Chapter 20
twenty
I watch, enraptured, as Alice pours some milk into her black tea. Light from the flickering candle burnishes her blonde curls and bathes her flawless skin, catching on all of the dips and hollows of her throat.
She moves with the same care she seems to show everything else. Slow, deliberate, always careful to treat everything gingerly.
Which makes the large crack in the side of her cream carafe curious. I eye the thin fracture, noting the way candlelight reflects off the lustrous adhesive. “Is that gold glue?”
Alice’s thick lashes flutter with surprise each time I take any interest in her. She blinks down at the pitcher before her face breaks into a slight grimace. “Yes. Tris tends to stack things… precariously. She broke it one night, and I pieced it back together.”
She hands me the jug for closer examination. Up close, I see that the painted crack is the sole point of interest on the smooth white ceramic surface. It would be unremarkable without it.
“I read about it in a Japanese philosophy book, of all places,” she blurts. “Fixing broken pottery lends itself to their practice of embracing imperfections as part of one’s individual beauty.”
There are her depths—shimmering intelligence and a mysterious soul. I wonder if she knows anything else about Zen philosophy, since it happens to be one of my favorite attitudes.
I don’t need to give her a lesson. Instead, I simply say, “It makes a lot of sense to me.”
Her timid little smile appears, softening her features just so. “Me, too.” She looks at her lap, lightly brushing her hands over her middle while her expression takes on some ruefulness. “I imagine there’s a sort of… tranquility in accepting one’s flaws outright.”
Well-versed, as I suspected. But I don’t know which flaws she’s referring to. I don’t see any from here, apart from the way she’s torn into the skin on the side of her thumbnail.
We both drink our tea, soaking in the silence. I know from experience that sitting beside her without speaking won’t be awkward. We’re both friends with the quiet.
When our eyes meet again, a beat of understanding passes between us. She opens her mouth, then closes it again before finally working up her nerve. “Marco…”
My brows tweak. “Hmm?”
As I wait for her to finish her offer, a swell of want rises in my center. There are a lot of things I want to do with this woman—and I suspect I will think of dozens more by the end of the night.
My favorite pink creeps into her cheeks as she whispers, “Why are you here?”
Fear froths in her cool blue irises, but she holds my gaze and keeps her chin high. Waiting for my answer with a determined wariness I don’t understand. Does she think I don’t want to be here with her? It was my idea.
“To borrow a book,” I say slowly, reminding her of the alleged reason for this visit. Guilt pokes my stomach, and I decide on the spot I can’t lie to her. Not even a lie of omission. “I’m also going to measure for some cameras in the hallway before I leave. Your landlord finally relented.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders deflate. “Okay.”
Fuck. I hate the way her shoulders hunch. “Like I said,” I try, “I’m in no hurry. What do you want to do?”
There’s wariness in her eyes, but something else too. Hope. It pierces some tender place I didn’t know I had as she whispers, “We could read together again?”
Her invitation is, quite simply, lovely. As lovely as her tea and her voice and her gorgeous skin.
She wants to sit with me. Just to have me here. Is there a bigger compliment than that?
The size of the knot in my throat surprises me. I’m… touched? Flattered. Warmth expands in my chest and trickles down to my stomach. I press my palm there, holding onto the feeling while I give a nod. “I would like that.”
“Alright,” she says, bouncing up. “I’ll be right back.”
Her hips sway as she delicately makes her way to her room. I’m beyond caring about whether I should be checking her out, memorizing her curves. The fact is, I am. And I can do my job while also being insanely attracted to her.
Case and point—I have a measuring tape hidden in my coat to fit the hallway for cameras. And I paid her landlord a little visit earlier on my way upstairs. After a fistful of cash, he came around.
I hear some shuffling in an adjacent room.
Seconds later, Alice reappears with four books folded between her arms and her chest. She looks sheepish as she glances at them and then back over to me.
“I—I didn’t know what you would like the best. I tried to choose a few… They’re probably stupid. I’m sorry.”
She doubts herself at every turn. Does she really spend her whole life apologizing for who she is and what she likes? Has anyone ever even asked her what she likes? Or why?
“Which is your favorite?”
She blinks, taken aback. “Oh. Um. Well…”
With a shaky hand, she extends one of the paperbacks. I can see that she treats her books with care. The pages are pristine, though I note slight creases along the binding from repeated reading.
I take it from her, absorbing the cover. A woman in a voluminous purple gown stands with a man at her back. The title hangs over them in scrolly cursive. The Wallflower.
I smile before I can help myself. Of course this is her favorite. But it still feels important to ask. “Why?”
The look on her face as she gazes at it sends a crack of pain through my chest. God. She seems staggered.
Has no one ever asked why she likes these books? Why doesn’t anyone care?
I double down, invested in her reply. “Why do you like this one, Alice?”
