Promise (14 page)

Somewhere between her Trout Almondine and my Fettuccine Fresco, I can feel us strike an uneasy balance. I have a hard time keeping my dick from taking over the more gentlemanly portions of me, but so far I’ve won the battle.

What is it about her that lights my fuse? She’s somewhere between vixen and virgin. An angel with broken wings and a spirit that needs to be set free. The combination is so intoxicating, I have to concentrate on each word of our conversation. Otherwise, I’d revert to a primal animal and be grunting and growling out my claim in the face of any other motherfucker that looks her way.

“I will assume since you accepted this date with me that you are unattached. No boyfriend, fiancé, husband?”

She sits up straight and forces a disbelieving smile.

“I didn’t accept a
date
. I accepted dinner. Which, by the way, thank you.” She nods her head and folds her hands down in her lap. “But, no. None of the above.”

“Unbelievable.” I can’t help but stare straight at her face, and I don’t care how obvious I am.

“I’ve never found relationships worth the price. I like to be alone. Always have.”

I know that is the truth, and my heart forms deep fissures knowing I could have prevented some of it.

“Can I ask you something?” My mind is drifting somewhere between my need to know everything about her and my need to dig into her with my tongue.

“I’ve never understood that question.” She lets out a chuckle. “I mean, it’s a question in and of itself,
‘Can I ask you a question?’
and why preface a question with a question about asking the question? Just
ask
, and I can always tell you to piss off if I don’t want to answer.” Her answer is straightforward and precise without any hint of bitchiness.

You don’t have to be a bitch to get your point across, and Promise has that down in spades.

“Fair enough.” I lean forward as the waiter’s hand comes across to clear our dinner plates. I notice how she sits stick straight, her sweater pulling perfectly across her chest.

The restaurant is so quiet, I wonder if she can hear the smashing of my heart against my ribs, and I have to admit I am very happy for the cover of the tablecloth over my disobeying sentinel, trapped in a war of wills against my zipper.

I’m trying to decide what to ask first.

I want it all.

Everything.

I want to know what happened to her eye. I want to know about her parents, where she grew up before she landed in foster care. How she ended up in the system. Where she lives. Who her friends are. What is her favorite color? Has she ever been in love?

Wait
. No, scratch that last one. I don’t want to know that, especially if the answer is yes.

“Where do you live?” I settle on something safe.

“I live with Bruce. An apartment not far from Windfield.”

I can’t help it when my eyebrows pinch together and my lips open, taking in a quick breath.

“Wait, you live with him? Like,
live
with him?”

I suddenly hate him. With a seething, volcanic hatred.

“Not like that. Just roommates. He has a big apartment over in Jersey Village. He leased it when he was with his partner, and when they broke up, he was a little tight on the rent. I came along at just the right time, and it works. He’s hardly ever home, and neither am I.”

Okay, I don’t hate him anymore, but I
envy
him.

Why is she hardly ever home? What does she do after she leaves her shift at Windfield?

She is zipping the cross back and forth on the chain that hangs around her neck, and I want to put my lips there . . . and hold her hand.

I’ve never wanted to hold anyone’s hand before. Never. I guess I saved that for her as well.

Everyone has a thing. Something that they reserve. Hold back. It’s that one personal thing you don’t want to give someone—until you meet the right someone.

She moves that hand down to play with the spoon left next to the spot where her dinner plate had been. She’s nervous; her hand doesn’t seem to know where to light.

Fortune favors the brave, so before I know it, I’ve got my fingers under hers, pulling her hand into mine.

Her skin is warm, smooth like someone spun together clouds and sunshine. I don’t want to look at her face because I don’t want to see that she wants me to let go—
if
she wants me to let go.

“It’s not a date.” I hear the near painful words fall from her lips, and those fissures in my heart split open a little farther. But, she doesn’t pull her hand from mine.

“No, it’s not,” I answer back because she’s right.

A date is something you do when you are unsure of someone—the time spent trying to discover if they may be the one, so to speak, to decide if you want a second date, a third . . . or something more.

This is not a date because I already know what I want. I want it all.

My foot slips under the table until I meet hers, only then can I raise my eyes. Now I need to know. I need to see what she’s thinking, what she's feeling.

I peg her with my eyes and, for a second, I can see her start to run. Her cheeks turn pink, her tongue glances her lower lip, and I feel her panic rising. Instead of letting go, I pull her hand toward me and lean closer.

“Tell me something about you no one else knows.”

She lets out a laugh, but it’s not because she thinks my question is funny.

“Why? Why would I tell you that? I hardly know you. I’m not even sure I
like
you.” Her words and the tone of her voice are in direct opposition to one another.

Like I said, I know the truth when I hear it. The tone of her voice is the truth, and she does “like
”
me.

“Just take a chance. I mean, look at this face.” I tip my head to the side. “Who wouldn’t trust this face?” She picks up on my self-deprecating humor, and I hope it is enough to win another speck of her heart.

I love the way she angles her head and squints her eyes and crinkles her nose all at the same time. It’s my kryptonite. I also notice that she has no problem looking me straight in the face right now.

Most people look but only for the politically correct three seconds. Then they look away, afraid I might think they’re staring. The ironic thing is, most of the time I forget my face has anything unusual about it. I mean, every face is different. Mine just has a bit more story to tell.

“You first. Tell me something about
you
that no one else knows.” She tosses the ball back into my court.

I don’t miss a beat.

“I’ve never wanted to kiss someone as much as I want to kiss you right now.”

