Unmistakable (22 page)

The fire alarm wails and screams. It fades away before coming back again, this time with a loud, booming voice:
It’s not going to work, Stella.

I close the distance between us with a single step. I lick the corners of my lips and lean into his rigid body. A kiss should do the trick. It should silence that stupid alarm. Maybe I’ll even find some fireworks.

I brush my lips against his tightly pursed mouth. His skin is so soft and so smooth that the sound in my head loses a few decibels, but he still doesn’t move a muscle or offer any help or encouragement. I tilt my head to the side, give him my best attempt at batted eyelashes and slide my mouth over his again, with even more determination this time.

“Oh, hell.”

With that, he crushes me to his chest.

H
is lips are everywhere, tracing the line of my collarbone, dancing across my neck, moving over my face and eyelids and nose.

I’ve thought about this kiss, obviously. If you’re going to manufacture a crush, you really ought to do it properly.

I knew what to expect. He would be a proper kisser. He would be sweet and chivalrous and gentle. I examined it from every angle, and there was nothing in his behavior towards me to predict anything else.

It was by far my most serious underestimation yet.

His technique is as flawless as he is. He’s so damn good that I’ve forgotten my name, all sense of propriety, and the fact that he should be a boring, buttoned-up professor who kisses only his precious books.

He’s a kissing god. And we haven’t even made it past the couch.

If I were any kind of smart, I would let this man kiss me into oblivion for the next ten thousand years or so.

But like his lips, the fire alarm is ceaseless. And despite his meticulous ministrations, despite the perfection of his sun-kissed skin and hair and beautiful silken body, I haven’t felt the beginnings of any explosions.

It’s not going to work, Stella.

I try to lose myself again in his skin. Maybe we need to be wearing fewer clothes. Maybe I just need to get an exorcism and be done with it all.

Time. I need time.

He releases me instantly.

I must have said it aloud.

My breathing returns to normal. It only takes five, or ten, minutes.

Hell, I’m female. And he is most certainly, one thousand percent, male. Maybe those fireworks are coming. Any time now.

When my head clears, he hands me a glass of water. His eyes twinkle mischievously when I drink it all in one long gulp. How long had I been out of it? Geez. Seriously. Get a grip, Stella.

“Someone was thirsty,” he teases.

Where’s the censure? It has to be coming: Stella, I know and like and respect you, but this was all a huge mistake. We can never do that again.

“Forget that ever happened.”

I’m armed and ready for his rebuff. I’ve had almost three months to come up with the perfect comeback for Luke, so I have a wide array of choices, even if the target is different. I prepare the assault.

His steady gaze sticks to my face, until it doesn’t, and his amber eyes instead begin a slow perusal of my body. I’m wearing sweatpants, but his eyes give no indication that I am anything less than desirable.

So, maybe I didn’t prepare for everything. I lift the empty cup to my lips and try desperately to be seductive. I suck down air. Lots and lots of pure, unadulterated air.

He takes the glass from my hand and sets it on the table. He definitely deserves some extra credit for holding back his laughter. My hair is matted with sweat, I’m wearing the ugliest outfit ever known to mankind, and I now have blowfish lips. No wonder there weren’t any fireworks. He’s not even attracted to me.

“You should get some sleep,” he says softly.

He gently takes my hand in his. Because I’m basically in a trance, I allow him to deposit me before an empty bedroom. His meaning is clear—I will be sleeping here alone.

I wanted time and now that it looks like I’m going to get it, I don’t want it anymore. Why does everything have to be so confusing? All the time?

I think about laying one of those insults right on him, because even though he didn’t say kissing me back was a mistake, he must be thinking it. He has to be.

I let out a huff of annoyance as I slide into the bed, but the unmistakable sound of his body rustling in the darkness keeps me from saying anything really stupid. He leans over me and presses his lips firmly to my forehead. A chaste kiss. Like he would give his freaking sister.

Like he’s tucking me in!

The alarm has finally been drowned out. By righteous anger.

“Don’t you dare think that I don’t want you,” he says, in a voice that is soft and low and bold and seductive and completely American.

