Chapter Twenty-Six #2
“For someone dead set on avoiding pain, you’re quick to take it on for others.”
“I am?”
“Clementine. You don’t think you’re exceptionally empathetic?” While I falter for a response, Tom closes his eyes briefly. “Wishing to aid my sufferin’, or your ex’s or your mam’s…Even Molly’s, for God’s sake. You nearly passed on the duet for a woman you hardly knew.”
I shrug under the heft of his unnecessary praise. “She’s my friend.”
“But it’s not just that.” He’s building to something.
Lowering his brows, scooting closer. For a moment a chord of horror strikes that he’s figured me out just as I’ve figured out him.
Worse yet, I have no clue what it is he might’ve discovered.
The realization of all that I don’t know about myself is almost as frightening as wondering if a man I’ve known less than two months has somehow gotten there first.
“You’ve got an enormous heart. Those round eyes give it all away when you arrive in a new city or watch the curtains close on a staggerin’ show or talk about the love you have for your mam or sing your sweet lungs out.
You’re filled up to the brim with it, Clem.
So I dunno…I mean it with utter respect, of course.
I think you’re brilliant. But I’m just…not buying it. ”
My eyes pop wide. “Buying what?”
Tom’s gaze grows warm. “You’re as much of a romantic as the next.”
“I’ve never been in love. How could I be a romantic?”
“How do geese know to fly south for the winter?”
Animal instinct, I want to say. Which is his point. Why is he so eloquent? “There you go again.” I sigh, fighting a grin. “I feel like an acolyte.”
Tom’s surprised laugh rivals the twinkling tea light candle between us. But it’s true. I’m spellbound by his half smirks. By the way he talks with his hands. His self-deprecating chuckles. That humble shake of his brilliant head.
“It’s probably just your hair,” I add, twirling pasta onto my fork.
“Surely it is,” he agrees. “In fact, if you cut this off I’ll actually lose the ability to put together poor metaphors.”
“How biblical,” I joke.
Tom shakes his head, releasing a thorough sigh. “I’ve nothing for you to worship, Clem. If anything, I’m the acolyte. I certainly think of you each night like one.”
“Before you lay your head to sleep?” I kid, even as my breath hitches.
“Something like that.”
When I look up, Tom’s gaze is on my mouth. I imagine slipping from my chair and pressing it right under his ear. The groan he’d make as I straddled him.
Tom shifts in his seat and clears his throat. His jaw works as he downs the rest of his water in a rush. Heart speeding, my hand roams across the table until I take his fingers lightly in my own.
“Should we get the check?” I ask.
His voice is gravel. “No dessert?”
“God.” I shudder. Blunt honesty rips through me because I just cannot bear it a minute longer. “Tom, I am really hoping you are the dessert.”
He swallows thickly. Then he nods to himself once as if he’s come to some conclusion. It looks a little like relief, whatever it is. His voice is huskier than I’ve yet heard it when he says, “Let’s go, then.”
I motion eagerly for the check, but Tom is already standing. He pulls out five hundreds and leaves them on the table before offering me his hand. When my palm is enclosed in his, I can hardly collect myself. My body heat alone is going to set this exorbitantly priced dress to flame.
The cab ride back to the hotel is a new circle of Hell.
Eurydice has got nothing on me. A commercial for some bank I’ve never heard of plays in the back of the cab, the blue light illuminating Tom’s hand as he traces lazy strokes along the inside of my thigh over my dress.
One gentle brush of his thumb draws a near-pained gasp from my lips.
I am a panting, pulsing mess before we’ve made it halfway there.
Determined to torture him equally, I allow my trembling hand to slide along his powerful thigh until his hips buck upward.
My toes curl. Neither of us utter a word.
The little screen blares on about some mayoral candidate.
The half-rolled-down window sends soft wind over our faces.
I’m close to tears from wanting when his fingers grip under my dress just this shy of my panties.
The taxi rolls to a stop. I realize Tom’s hand is shaking when he swipes his card in the monitor. Pride zips through me at the knowledge that he’s barely keeping it together, too.
Out on the sidewalk he pulls my hand back. “Are you sure—”
“Tom.” This need is visceral. There can be no more waiting.
“All right. Go on first,” he instructs. “Room 614. I’ll meet you.”
Hurrying through the dimly lit, swanky hotel lobby, I pray to the patron saint of sneakiness that I don’t run into anyone from the band. I slam my finger into the elevator’s up button so many times I swear I crack the plastic covering.
Come on come on come on—
“Clementine,” a thick voice drawls.
Turns out there is no patron saint of sneakiness. When I turn, it’s Grayson standing behind me. It’s always Grayson.
“Damn,” he says, half grin making my stomach turn. “You’re all dressed up. Who for?”