She tries to pull her hand from mine, but I keep it firm in my fingers. I see her lips open as if she’s not sure what to say.

“Your turn.” I smile and suck some air through my teeth because the way she’s got her eyes stuck on mine is making me the happiest guy in this entire restaurant, if not Cleveland.

“No fair.” She breaks into a little crooked smile and bites the inside of her lip, sending a bolt of lightening down where I’m already having a difficult time containing the wayward shaft inside my jeans.

“What? What’s not fair?” I blink because I’m confused.

“You stole mine.”

I knock over my wine glass and practically the entire table as I launch up and over the space between us and taste the sweet, warm, wonder of her pink lips. My hands hold her cheeks, and my world turns inside out. My tongue parts her lips, tasting a perfect kiss from the angel I thought I’d never find.

As my mouth covers hers, I can’t silence the ever-present doubts, the angry truth thumping inside me as I trace my name on her lips with my tongue.

Tell her to steer clear of you. This won’t end well. Not with you. Not for her.

I stomp the fucking voice away because there is nothing more important right now than the way she tastes. The sounds she makes.

I quickly negotiate a deal with the devil, knowing he will come to collect and that it’s a debt I’ll gladly pay for just one more moment like this.

Promise

That kiss did something to me.

I can’t be completely sure, but I feel like I’m melting. Like something incredibly heavy is dripping off of me, and I feel so light. I’ve become liquid.

He’s looking at me, our lips still practically touching, but he’s staring, unflinching into my eyes. Kissing is better because when you kiss, you don’t have to see. Don’t have to look.

I’ve forgotten how to move, how to breathe because I’m changing. I’ve turned into a puddle, and nothing is the same.

“Are you okay?” Beckett half-smiles, but he’s so close his face is blurry. All I can see is blue because his eyes are attached to me.

“Yes. But, I think you broke something.” I look at the toppled wine glass that is now in a hundred more pieces than it was a moment ago.

I'm a puddle, I tell you. A puddle.

“No,
you
broke something. It’s me. You’ve already cracked open my heart and let yourself in.”

I don’t know whether to break out laughing or grab his face and pull.

Beckett doesn’t give me a chance to decide, because his lips engulf mine again, only this time, he’s got my hands in his, pulling me up as he makes his way around the disheveled table.

I can’t believe I’m kissing him, right here. But I feel like I have no choice. I don’t want a choice.

Hands. I love his hands.

No, I love his forearms. And his lips. Yes, definitely his lips.

STOP!

What the hell am I doing?

“Wait.” I push him away and drag the back of my hand over my lips like what just happened wasn’t the most delicious taste I’ve ever known.

“Sorry, what?” His face is drawn tight. There’s a tension there, and I know it’s from me.

“I . . .” I smooth my sweater down and look around to see no one is within our line of sight. “I just didn’t expect . . .”

Take a step back . . . take another.

There, that’s better. A little distance and now I remember to breathe.

“Come on. Let’s go.” His voice is still tense, but I’m not scared. Not of him.

We are silent for the first five minutes after leaving the restaurant, falling into step again. His hand lightly grazes the small of my back every time we walk by someone else on the street. His shoulders are square, hard angles. Most intelligent men give us a good safety zone when they move by.

Yet, there’s an incredible softness about him, a paternal, protective nature that is making me furious. This is not what I need right now. I want to kiss him and punch him.

“I don’t want to kiss you again,” I blurt out because the silence is killing me.

“Okay.” I hear the stifled amusement in his voice. “That’s fine.” I can see the corners of his lips going up, and before I think to take another breath (because I actually have to
think
about it right now), he’s got my hand in his again.

“Hey.” I start to pull away.

“I’m not kissing you; I’m holding your hand. So, are you saying you don’t want to hold my hand, either?”

I hate that I’m attracted to him. How did he wiggle his way through my moats and walls and armor in just a few days? Why does he have this strange power to draw me close, as if I know more about him than I do? Or, is it the other way around? Does he know more about me than he should?

“No, that’s fine.” That is not what I meant to say. “I don’t want a boyfriend.”

Oh my god, do I have no control over what is coming out of my mouth? I usually go an entire day without the need to speak; now I can’t stop.

STOP.

“
Boyfriend?
Well, that’s a little forward, Promise, but I’ll think about it.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and my hip a playful bump.

“No, I don’t . . . I mean.” I roll my eyes and try to gather a rational thought. “I am not looking for a relationship. I’m just not interested . . .”

Nothing. Just say nothing.

“Okay, so, you don’t want a kiss, you don’t want a boyfriend or a
relationship
. Got it. But, I’m still safe holding your hand. So, as far as I’m concerned, I still win.”

I can feel him smiling, and I can’t help the matching one that covers my face.

“You
might
want to kiss me, though. I’m pretty sure that kiss back there wasn’t all me. And, it was
pretty amazing
.” Beckett glides next to me, and I am surprised at how such a large man can walk so softly.

Neither of us says anything the rest of the five blocks to the industrial building where he lives. Even with no words, we are definitely having a conversation. He doesn’t let my hand go the entire walk and his face alternates between a goofy smile and giving the stink eye to anyone who walks past us.

I realize that besides some vague notion that he’s a military guy, I don’t really know anything about him. What he did in the military, what he plans to do when he’s out.
If
he will ever be out.

Something feels comfortable with him, even if he is a stranger. Practically a stranger. Bruce showed me his father’s records. There was not much there, just his general information, age twenty-seven. I got that part.