Chapter Twenty-Four #3
Fuck. I have to pull myself out of this. I have to step back from the edge before we both do something we’ll regret. No, before I do something he’ll regret.
I clear my throat. “You must be a really good midfielder.” But my voice betrays me, husky and a couple of tones deeper than normal.
He smiles and sets his empty glass down so he can slip both his hands under the blanket.
My heart races and I hold my foot perfectly still, entirely unsure what he intends to do.
He finds it and takes it between his hands, gently massaging it.
He presses his thumbs into my insole and I actually moan, because, again, I am outrageously switched on.
“Your turn.” His voice is low, ragged, begging me to come closer—but at this point, “closer” would be me in his lap. “Truth or Dare?”
Not since Sophie herself has anyone had a choice this hard.
What are the odds he’d dare me to blow him?
Because, uh, that would be my vote. On the other hand, am I ready to answer any question he throws my way?
I swallow. Hard. At least if I go with Truth, he has a better chance of deescalating the vibe in the room.
I’ll give him that option, give him that out. “Truth.”
His Cheshire Cat grin slowly unfurls. “Would you like to come over here so you’re not a million miles away from me?”
Yes. “Is that your question?”
“Yes, and you have to tell the truth.”
Yes! “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Is that your answer?”
I hesitate. On the one hand, yes, absolutely I want to be next to him. I want to be so close to him that there’s nothing but atoms between us. I want to unfold myself along the length of his body, press us together in all the right places, share breath as we tell each other secrets all night long.
On the other hand…
No. Fuck the other hand. I’m tired of waffling.
I crawl over to him and set my empty glass down next to his, relishing the look on his face, the hunger in his eyes as I near him.
I nestle into the nook where his arm meets his chest and he folds his arms around me.
I rest my head on his chest, rising and falling with his steady inhales and exhales.
I sneak a hand onto his stomach, feel him through the soft cotton of his shirt.
He’s so solid beneath my fingertips. We lie like that for a long time, just savoring the thrill of being next to each other.
I can’t get over it. He’s here, with me.
Pulling me closer to him, murmuring words that softly ruffle my hair.
“You’re the perfect shape for me. You’re the perfect shape for my life, and I’m so glad you’re in it. ”
We’re facing each other now, and I’m noticing his fine eyelashes for the first time, noticing the little cluster of freckles underneath his right eye. It’s taking everything in me not to trace a finger over his lips. “Me too.”
“Your turn to ask,” he whispers. He brushes a strand of hair off my face, tucks it behind my ear, leaves his hand cupping my jaw.
This is it. This is the moment to ask the question I’ve been dying to ask for months.
To have him tell me all about Claire, to have me pour my heart out about Steven.
To reassure each other we’re on the same page about what this is and where it’s going.
To assuage the guilt that’s building in my body about getting so close to him.
To bridge that divide, to give voice to the things we’ve long held to be unspeakable.
I mean, what are we saying by not talking about it?
But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to go first, don’t want him to see me as this sad sack who couldn’t even be bothered to confront her cheating fiancé.
I don’t want him to see me as broken, as anything less than whole and perfect and good.
Is that how he feels? Is he ashamed of his failing marriage?
Does he pretend like she doesn’t exist around me because he wants me to see him as unbroken too?
Or is he just using me, like Josh warned, and I’ll be turfed out the second she sets foot on English soil?
These are the things I want to ask, but I can’t. I don’t want to fracture this fragile thing we’ve created by bringing reality back into it.
It’s nearly three in the morning and his breathing is slowing. He’s in that liminal state before sleep, that soft margin of low hums and fluttering eyelids.
There’s a reason neither of us chose Dare tonight—we’re not ready.
Like Josh said, the power imbalance in this relationship is staggering.
Lachlan is still married, however doomed that marriage is, whereas I am newly single and still very bruised.
He is untouchable, I am dispensable. He’s a phenomenally handsome, stupendously talented gazillionaire, I am a girl from the suburbs of Boston who has one suit that doesn’t fit and no idea what she’s doing.
In short, he is him, I am me. And I know how this ends.
He has succumbed to sleep now, his breathing slow, the arms encircling my waist relaxed. So I whisper to the safety of his slumbering form the one Truth I’m desperate to know: “Are you going to ruin my life?”