Chapter Seven #2
"Warren?" I glance at him, but he's looking straight ahead, his jaw tight. "He runs the GED program at the community center. I helped with his classes last year."
"You were laughing."
“He was telling me about—”
"And you touched his arm."
I stop walking. "What?"
He stops too. Turns to face me. And his expression—
The mask is gone again. Completely gone. And what's underneath is something dark and barely controlled. His hands are in his pockets, but I can see them clenched into fists, can see the tension in his shoulders, can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath
like he's been running.
"You touched his arm," he says again, and his voice has gone very quiet. Very controlled. Like he's holding something back with effort. "You were relaxed with him. Easy. You laughed at his jokes. You leaned forward when he talked. And you’ve never been like that with me.”
"That's different—"
"How?" The word comes out sharp. "How is it different?"
"Because Warren is just—he's just Warren. He's safe—”
“While I’m not?”
I look at him helplessly. “Do you really not know the answer to that?”
We stand there in the falling snow. Five feet between us. Maybe four. I'm counting without meaning to, and I hate that I'm counting, hate that even now my brain is measuring the distance.
Three feet.
He took a step closer without me realizing it.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been serving you all this time—”
“You know what I mean. And I want to know why. I thought we had an understanding.”
“I...”
“But something changed, and you stopped believing in me again.”
Did I?
“What changed, Thea? Did someone talk to you?”
All I can do is shake my head. I just know I won’t be able to repeat Kimberly’s words without breaking down, and I...I don’t want to look even more pathetic in his eyes than I already am.
"Thea." He's close enough now that I can see the snowflakes catching in his hair, melting on his shoulders. Close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "Tell me what happened.”
"Nothing happened."
"Do not lie to me."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His hand lifts, and for a second I think he's going to reach for me, but he just runs it through his hair instead.
Frustrated. "Something changed. One moment we were dancing, and you were—you were there.
With me. And then after, you retreated. You went back to being invisible. And I want to know why."
“Kimberly.”
His jaw tightens. "Didn’t I tell you not to believe anything she says?”
“It’s just...”
“She’s more honest than I am, is that?”
When he puts it that way, I suddenly feel rather silly.
"You saw what she wanted you to see." He takes that last step. No space between us now. "All she cares about is hurting you.”
And she succeeded in doing that, I realize now, because of my own insecurities.
“Stop letting her cause trouble between us.” His hand lifts again, and this time he does reach for me. His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up so I have to look at him. "Stop letting her forget how precious you are—”
“But what if she’s right?” The words burst out before I can stop them. "Look at me, Santino. Look at what I am. A waitress with coffee stains and bald tires and a studio apartment that's barely bigger than a closet. And you—you're—"
"I am tired," he says quietly, and his thumb brushes my cheekbone once.
Twice. "Of being what people expect. Of being the driver.
The champion. The name on the trophy. The man who dates women who know which fork to use and how to smile for cameras and how to look perfect at galas.
" His other hand finds my waist, pulls me closer.
"I came to Jackson Hole to stop being that person.
And you—" His voice drops lower. "You made me feel like just Santino.
Like I could be something other than fast. Something other than empty. "
"For two weeks."
"What?"
"You have two weeks to decide." My voice is shaking now. "Twelve days left. And then you go back to that life. Monaco. Racing. Women who actually belong with you. And I'll still be here. Pouring coffee. Being invisible."
"You are not invisible to me."
"I'm a phase, Santino. A fun story about the small-town waitress. That's all I—"
He moves.
One second there's barely any space between us, the next his hand is cupping the back of my neck, and he's pulling me toward him, and his mouth is on mine.
And I—
Oh.
The kiss is not gentle.
It's not sweet or tentative or any of the things I imagined a first kiss might be. It's demanding and desperate and tastes like twelve days of watching each other and two days of distance and every single time I counted the inches between our bodies and wanted to close them.
