by T. K. Leigh
I refocus my attention on the coffee maker, neither of us saying anything while I prepare two cups. When I’m finished, Lincoln grabs them and heads into the living room, making himself comfortable on the couch.
Once I lower myself onto the opposite end, he hands me my mug and I take a sip, the nutty flavor relaxing me. Shifting my body, I stretch my legs along the length of the couch, placing a pillow under my injured one to keep it elevated, per my discharge instructions.
“So… What happened?” He keeps his voice low so as to not disturb my mother sleeping in the den.
“Are you asking about tonight with my mother or my leg?”
“As curious as I am to know everything, I’m more interested in your leg at the moment.” He inhales a sharp breath, his eyes widening, expression flushing. “I mean… I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—”
“It’s okay.” I smile, then take another sip of my coffee. “On Wednesday, I was trying on bridesmaid dresses for Nora’s wedding when I got a phone call. My mother’s sponsor. Said my mother hadn’t been to a meeting in a few weeks, which is unlike her. I called her work, only to learn she’d taken some time off. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, so I went to her house in Brooklyn…where she was drunk before three in the afternoon, working on remodeling her basement into a man cave for her boyfriend, Aaron.”
I lift the leg of my yoga pants, revealing my heavily bandaged knee and thigh. “We got into an argument. When she tried to continue on her project of making a coffee table out of a bunch of pallets, she accidentally fired the nail gun. This is the result.”
Lincoln’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. Are you okay? I mean, I see you are, but—”
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I lower my pant leg. “She missed hitting any bones, so they were able to remove the nail without surgery. I should be as good as new in a few days. Apart from the nice new scar I’ll now have the rest of my life.”
“Battle wounds. We all have them. Some you see. Some you can’t.” His voice is tender and understanding. I lift my eyes to his, a dozen thoughts on the tip of my tongue. He quickly looks away, breaking the moment. “And tonight?”
“I can’t be certain, but based on the slurs my mother slung my way, I imagine she found out I’d asked her boyfriend to stay away from her, considering he’d been giving her alcohol the past few months, even though he knew she was a recovering alcoholic.”
He leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs, contemplating. Then he looks back at me. “How long has this been going on?”
“Since the divorce.” My response surprises me. I’ve always kept this private. But Lincoln’s already seen me at my lowest. I have nothing left to lose by sharing this piece of me. “She drank before, but I never thought anything of it until it was just us.”
“And when was that?” He peers at me.
“Fourteen.”
Nodding, he looks forward again, filing this information away in whatever category it belongs. “Did your father know?”
“I don’t think he cared, but I never came right out and told him.” I glance at him, hesitant as I open up even more. “He still doesn’t know. The only person in my life who knows is Izzy. And now you.”
“Why haven’t you told him?” His brows furrow, that same pained expression from before returning. “Especially when you were so young?”
“I didn’t want him to know. Didn’t want him to have anything he could use against her to get custody of me.”
“In your mind, an alcoholic mother was the lesser of two evils.” It’s not a question. More a statement of understanding.
“You know how my father can be. My mother might be an angry drunk, but my father’s an angry person. At least my mother’s harsh words are limited to when she drinks.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then admits, “My mother started drinking when I was in high school, too. After she found herself alone.”
“Your parents are divorced?” I’m not sure why I find this more surprising than his mother being an alcoholic. I always pictured Lincoln having a flawless life and upbringing. From the beginning, everything about him was perfect. I guess no one’s perfect. Everyone has scars. Some just know how to hide them better.
“No.” He smiles briefly before faltering. “My father… He was killed on assignment.”
“Assignment?”
“He was a bureau chief for the Times and living in Southeast Asia. He was kidnapped by some extremists and held for ransom.”
I gasp, my hand covering my mouth. “My god. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” These days, it seems we’ve become desensitized to these things, since they happen so often. It doesn’t make them any less tragic.
“This was maybe six months after 9/11 and the U.S. government had taken a hard stance against negotiating with terrorists, given the current state of affairs.”
As I listen, his story sounds achingly familiar. It was one of the first gruesome acts I’d read about in this post-9/11 world. Yes, the attacks themselves were horrific, especially for someone who’s lived in the New York area most of her life. But I remember walking into the kitchen at my house one morning to see my father beside himself with an emotion I wasn’t used to seeing from him. He actually hugged me. And there were tears. Later, I learned it was because he’d just received word that one of his colleagues, who’d been reported missing, had been found decapitated, his body evidencing signs of extreme torture.
“You’re Elijah Moore’s son,” I breathe, the puzzle pieces locking into place.
He nods, his shoulders slumped slightly. “He died a few months before I graduated high school. My mom’s drinking probably started much like yours did. A glass of whatever here and there. So innocuous and common you barely notice. But within a few months, one glass turned into two. Which turned into an entire bottle. Which turned into two. Like most other alcoholics, she still held down a job, made it appear to everyone she was doing fine, or as fine as could be expected when you lost a piece of yourself in such an inhumane way.
