by A. L. Woods
And I did, like a lost puppy desperate to do anything to stay in this woman’s presence. The Advocate’s office was small, cubicles tucked close together like teeth in an overcrowded jaw. A boardroom with frosted windows was off to the left, and after two turns, we entered a cubicle that, if not for her coat hanging up in a corner and her handbag draped over the back of the chair, I would have assumed was vacant.
“Is this where you sit?” Stupid question, but I needed to cull the silence.
“Yes.”
My eyes searched for photos, but there were none. No gifts from ex-boyfriends or printouts of motivational quotes to get her through the lull of the afternoon. Her computer wallpaper was the default Mac OS X. To the left of the screen was a black wire framed cupholder that held exactly one pen and one highlighter. I had hoped that by infiltrating her space, that I would at least get another layer of complexity to her, but her desk was as inhibited as she was.
“Didn’t feel like personalizing it?” I asked with a laugh that died in my throat, her head tilting ever so slightly to the left, stare working over me like she couldn’t place something.
“Why are you here, Sean?”
Could I kiss her? Was that allowed? I felt like the kiss would be a better answer than anything I could have articulated, and frankly, it might spur a better reaction. My tongue stroked my bottom lip in hypothetical preparation, and while her face staved me off, it was the dilation of her pupils that told me the small act had gotten her attention.
“Because I wanted to see you.”
She responded with a snort. “Well, I gathered that much,” she said, arms crossed over her chest. “Why?”
I blew out a breath, still debating kissing her. The protracted silence between us was masked by the hum of the building’s HVAC system.
“I like you, Raquel.” There it was. No bullshit. No games. No filter. No beating around the bush or letting my tongue or mouth do my talking for me. “I like you a lot.” I stuffed my hands inside of my coat pockets in wait.
Her eyes shot to mine, a wistful look filtering over her features. Not until then did I notice that under the offensive halogen lighting that she appeared enervated, as if she had struggled unsuccessfully to get a good night’s sleep the night before.
“Sean,” she began, shifting her weight, eyes locking on mine. I knew she was standing on some sort of precipice that left her fear-stricken, as though if she got too close to the edge, the cliff would fissure. I waited with bated breath, watching as she lifted her nose toward the ceiling, her teeth dragging over her bottom lip with indecision.
Then she lowered her face, her eyes finding mine. I almost didn’t want her to finish that sentence. If it would result in her dismissing me in some way, I didn’t want to hear it.
“Raquel,” I stopped at her surprised look.
A smile curled the corners of her mouth. “I think that’s the second time you’ve said my name.”
“Would you prefer Hemingway?” I jested, watching as those folded arms of hers lowered to her midsection.
“Raquel just sounds so serious now,” she confessed with a shrug.
“It’s the most appropriate, given the circumstances,” I replied, stepping closer to her. Her arms dropped to her sides, eyes tracking me as I closed the distance between us. I lifted a nervous hand to her cheek, the heart shape fitting perfectly into my palm. Her skin felt warm under my cold touch, and her lids dropped, concealing her thoughts from me.
I hated the idea that she had been mostly alone all these years with only Penelope by her side. I didn’t need to meet her mother to know she wasn’t a good person, I had enough deductive reasoning on my side to look at her photos and read the comments she’d given to the media about her family to know that that woman was out strictly for herself.
My thumb worked back and forth across the arch of Raquel’s cheekbone, my eyes taking in every soft feature of her face that should have appeared harsh under this lighting. Her lashes were long and dark, coated with mascara. Her skin felt like velvet under my rough palm, lips plump in a relaxed pout. This was the first time her full brows weren’t drawn tightly together in my presence. She was relaxed.
“You weren’t supposed to happen,” she muttered, her chest rising and falling.
I swallowed, considering the gravity of her statement against my confession. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” My chuckle was a muted sound in my chest.
She blindly found either fold of my parted jacket, fingers fisting the two halves, her balance shifting as if she was trying to keep herself upright. “Dougie said I should give you a chance.”
I was grateful her eyes were closed, or she would see the bewilderment that I knew had taken over my face. I hadn’t spoken to that fucker in two days—which wasn’t entirely unusual since he met Penelope—but something had obviously changed in forty-eight hours. Two days ago he hated Hemingway.
Now she was standing here, telling me that he’d told her to give me a chance. I almost didn’t want to believe it.
“And will you?” I pressed, leaning forward until my mouth was inches from hers. There had only been three cars left in the parking lot, two of which I assumed belonged to Sheryl and Karen, and the other I knew belonged to Raquel.
It was safe to assume we were alone, but I selfishly didn’t really care if we weren’t, either.
She deserved to be worshipped and kissed for the rest of her life, and if that was a problem—throw the damn book at me.
Raquel’s gingerly rose to rest on my chest, fingertips sinking into my pectoral muscle. That touch alone was enough to set off my heart into a steady thrumming that reverberated in my ears.
“That depends,” she whispered, her height shifting as she stretched on the tips of her toes to graze my nose.
“On?” All it would take was an inch of movement and those lips of hers would be on mine. I almost wanted to suffocate the answer out of her before she could say it, but my curiosity got the better of me.