“I—well, it’s about a girl who’s kind of a shy, bookworm type. Sort of p-plain.” She clears her throat, flushing. “And sh-she meets a man who sees another side of her. And h-he falls in love with her. The real her. The one—”
“Underneath.” I finish her thought automatically this time, unable to help myself.
Alice stands completely still as she swings her big blue eyes up to meet mine. “Yes.”
The sharp stab in my center takes on the sweetest edge of agony, thinking about Alice seeing herself in that character. Her heart connecting to that story.
It fucking hurts.
I don’t want her to feel more insecure. If I can somehow validate one of her interests, I will. I carefully keep my gaze and my voice steady as I repeat my earlier praise. “Perfect.”
Instead of joining me on the couch, she walks over to her tote bag and pulls out a different sort of book altogether. One I recognize.
“Interesting.” I can’t quite get a grip on my grin. “I think I’ve seen that somewhere before.”
Alice giggles softly at the Kant philosophy book in her hands. “Our debate and the notes you showed me in the margins of your copy inspired me to try reading it again. This one is from the library. No notes from brilliant fathers, though.”
A fresh bolt of disgrace hits me. My dad would have been ashamed by the way all of this started, with me approaching her in the coffee shop the way I did. He always taught me that my honor as a man was my most sacred possession. In the end, he died for his.
While I stare at her copy of the Kant book, I think of what my father would want from me.
He always followed his instincts and let his conscience guide his choices.
If he were in my position, he would’ve gone out of his way to treat Alice with the utmost respect, especially given how I feel about her now.
“Here,” I say, my throat tight. “Hold on.”
Dad’s book is in my coat, tucked into the second interior pocket with my Glock. When I slide the slim white book out and stretch it over to her, Alice’s bright blue eyes widen.
“No,” she whispers. “I can’t take that. It has all your father’s private thoughts in it. What if Tris uses it as a paper towel next time she overfills the coffee maker?”
Examining her crystalline irises, I suddenly realize: there isn’t one other person on Earth I would give Baba’s book to. But… I trust Alice. Despite all logic, I’ve trusted her from the moment I laid eyes on her.
“Seriously, take it. Keep it for as long as you need. Then we can talk about it some more.”
She likes that idea. Excitement electrifies her gaze. Her joy is irresistible. My lips pull wider, and I reach for her hand, placing the worn book in it. “You’ll take good care of it, right? Keep it safe from Hurricane Tris?”
Alice swallows, the creamy lines of her throat working. “Of course,” she vows softly, peering down at the faded cover. “You don’t think your dad would mind? I mean, these are his private musings, and I’m a stranger.”
Her mind works in the oddest, loveliest way. Who else would consider the wishes of a dead man they’ve never met?
My hand curls around hers, holding the book between our palms. Our gazes click together. “I don’t think he would mind,” I decide, staring into her. “I actually think he would have really liked you.”
Her brows twitch together in a quick frown. “Me?”
“You,” I confirm.
We’ve drifted closer again; I’ve taken three steps toward her, bringing our bodies inches apart. My head spins from the lavender warmth rising off her skin.
Fucking hell. Did I ever think this woman was just a job?
No, some steady, quiet voice inside me says. Never.
That’s why I swept in to save her at the coffee shop when I was supposed to be keeping my distance. It’s why I called her darling, pretended to be her boyfriend. Touched her. Bought her a treat. Made sure she had a way to get home.
I liked her before I even spoke to her.
And now that I know her…
Alice seems to sense my turmoil. Her blonde brow creases, betraying some inner conflict I still don’t comprehend. She leans forward, though, moving slowly at first, and then all at once.
Her lips flit over mine, quick and delicate as the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. I keep my eyes open, watching her as she slides our mouths together for the briefest, softest kiss.
The voltage in my veins amps higher, a current radiating into every corner of my body. My fingers clasp her chin, stilling her as she tries to pull away. She only manages a few inches before I stop her, our faces hovering close.
The trepidation in her eyes undoes the last threads tying me to my manners. I swallow a growl, pulling her body into mine and pressing my open mouth to hers. Her lips part on a gasp, allowing me to sweep inside.
She tastes like her perfect tea and smells like lavender-honey. The combination makes my cock throb as it presses into her belly.
Fuck.
I can’t control the way my fingers curl, dimpling the soft flesh of her hip and holding her face in an iron grip. The blazing aggression seems to turn her on. She makes another breathy sound of pleasure, stretching up on her tiptoes so she can meet my tongue with hers.
The moment she succeeds, a jolt vibrates through her shorter, rounder frame. She tears herself out of my grasp—or tries to, at least. Again, I hold fast, keeping her close as wide, ice-blue eyes regard me nervously.
A fresh pang strikes my heart. Sweet girl.
I keep calling her that in my mind. There’s no helping it. She is sweet. The sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, especially in this moment.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I knew if I didn’t do that now, I never would.”