Mind reader.

I fully intend on fighting back, but before I can do it, he slides his lips over mine, parting my mouth with slow circles of his tongue. Oh, that feels nice. Whiskey kisses, soft and sweet.

He nibbles my bottom lip before pulling himself away.

“Sweet dreams.”

There’s no trace of a British accent. No resemblance to the clipped tones that haunt even my deepest dreams.

Blaring. Screaming. Wailing.

It isn’t going to work, Stella.

Oh, but wouldn’t it be lovely to think so?

* * *

M
y dreams are a tangled, confused web, and I wake up angrier than I have any right to be.

I threw myself at him. I felt how much he wanted me. Yet he broke away like I was a piece of poisoned fruit.

I would have done anything to silence that fire alarm, and honestly, sleeping with Holden wouldn’t have been much of a sacrifice. I’ve never tried to chase away demons with flesh that perfect. Maybe it would work. Maybe we would work.

After I take a quick shower, I dig through my bag for exactly the right outfit. Since I’m going to see my parents, the sparkly little green dress that I stole from Iz’s closet is out of the question, so I settle on a creamy black wool that my mother brought back from Paris a million years ago. Then, I apply an extra coat of mascara. Upon second thought, I add some lip gloss.

Not bad. Not great, but definitely better than those sweatpants.

When I enter the living room, I see Holden standing at the window, wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and looking considerably more stunning in the daylight. With the sunshine reflecting off his golden skin, he sparkles. I would have to be blind not to want him. Dumb. Insane. All of the above.

Thankfully, he senses my presence before I do anything really stupid. His back stiffens and he turns around slowly.

“Good morning,” I whisper.

I’m afraid of what he might say. I’m afraid that he won’t say anything at all. And he doesn’t, not for a long time. When he finally speaks, his voice is cold and impersonal.

“Do you want some coffee?”

“Coffee would be great,” I squeak.

He leaves, and I’m left alone with my thoughts and a buzzing cell phone. I’d rather deal with potentially angry parents and a certainly irate Iz than my wanton behavior and its ramifications.

Twelve new messages. Crap.

Mom:

5:43 am:
Stella, what time do you get in?

7:53 am:
Are you here yet?

8:04 am:
Waiting for you.

10:08 am:
Making your favorite dinner. Jello salad.

To be fair, that one does elicit a small chuckle.

Dad:

9:07 am:
Mom’s worried.

9:15 am:
Love u.

9:42 am:
Where ru?

Izzy:

Wednesday, 11:56 pm:
Call me.

3:07 am:
Murder. Death. Kill.

3:09 am:
Shit. Sorry. Love u. Murder death kill inappropriate. Too worried for social niceties.

7:00 am:
Stella?

8:30 am:
Two hours. Then I call ur parents.

I glance at the clock. It’s almost 10:30. I need to handle all of the texts in one fell swoop. If Izzy gets to my parents first, I’m toast. If my parents call Izzy, I’m even bigger toast.

To: Izzy

To: Mom

10:14 am:
Get in around 12. Have a couple of things to do and will grab cab. Love you and see you soon.

To: Dad

10:14 am:
See Mom’s phone. Love u.

After I press send on the last one, I realize that I screwed the timeline up. If I was really getting in around noon, that message would have been sent from somewhere over Nevada. Or Texas. Or something. I was never very good at geography. If they happen to notice the inconsistency, I just have to hope that they’ll be so happy to see me that they won’t ask too many questions.

That’s probably unrealistic, but since my life is currently held together with duct tape, unrealistic expectations are pretty much all I’ve got.

Holden appears at the door with two steaming mugs of coffee. He hands one of them to me and sits gingerly on the edge of the couch.

“Thanks.” My voice is bright and too cheerful by half. He’ll know something is wrong. Maybe he’ll just ignore the kiss. I wouldn’t mind that so much, actually. It might be better than a lecture.

“You really shouldn’t have kissed me,” he says, casually taking a sip of the coffee.