Her lids fluttered open, revealing her beautiful unearthly golden-brown eyes with wisps of mischief flickering through them. Then in almost a mere whisper, she blew me away with an answer that would stay with me for a lifetime. “Whether or not you intend to deprive me of proper orgasms in the future, ’cause that shit wasn’t cool.”
I erupted into laughter, stepping back from her, grabbing my knees as the deep howl split my sides. I had not foreseen that.
But I hadn’t seen her coming, either.
“Also,” she continued, leaning her ass against the edge of the built-in workstation, ankles hooking over one another, arms back across her chest. “If you’re going to make a habit of tearing off my underwear, you’re going to need to start replacing ’em, too.”
“You got it, Hemingway.” My smile went smug as I straightened, moving next to her to drop my weight on the workstation, too. I just hoped it could support us.
“Are you agreeing to both terms?” she pressed, looking sheepish.
“I’m agreeing to replace your torn underwear,” I said with a chuckle, matching her stance. “But I make no promises about your deprival. Your orgasms are reliant on your behavior.”
Her face crumpled with mortification, cheeks flushing rouge.
“Wanna get out of here?” I stood up, hands slipping into my pockets, watching her as her thoughts of guilt no doubt assailed her mind. Her stare found the small calendar on her desk, that doubt disturbing the clarity of her eyes before she settled on the time. I crossed my arms over my chest, tilting my head to the left. Hesitation spurred me to speak, “Do you have to be somewhere at the stroke of midnight, Cinderella?”
“What?” She turned her head in my direction, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.
“You looked at the calendar, and then the time, so I was wondering if maybe you were nervous about the coach outside turning into a pumpkin.” I dropped my gaze to her Doc Martens. “I think your glass slippers wi
ll take you till after 12:01, though.”
She released her lip, hands hatching together in front of her. “I always considered myself more of a Belle,” she amended, a smile smothering the flames of worry that had been lingering on her features.
Of course she was a Belle; books and her beast.
“You can be whoever you want, Hemingway.” I grinned, tossing her coat at her, which she caught with ease. She slid into it, staring at my hand that I held out. For a split second, I thought she was oscillating between accepting it and declining. Reluctance or some sort of small miracle gave her the courage to accept my proffered hand.
Her palm felt warm in mine, and it took everything in me not to puff out my chest over something as innocuous as our fingers being scissored together as we headed out the doors of The Advocate.
Because with Raquel, even the small moments felt like a wish only my heart could make.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
I wasn’t going to accept his invitation. I had been honest with Penelope that morning when she called to do a welfare check about my desire to be alone—but one look at him standing in the lobby of The Advocate and my equilibrium had been shaken and my only wanton desire on a day that was always so painfully bleak was to be near him. The thought that resounded in my head was as loud as the roar of a jet flying overhead to the point that I considered declining out of necessity to temporize the situation for just a little while longer while I sorted my headspace and this unusual somatic response when I was in his presence.
But the heart wanted what it wanted…and right now, my mourning spirit wanted to be around Sean. When I was with him, I felt like he saw me differently than anyone else, as though the veil everyone else saw me through had lifted for him. Penelope knew me, but there were always going to be darkened parts of myself that I kept boarded up and safely stowed away someplace where she could never find them. Cash knew the ugly, but he didn’t lessen the burden of its existence. And with Sean, I had wanted to show him everything: Every scar, every mark, every sliver of ugly.
A poker player would call me foolish, but whether I wanted it or not, I felt myself going all in.
“You can be whoever you want, Hemingway.”
Sean’s smile had been sly when he had said it, as if he’d been joking, but somehow, the words felt heavy with a significance I’d never before experienced from a man.
I knew he meant them, and that’s what made the crumbling walls that made up my facade give way at the foundation. I didn’t hesitate when he held the passenger door of his Jeep open for me, pegging me with a wry smirk as he bent at the waist with a deep bow, one arm tucked to his chest, the other outstretched to the door.
“M’lady.”
I swatted playfully at him, but he grabbed me by the hips, pulling me against him till his chest was flush with my back. He cupped my chin and raised it until my mouth was slanted against his, a feat that would have been impossible if he wasn’t eight inches taller than me. My mind buzzed with lustful abandon that had my fingers sinking into his thighs until he released me, guiding me into the car. He grinned as he slammed the passenger door and rounded the hood of the car, rubbing the corners of his as if he couldn’t believe this any more than I could.
This was a date. Our first real date, and maybe, just maybe, one of many. Whether I had wanted to readily admit it or not, when I was with Sean, I forgot who I was. I wasn’t Liam Flannigan’s daughter, or Holly Jane’s surviving sister. I hadn’t had a lifetime of hurt, or enough baggage to fill a mega-mansion. I wasn’t the writer who had dreamed of being prolific only to watch those dreams die, too.
I was simply Raquel.
And Raquel liked Sean.
“Where are we going?” I probed when he started the Jeep. The interior of the Wrangler smelled like him—all leather and cinnamon. I found myself drawing laconic breaths as the smell imbibed my senses and curbed whatever lingering anxieties I had about my impetuous decision making.