“I just got home from a Broadway show,” I say. My mom always taught me rule number one of lying was stay as close to the truth as possible.
Grayson tips himself against the wall in a lean that I know he thinks is irresistible but only serves to make him appear lazy. “In for the night? My little party animal? No way.”
Why can’t I bring myself to say I’m not your little anything ? Molly would say it. Grayson would probably laugh, too. And then leave her alone.
“It appears so,” I respond instead, like a Girl Scout. Then I fake a yawn. “So tired.”
“Come out with us. The reporter that’s doing the Rolling Stone article on me got the band a table at Spade.”
“I don’t know what that is.” My finger slams into the up button again. Where is the goddamn elevator? Alaska?
“It’s a club.” His floppy hair droops into his face and he pushes it aside. “I hear it’s pretty hard to get into. I don’t know, though, I didn’t have any issue.”
“Doesn’t sound that hard, then,” I say, because I just can’t help myself.
Grayson laughs like I’m flirting with him. “You crack me up. Please come out with us. You can’t waste this dress on your empty hotel room. You look edible .”
My whole body revolts and I’m about to tell him to shove it, when the elevator dings. It’s like the bell on a boxing match that’s turning ugly. My shoulders slump in relief.
“Good night,” I mutter before slipping inside and pressing door close with my now-seasoned trigger finger.
They’re rolling shut and I’m finally exhaling, when they’re stopped by a large hand.
My stomach seizes—
Until Tom slips inside.
“Hi,” I manage casually.
“Hey,” he says, as the gap closes. He nods at someone in the lobby. We don’t look at each other.
Finally the metal doors fuse and we are alone. Tom turns to me and the look on his face…I can think only of a lethal beast fighting to remain civilized. “Does he always talk to you like that?”
“Sometimes. I don’t know; he’s the worst.”
Tom’s eyes narrow under lowered brows. “Jen should know.”
“Please don’t bring it up to her. That would be mortifying. And Grayson would know it came from me, and I’d be exiled by the whole group.”
Tom’s phone vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I’m asking you not to say anything, please.”
“Fine,” he concedes. The elevator chimes its arrival on the sixth floor. “If I were a different kind of lad, though, I’d say I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
Something about his tone makes my breath hitch. “What kind of lad would that be?”
“One who doesn’t know you can take care of yourself just fine.”
His answer fills me with gooey warmth. I’m like a cookie in an oven—golden and proud.
Tom’s suite beckons to us from the end of the hall.
The wallpaper is a navy so dark it’s nearly black, and the modern sconces cast a muted glow.
I feel like I’m in Persephone’s underworld speakeasy from this evening’s musical.
Tom’s hand finds the small of my back, and I wonder if he’s leaning down slightly to make that possible.
He doesn’t say anything as he slides the key and lets me inside before him. His room has been freshly turned down—one of the many elements of hotel life I’ve become far too reliant on—and smells of floral room spray and the good kind of fabric softener.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
“I’m grand,” I say, in his accent.
His amused shock tastes better than my chicken Parmesan. “Is that how you’re keepin’?”
“Aye.” I flop onto his king bed and it sinks under my weight. “Blimey, you know all too well if I partake in your spirit, I may end up in the stocks like the other drunks.” My Irish accent is growing worse by the second.
I can hear Tom’s phone buzz in his pocket again but only his deep laugh rumbles closer. “ Blimey is for the Brits. And stocks were a little before my time.” He lies down on the bed beside me. His feet still touch the floor, while my heels dangle. “About four hundred years or so before.”
“I heard you were a forest god. Been around awhile.”
“You write one song about the woods outside your home and suddenly you’re immortal. Maybe I should write a song about people leavin’ me right alone.”
I sit up on my elbows. “I think it’s because you’re so wise…” I study the thin shadows on the ceiling. “You don’t feel of this world.”
At that Tom turns to face me. I do the same and our noses nearly brush. My heart skitters away.
This is good. Us finally reaching the climax of all this chemistry and friendship and connection.
Likely, this is the reason I’ve been feeling like I’m spinning out the past few weeks.
We were barreling toward this finish line.
The novelty will wear off once we’ve gotten sex out of our system.
Maybe after the second or third time. I’ll return back to earth, I’m sure of it.
“I thought the same thing the night I met you,” he says. “The way your voice soared…” He traces a fingertip along my cheekbone. “When you introduced yourself to me I thought you were an angel…Come down from on high to ruin my life.”
His words might sound like an insult, but I know from the way he says them and the heat in his eyes that they’re the furthest thing from one. I stare at his mouth and swallow the urges battling across me.
“Don’t worry,” I manage. “I’m not going to fall in love with you.”
“Clem”—he sighs like I’ve pained him—“that’s just what I’m afraid of.”
Before I can respond his lips have found mine.