Why can’t I find a nice, strong, silent type? Someone who won’t give me grief about kisses?

Then, I catch his words. I kissed him? I mean, if we’re talking technicalities, I guess I did. Still. He was the one who started it. He said he wanted me. I never would have let my stupid crush slip out of fantasyland if he hadn’t opened up that sexy mouth of his and said his stupid sexy words.

I try to determine how exactly I am going to respond to his infuriating assumption. Then, I see his mouth start to twitch with laughter.

“Come on, Holden. I expect more from you.”

He lets out a loose laugh that vanquishes all of the remaining tension from the room. “Sorry. Had to try. The look on your face.”

“I sort of kissed you.”

“You definitely kissed me.”

“You wanted me to kiss you.”

“Fair enough.” He pauses, and his mouth isn’t laughing anymore. “What I can’t figure out is whether you wanted to kiss me.”

I’m all bluster. “Of course I did. I’ve had a crush on you for almost forever. Honestly, I thought you were going to be a bit of a dud. Well, not a dud, exactly, but more of a gentle kisser. A sweet one. Not that sweet is bad, but it’s not exactly going to get a girl’s pulse racing, if you catch my drift. As it turns out, you’re pretty good.”

Yeah. I said that aloud. I am such a dumbass.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re pretty damn good yourself.”

A single step brings him perilously close to me, and before I can figure out how to stop him, he crushes his body into mine. I can’t ignore the demands of his powerful muscles, and when he leans down to brush a decidedly not-friendly kiss over my lips, it feels a little bit like fireworks.

When he steps back, his gaze unsettles me with its directness.

“I don’t like casual sex. I don’t like games. I don’t like back and forth nonsense and high drama. I do like you. I like your mind, and I like your hair, and I like your body, and I like that you make me laugh. In fact, I like everything about you. I’m also a professor at the college you attend, and while you’re no longer technically my student, I can’t see that the administration would take too kindly to my having any kind of relationship with you. So, unless this is something more than a few nights in my bed, I’m out. No games.”

I stare at the man in front of me, who’s a mass of contradictions and somehow, not a contradiction at all.

“Holden...”

“I wasn’t finished,” he says coolly. “I would hope you would pay me the same courtesy by telling me exactly what’s going on here.”

I could fall in love with him. He could fall in love with me. This, whatever’s brewing between the two of us, could be easy and uncomplicated and lovely. It could be real. If he does break my heart, he would at least try to be gentle.

But...the noise wracking my brain is too loud to ignore.

More importantly, Holden deserves better than half-truths. I take a deep breath.

“I like you. A lot. I like your mind. I like your hair. You make me laugh. And I certainly like your body. In fact, I like pretty much everything about you.”

That earns a chuckle, but his eyes don’t relent. He’s waiting for the but. I choose my words carefully.

“However...”

I give him a sideways glance and am justly rewarded with an eye roll.

“However,” I repeat, “I got my heart blown to smithereens not too long ago. I haven’t recovered. If I’m being perfectly honest, I might never recover. It’s a long, sad story, and I don’t want to talk about it right now except to tell you that I don’t have much to offer. No games, but no lies, either.”

His face relaxes. “I’ve known there was someone from the first day that I met you, Stella. I know there was someone between us last night, because no matter what anyone tells you, you’re lousy at secrets. I just needed to know if you’d admit it to me and if you’d admit it to yourself.”

My brow furrows. “So...”

“So, what are you offering, exactly? You said, and I quote, that you weren’t offering much. That indicates that you’re offering something.”

I have to think about that one. I do just that, until I catch a glimpse of his shimmering hair. Dr. Delicious strikes again. It’s really not fair of him.

“Friendship? With potential benefits? And a promise not to besmirch your good name?”

He crosses to me again, his amber eyes lit with flame. “Potential benefits? Is there any negotiation room on that one, or am I another fallen brother left behind in the friend zone?”

“To be determined.”

He reaches into my hair and slides his lips down my jaw, placing tiny, teasing, butterfly kisses over my face until I want to throw the TBD status out the window. Then, he abruptly pulls away.