“I guess a part of me felt compelled to fulfill my father’s legacy. I was originally a political science major, but added a double major in journalism. Graduated at the top of my class. Excelled in the field. Submitted articles to various papers and magazines during college. Got a job as a contributor for the Post, then attended Yale Law.”
“That’s why you’re this crazy workaholic, isn’t it?” I shift my eyes to him, seeing him in a different light now that I know the truth. For the longest time, I questioned what someone as put together as Lincoln could see in me. But he’s as broken inside as I am. “It’s the one thing you can control.”
Children of alcoholics tend to gravitate toward one thing they’re good at and put all their effort into that, since it gives us a sense of control we don’t have with our parents. Of course, I didn’t focus on school. Instead, my “relationships” with various men gave me that sense of control. I said when. I said how. I said where. Until Lincoln, it was the only thing I felt I had control over in my life. And I needed that control.
“You think I’m obsessed with my work?” There’s a twinge of hurt in his voice.
“Trust me,” I scoff playfully, trying to lighten the growing tension. “You are. I grew up with a man who always put his work before anything else. Still does.” I shrug dismissively, not wanting to dwell. “Which is probably why I’ll never measure up to his impossible standards.”
Lincoln arches a single brow. “Yet it doesn’t stop you from trying, does it?”
I blow out a breath, surprised at how forthcoming I am. Exhaustion can do that to a girl.
“Just once, I want to feel like I’m good enough.”
“Chloe…” His tone is filled with compassion. He reaches across the couch, grabbing my hand in his, his thumb brushing my knuckles. “You’re more than enough.” Such a simple statement, but it’s exactly what I need to hear. What I’ve needed to hear my entire life.
“You’re more than enoug
h, too,” I barely manage to squeak out.
He squeezes my hand, the touch innocent, but the way he swipes his thumb along my skin has my cheeks heating. I lock my eyes with his, unable to look away. There’s something new in his deep pools. Wonder. Amazement. Respect. And need. He can deny it all he wants, but people who are just supposed to be acquaintances don’t look at each other the way Lincoln’s currently admiring me.
The way I’m currently craving him.
Wanting to feel something good and pure, even if for a moment, I inch toward him. Hypnotized, he leans into me, his eyes focused on my lips as I part them. I promised I’d never put myself in this position again, especially after last week. Right now, I just need to wrap myself in something other than feelings of inadequacy and failure.
But am I ready for the feelings of inadequacy and failure that will follow when Lincoln realizes this is a mistake? When he looks at me with the same disgust as he did a few days ago?
Can I really put myself through that again?
I know the answer to that.
I’ve known the answer to that all along.
When Lincoln’s a whisper away and I can almost taste his addictive kiss, I snap out of the spell, practically jumping from the couch. “You should go. I have work to do.” I snatch his coffee cup and bring it into the kitchen.
Spying his suit jacket on the counter, I grab it, ignoring his bewildered expression as I shove it at him. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me in a way that makes me want to wrap my arms around him and lose myself in everything he is. But that’s not who we are.
His gaze trained on me, he stands, taking his jacket from me and shrugging it on. “If that’s what you think is best.” He arches a brow in question.
A flicker of hesitation passes. How do I answer that? Is this what I want? No. But is this for the best? It must be.
“I do,” I answer with reluctance, a sinking sensation forming that this is our final goodbye. That this is our last chance.
“Understood.” His shoulders fall as he retreats from me.
I cross an arm over my stomach, chewing on my lower lip. Am I ready for this man to walk away when I know in my heart we turned a corner tonight?
“Lincoln!” I call out as he’s about to disappear out my door.
He pauses, glancing back at me, eyes brimming with hope.
I part my lips, struggling to form a single word.
“Your coat,” I say quickly, then rush into my bedroom, grabbing his heavy wool coat off the floor. When I return, I hand it to him. His fingers delicately brush against mine as he takes it from me. A part of me thinks he did that on purpose, a reminder of the spark, the connection, the flame that hasn’t dulled despite the obstacles facing us.
“Well, goodnight then?” His tone lifts toward the end, turning his statement into more of a question.
It takes every ounce of resolve I possess not to clutch his face in my hands and kiss him. But tonight’s events haven’t changed the fact that he’s my professor and I’m his student. I need to remain firm. I need to keep that line drawn.
“Goodnight, Professor Moore,” I say in as determined a voice as I can muster at the moment.
He briefly closes his eyes, exhaling a long breath. “Goodbye, Chloe.”
Chapter Thirty
As a little girl, I went through a phase when I was obsessed with all things supernatural. After learning about the folklore theory of the witching hour being a time increased supernatural activity could be present, I’d always hide under my blankets if I somehow woke up between the hours of three and four.
Tonight, as I toss and turn at three in the morning, the only increased activity is in my brain. No matter what I’ve tried, I can’t seem to quiet my mind.
I can’t seem to stop thinking about Lincoln.
I haven’t been able to since we met.
I’ve tried closing the chapter on us, tried starting a new one, but it’s hard to turn that page when the person you want won’t be there anymore.
On a long exhale, I throw my arm over my head, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Lincoln is as restless as me.
If he’s thinking of me.
If he wishes we could turn back the clock and take a different path.