“Why?” he asked, something heady and dark washing over his features.
“I need to know if I’m ever going to see the inside of this building again, or if my death will be the story that acts as a launch pad for Karen’s career.”
Sean shook his head, a laugh reverberating in his chest. “What’s with you two anyway? She looked like she wanted to kill you.”
I worked my teeth back and forth across my bottom lip. “I caught her and the mayor fucking.”
“Jesus Christ.” His head snapped in my direction. “Are you serious?”
I blinked at him, boredom coating my expression. “So, then? Where are we going?”
He shook his head, bemusement teasing his expression. “Nowhere that ends up with you in the river.” He pulled the gear shift into reverse, the dash casting bright lights against his visage as he twisted in his seat, edging the car out of the vacant parking spot like a condemned man buying himself time.
“Good,” I sighed, feigning relief, “I’m not a very good swimmer.”
“That’s what you would be worried about?” He chuckled as he shifted the Wrangler into drive. He turned right onto Ward Street, and then left onto Main Street, taking us in the direction of the town square.
“You don’t worry about death when you’ve seen so much of it,” I said evenly.
His nostrils flared, a heavy silence immediately settling over us.
Fuck.
I rolled my lips together, recognizing my social gaffe. I had always been flippant about death; it was my weird way of coping with the reality that my sister and father had died just a few years apart. Penelope’s mother thought that made me a sociopath, and from the way Sean looked like he had just seen a ghost, I was beginning to think that the pearl-clutching witch had been right.
Flattening my spine against the cold leather, I felt the heat of my embarrassment rushing up the length of my neck, settling itself on my cheeks. My eyes bounced to the temperature dial, resenting that the heat wasn’t even on. Distress radiated from me, a desperation for the car I had been so eager to jump into only moments ago to swallow me whole.
I should have declined. The cogs of my mind raced to come up with an excuse that would buy us both an out.
Sean cleared his throat, his concentration trained on the street ahead of us as the tree-lined, picturesque streetscape of the square came into our line of vision.
“Who died?”
I felt that a better question would have been who hadn’t died, because it sure as shit felt like it was fucking everyone.
I fixed my focus on the lining of the Jeep’s ceiling. This was great first date material. This was for sure in the prologue of that dating book Penelope had kept on her bookshelf when we were in college, right under the part that said, “Don’t put out to the first stable guy who gives you a morsel of attention.”
I didn’t have to read the entirety of that dating handbook to know I was terrible at this. We hadn’t even made it to wherever we were going.
“Raquel?” he probed, stealing a glance at me that melted my insides. Concern tipped his brows inward, his eyes bouncing from me to the parking spot he was now pulling into.
I was fucking this up, royally. As soon as the car was parked, I was going to walk back to The Advocate and pretend this whole thing hadn’t happened. This was idiotic. I was emotionally fragile because of the significance of today—that had to be the reason for my blatant stupidity.
This was wrong. I was wrong. I was out of my element, and the way I had already gone and fucked this to shit before we made it all of two streets from The Advocate was perfect evidence of that. I knew when I had breached enemy territory. I was raised to know when the fuck to raise that white flag and retreat. No one survived my pocket of Southie without knowing when they needed to cut their losses and make a fucking run for it.
Sean put the gear stick into park, killing the engine. He rubbed the scruff on his chin, lids dropping for the briefest of moments, as though he was collecting himself. I looked to see where we had
parked. We were in front of Four Corners, a nondescript twenty-four-hour diner in town that appealed to the bedroom community that seemed to always be coming or going.
He shifted in his seat to look at me. I could feel the vacancy settling on my face the longer the silence stretched on between us while I hatched my grand getaway plan: door open, body out, legs running. Then a thought sank my stomach: I had left my cigarettes in my car, and didn’t that just heighten my anxiety to the nth degree. My frantic gaze searched the rest of the well-lit street looking for a Cumby’s.
Okay, new plan: door open, body out, legs swiftly carrying me to Cumby’s so I can chain smoke myself into a stupor.
“Hey,” he summoned. My body responded before I could process it, my chin jerking in his direction, eyes growing wide with terror that felt all too familiar to me the longer I sat here.
“I’m not going to pressure you, okay?” he murmured, his hand settling on my knee, thumb working back and forth. “You don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it.”
My eyes found his, the warmth in those darkened pools ensnaring my anxiety in its place. I forced out another deep breath, the familiar tightness releasing its hold on my chest. His eyes searched mine, and I watched the concern evaporate and something impish slide into place.
“Waffles?” he asked, pulling the keys from the ignition. I blinked at him, struggling to process what he meant.
“Oh,” he said when I didn’t immediately respond, looking startled. He folded his arms across the breadth of his chest. “You’re a French toast girl?”
When I didn’t reply, his countenance took on something akin to being told I had a tail, an extra toe, and a penis he didn’t know about. His voice came out grave as he spoke. “Do not say you prefer pancakes. That will be an actual dealbreaker for me.”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or cry at the ludicrous inquest. A pensive smile formed on my face, the shame that had peppered my skin like droplets of rain evaporating the longer I stared at this man who knew how to push my every button and then just as gracefully, melt all my worries away.