His other hand tightens on my waist, pulls me flush against him, and there's no gap anymore. No distance. No space to measure or count. Just him and me and his mouth on mine like he's trying to prove something.
Like he's trying to erase every doubt Kimberly planted in my head with each sweep of his tongue.
His hand slides from my neck into my hair, fisting there, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I hear myself make a sound—something helpless and needy that I've never made before—and his grip tightens on my waist, his fingers digging in through my coat.
I should stop this.
Should pull away, should remember all the reasons this is a bad idea, should protect myself.
But instead I find myself kissing him back like I'm drowning and he's air. My hands find
his jacket, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer even though there's no closer to get. His hand in my hair tugs slightly, not hard enough to hurt but enough that I feel it, enough that something low in my stomach tightens.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against mine, both of us panting white clouds into the cold air.
"A phase," he says, and his voice is wrecked. Destroyed. "You think you are a phase?"
"I don't know what I am."
"You are the only person who has made me want to stay still. To stop racing. To stop
running from everything I do not want to feel." His forehead presses harder against mine. "Does that sound like a phase?"
I can't answer. Can't think. Can't do anything except stand here with my heart pounding and his taste on my lips and his words sinking into my skin like brands.
"I need—" He stops. Starts again. "I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"I do not know how to do this. I do not know how to be—" He gestures between us, the movement sharp, frustrated.
"This. I know how to be fast. I know how to win.
But this? Wanting someone? Needing someone?
Feeling—" He stops again. Takes a breath.
"Feeling jealous when I watch you laugh with another man? I do not know how to do that
without—"
He doesn't finish.
He kisses me again instead.
And this time, it's different. Slower. Deeper. Like he's trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the way I taste, the small sounds I make when his teeth catch my bottom lip and pull.
We're moving. I realize this distantly. He's backing me up, step by step, until my back hits brick, and we're in an alley—somewhere between the café and my apartment—and I should care about this.
Should care that we're in public, that someone might see, that this is reckless and stupid and everything I told myself I wouldn't do.
But I don't care.
I don't care about anything except the way he's kissing me like I'm something precious and dangerous at the same time.
His hands move. One stays in my hair, the other slides down my side, slow and deliberate, and even through my coat I can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers press into my ribs like he's counting them.
Like he's the one counting now.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing down my jaw to my neck, and I tilt my head back to give him access. The brick is cold against my back but he's warm, so warm, his breath hot against my throat.
When his teeth scrape my pulse point, I gasp, and when I feel his palm against my side, all I can do is pull him back up. When his mouth reclaims mine, his hand slides highe under my shit, and all I can do is gasp.
His palm cups me through the fabric, and a whimper slips past my lips. His hand moves, cupping me more fully, his thumb doing something that makes my brain short-circuit entirely.
"You’re shaking...”
"Because—" I can't finish. Can't think. Can't do anything except feel his hand on me, his mouth on mine, his body pressed against me so completely that I can feel his heart beating against my chest.
Or maybe that's my heartbeat.
I can't tell anymore.
"Because?" His mouth finds my neck again, and this time when his teeth scrape, it's harder. Possessive. "Finish the sentence, Thea."
"Because of you," I manage. "Because you're—because I—"
His hand slides under the fabric now. Skin on skin.
I stop breathing entirely.
The cold air, the snow, the fact that we're in an alley where anyone could see—none of it matters. Nothing matters except the feeling of his hand on my bare skin, his thumb brushing over me without any barrier, the way my entire body goes taut and liquid at the same time.
"You what?" His voice is rough against my throat. "Finish it."
But I can't finish the sentence because his thumb is circling now, slow and deliberate, and every coherent thought I've ever had evaporates.
"This," he says quietly, "is not a phase."
His thumb circles again, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would definitely carry in this quiet alley.
"This—" He does it again, firmer this time. "—is not a story."
Again. My hands fist harder in his jacket, and I'm grateful for the brick wall behind me because my legs have stopped working properly.