A gentle rapping cuts through my thoughts. I still, unsure whether it’s real or if I’m simply hearing things due to exhaustion. A few seconds pass, my apartment falling silent once more. Then the knocking sounds again, this time firmer.
More curious than anything, I get out of bed and limp toward the front door. Lifting myself onto my toes, I peek through the peephole, my heart catching when I see Lincoln pacing on my stoop, snow still falling around him, hair disheveled, demeanor frantic. From the looks of it, he’s had as much trouble sleeping as me.
I steal a glimpse of my reflection in the entryway mirror, smoothing my hair before opening the door. The instant I do, he halts in his tracks, his wild eyes shooting to mine.
“Lincoln, wha—”
Before I can finish, he advances toward me and grips my face. All the air leaves me, the combination of his sudden movement and rough flesh on mine making me breathless. His fingers dig into my skin, a fevered energy about him as his lips inch closer, the heat of him causing my pulse to skyrocket.
“Invite me inside,” he growls.
“I don’t—”
“Please, Chloe.” He releases me, wearing a path on my stoop again. “I’ve done everything in my power to stay away from you, to forget about what we shared. It was only… What? Ten days? There’s no way two people can form that strong a connection in such a short period of time, right?”
“Right…,” I say in a drawn-out voice, leaning against the doorjamb.
“Right.” He stops pacing, peering at me through pained eyes. “So why can’t I forget you?”
I stand straight. “I—”
“Why don’t I want to forget you?”
I keep quiet, letting him get out whatever he came here to say.
“Because I don’t, Chloe. Believe me…” He laughs to himself. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried dating other women. Thought it would make it easy. That it wouldn’t hurt so much. But you have to know how excruciating it is to sit in class and watch you with Owen.”
“We’re not—”
He holds up his hand, and I snap my mouth shut. “It has destroyed me, Chloe, regardless of whether there’s anything between you two. The idea that you can have an open conversation with him, even a platonic one, kills me.”
The veins in his neck tighten as his hand squeezes into a fist, pure anguish oozing from every pore. His face reddens. His teeth clench. His body shakes.
“Because I. Can’t. Do. That. I can’t enjoy the luxury of making you laugh. Of taking you out and treating you like the amazing woman you are. Of kissing you in the middle of Times Square with the world watching. Not without jeopardizing everything I’ve worked so hard for. Without destroying my father’s legacy. But I’m willing to do that. For you.” Eyes focused and chest heaving, he steps toward me. “I just need to know you’re all in. I need to know you’re willing to take a risk. To take a chance.”
“I told you I was,” I reply softly.
He closes the final bit of space. “That was before. Things have changed. I need to know you’re willing to do this. Right here. Right now. With who we are to each other. I need to know you’re willing to lower your guard and let me past the wall you’ve built up throughout a lifetime of being made to feel inadequate. So please…” He lifts a hand to my nape, not blinking as he stares intently into my eyes. “Invite. Me. Inside.”
I part my lips, searching his expression. It’s a reasonable request, one most women would agree to without a second thought, especially with a man as handsome and addictive as Lincoln Moore standing in front of them.
But I’m not most women. Lincoln knows this.
Worse, he knows how sacred maintaining my own space is. I’ve never invited a man into my apartment. That
meant giving them a piece of myself. It meant permitting them into my heart, something I’ve always avoided.
Until now.
Bringing my hands to his face, I savor the scruff of his unshaven jaw, ghosting my mouth against his. “Okay.”
He vehemently shakes his head. “No, Chloe. Not just okay. Not yes. Not a nod. I need the words,” he pleads with me like a man begging for his life.
Licking my lips, I focus my gaze on his. “Lincoln… Will you please come inside?”
His muscles relax, a tiny exhale of air escaping. Then he threads his fingers through my hair and crushes his lips to mine, his tongue exploring my mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever kissed me…sweeping, penetrating, needy.
I’ve been treated to my fair share of Lincoln’s kisses since we met. Every single one left me addicted for more. But not one felt this electrifying. Not one had the power to hit me so deep, to fulfill me in a way I didn’t think possible, to make me think we’ve finally found ourselves in each other.
When he tears away, he leaves me gasping for air. Peering up at him, I see his jaw clenched, eyes untamed. I remain locked in place, not moving, worried he changed his mind, came to his senses. Then a brilliant smile crosses his lips.
I cup his cheek and he melts into my touch, covering my hand with his. I pause to admire this man. The man who felt the need to rescue me from some drunk guy who wouldn’t keep his hands off me. The man who smoothly sent a martini my way just so he could come talk to me. The man who begged for a chance.
His smile turning wicked, he swoops me into his arms and carries me toward my bedroom.
“Lincoln,” I whisper-shout, “what are you doing?”
“Helping you follow doctor’s orders by keeping you off your feet.”
Once he kicks the door closed, he helps me find my footing, the playful atmosphere shifting. We stare at each other in the relative darkness, the only light coming from a streetlamp casting a slight glow into the room.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, allowing him to see me unobstructed. His fingers linger on my face. I close my eyes, savoring the warmth of his skin on mine.
