping louder than usual?
Is the rising sun brighter this morning?
It certainly feels that way. My cheeks hurt, and I realize it’s because I’m smiling so much. What’s gotten into me?
Connor, the naughty voice whispers in my brain, making me giggle.
Luckily, it’s early enough and hardly anyone is out yet. I can have a quick breakfast with Connor and then go back to my room to change into my uniform before classes start. I have plenty of time.
I glide into the art room, coming to a stop when I see Connor sitting at a small table in the middle of the room, his face as blank as the empty canvas nearby. On the table is Isla’s yearbook and the dossier Peter and Whitney gave me.
My heart, my entire body, is in free fall. My brain scrambles to come up with an explanation, but I’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“What the hell is this, Billie?” Connor stands, waving at the yearbook and the dossier. “Who are you? Why are you at Wickham?”
“I never—I didn’t want you to find out like this.
” Tears are already streaming down my face, dripping off my jaw, but I don’t bother wiping them away.
I’m devastated by the look on his face. He’s angry, that much is obvious, but I can also see the hint of pain in his gaze.
I betrayed him. Hurt him. After everything he said last night and what happened between us, this is how I repay him.
“Find out what, exactly? What are you, some sort of spy?”
I crack out a laugh, but there’s nothing humorous about it. “I’m—I’m Isla’s sister.”
His incredulous expression says it all. “Bullshit.”
“It’s true. Our parents separated when we were young.
I went to the States with our mom while Isla stayed here with our father.
Peter Vale is my dad.” I sniff, shaking my head once.
“We’re not close at all, and I hadn’t heard from him in more than ten years before he called to tell me about Isla, but yeah. He’s my dad.”
Connor looks away from me, working his jaw. I can feel the anger radiating from him, and I want to throw myself at him. Fall to my knees and beg forgiveness.
But that would be a lost cause. I can tell from his body language that he’s completely closed himself off from me. I’ve ruined everything.
“Peter Vale asked me to come to Wickham to try and figure out who hurt Isla and your sister,” I admit, hating how my voice trembles. “We don’t have much time left. Isla will be arrested by the end of tomorrow, but I know she didn’t do it.”
His gaze meets mine once more. “Who did, then?”
“I don’t know!” I throw my hands into the air. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”
Connor scoffs, shaking his head. “Good luck with that. If you don’t know already, you’re never going to be able to figure it out, Billie. If that’s even your real name.”
The tears come faster now, but I remain silent. There’s no point in arguing. He’s through with me.
“You need to leave.” His tone is like ice, cold and unfeeling.
“Leave this campus and go back home to the States with your sick mom. Is she even ill? Or was that another lie? It doesn’t matter.
You don’t belong here. If you’re not gone by the morning, I’m going to tell everyone who you really are and blow your supposed investigation wide open.
I’m sure the police would love to know Peter planted someone with a fake identity on campus to, what?
Impede their investigation? Sounds like a good reason to go to jail.
And even if he’s a shit dad, you can take it from me: watching your father get hauled away in handcuffs is the actual worst.”
“What about watching your sister get charged with a crime she didn’t commit? Do you think that comes close?”
He clenches his jaw and just looks at me, letting me hear my words play back in my head. I cringe, but there’s no unsaying them. Connor will never watch his sister do anything ever again, good or bad. I can’t believe I let something so insensitive slip out of my mouth.
He pushes past me and exits the classroom before I can say a word, the door slamming behind him like the final blow that sends me to my knees. I cry and cry with my hands covering my face. It’s over.
Belinda Winters is no more.