Chapter Twelve #2
It makes her ache, a little. He really is what some would describe as devastatingly handsome.
Devastating that she can’t run her fingertips over his cheekbones and the slope of his nose like she wants to.
That she can’t trace the line of his jaw with her tongue.
That part of her wishes she had met him first, just for the slim chance that she would have gotten to, for one night, even if it meant he’d have snuck out of a different window and left Charlie with the loyal, righteous grudge.
“Depends on what it is,” he says.
“Why didn’t you quit?” she asks. “Once you knew it was me.”
He hums, considering. “At first, stubbornness,” he says.
“I wanted to volunteer for a lot of the same reasons you wanted to start the club, and then I wanted to stay to … I don’t know.
Prove to you I wasn’t an asshole. Prove to myself.
” He swallows, and she watches his Adam’s apple lift and lower, how he rolls his lips together in the pause.
Devastating. “And when I started to think it wasn’t worth it”—Yael winces—“I stayed because of Leo.”
“I don’t think you’re only an asshole,” Yael says softly.
“That,” Ravi says, “is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
She barks out a laugh. “You need new friends, then.”
“That’s probably true,” he says, tilting his chin up a little as he assesses her. “Too bad you hate me.”
Now Yael swallows, trying to keep her voice steady. Trying not to stare at his lips, at his throat. “A shame,” she says.
Ravi’s eyelids lower slowly as his gaze sweeps over her, not even bothering to hide it.
Goose bumps rise across her skin again, and the fleeting moment he looks at her chest is enough for her nipples to tighten so much that the cotton skimming them as she inhales is almost painful. “Truly,” he says.
Their waiter returns with the check, saving Yael from having to break first. Because she would have, absolutely.
“Could you pass my coat?” Ravi asks.
“What?”
“My wallet’s in there. Don’t worry, you can have it back for the ride home.”
That’s not … “I’ve got it.”
“Come on,” he says. “You drove. Saved me the cost of an Uber.”
She hands over his coat, feeling too off-balance to argue. He extracts a few bills from a leather wallet, drops them atop the receipt, and passes the jacket back to her. Odd, the only people she knows her age who still carry cash live in New York City.
Ravi slides out of the booth, and she follows him to her car, thankful for the brief respite.
“Where should I take you?” she asks as she pulls out of the parking space.
“It’s really out of the way,” he says. “The bus is fine for me.”
“Is the bus even running this late?”
“Shit,” Ravi says, looking at his phone. “You’re right; I didn’t think about that. Are you sure it’s not too far? I can call myself a ride from your place.”
“Ravi, just give me the address,” she says.
He does, and for all his protestation, it’s maybe ten minutes away, basically a straight shot over Burnside Bridge. The ride is quiet, and anytime Yael looks at Ravi, he’s staring out the passenger window.
The house is nice, two stories with a yard full of plants that look lush but don’t require mowing, and Yael wonders if Ravi has roommates. She’d think so, with a place like that, but there’s only one car in the driveway.
“Thank you,” Ravi says, unbuckling his seat belt. “I had a … nice time tonight.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Yael watches him walk, the bag with his dirty jeans in hand, up the stone pathway that leads to the entrance, and shifts her car back into drive.
The sleeve of her jacket is a little long, and she has to lift her arm and shake her wrist to slide it back so it doesn’t get in the way of her grip on the steering wheel.
Wait, fuck. She parks and scrambles out of the car, pulling her arms out of the coat and calling after Ravi in a whisper-shout, not wanting to wake the neighbors.
She catches up with him at the bottom of the four steps up to the door.
“I almost drove off with it,” she says, a little out of breath.
He steps down to her level. “Oh,” he says. “I think I’ll return your Emergency Car Pants later, if that’s okay?”
Yael trails her eyes down. The pants ride low enough that the waistband and an inch of fly of his boxer briefs are visible, and she has an involuntary image of Ravi undoing the drawstring and stripping off the pants right in front of her.
She shivers. “Yeah, that’s okay,” she gets out, and shoves the denim jacket at him.
Ravi catches it, and her wrist, against his stomach.
She stares, for a moment, at the place where they’re connected—his fingers looped around her arm just as they had been in the library—and then her eyes snap up to his.
“Yael,” Ravi says, and all of Yael’s blood turns molten, burning her from the inside out.
Her chest heaves, breathing suddenly a laborious task with him looking at her like that. Hungry, and a little sad. The air pulses between them, and she feels devastated by her want. Feels it in her belly, her throat, on her lips.
They’re closer now, and she can’t tell if he stepped forward or she did. Or if, somehow, the physical space between them has itself shrunk. She wouldn’t even have to rise to her toes; she could just tilt her head up, and their lips would brush.
Ravi’s free hand catches her hip, light and warm, and desire curls from his fingertips through the rest of her.
“This is not—” she starts, and suddenly he’s gone, feet of space between them, her body bereft of his heat.
“Right,” Ravi says, shaking his head. “Right. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
He takes the steps two at a time and disappears inside before Yael has the chance to catch her breath.
That night, Yael dreams about Kevin. He appears at the side of her bed, faced blurred like he’s a cable news interviewee in Witness Protection.
She reaches out for him, and he takes her hand in his.
Sparks trail up her arm. Finally, she says.
He climbs into bed with her, covering her body with his, somehow still holding her hand between them.
Finally, he agrees, and bends down to kiss her, deep and slow.
When he pulls away, his features are clear. Finally, Ravi says again.
Yael awakens in a cold sweat.