Untitled (38 page)

      "I had. Been out I mean. But I was stone cold sober. And I left the club early to phone you. I even left a drink to go outside and..."

      "It better not have been Guinness." He looked up at me through his lashes and I could have sworn there was a twinkle in his eyes. Then it was gone, as if he'd forgotten himself momentarily and regained control. He'd let me into his home but that was as far as it went.

      "No. Smirnoff Ice."

      "Vodka? Oh, you can leave that shite." His hands parted and he thrust them into his jeans pockets, hunching his shoulders, tensing his pectorals.

      God, your tattoos—no, your skin—no, you make me weak.

      I chewed my thumbnail as I studied him, waiting for the right words to come to me, waiting for him to cross the room again. Or at least meet me halfway. I'd managed to get myself up to his apartment. The least he could do was cross those last few feet to meet me.

      "I meant what I said," I told him. "On the phone."

      "Oh?"

      Christ, you're going to make me say it. Then courage welled up within me, and pride in what I'd done this evening. "The part about missing you."

      "Oh."

      Gimme something here, Leo. "Um. Yeah, I fucked up. With the whole... thing. Everything. I mean, the computer shop. I..."

      "I don't usually punch people."

      "No?" I laughed nervously. "You're pretty good at it." He caught my eye. "Sorry, I meant... anyway." I took a deep breath. "I called because I wanted to see you again."

      "I know. I just didn't get back to you because I thought, when I heard the voicemail..."

      "No, Leo. The computer shop. That day. I called you then because I wanted to see you again." Suddenly his ceiling fascinated me. The brickwork above his fireplace.

      "Then why... why didn't you say anything?"

      "Because I'm not the sort of person to throw herself at a guy. Crazy, as we ended up in bed so soon. I mean... I didn't want to smother you."

      "So you accused me of smothering you instead?"

      "I did? Oh. Yes. I did."

      "And did I?" When I managed to lower my gaze again I saw he scowled. "Did I ever smother you?"

      "No."

"And did I ever hurt you? Physically, I mean?"

"No."

"Do anything you didn't want me to do?"

      I jumped then; he spoke through gritted teeth, as if biting back barely contained anger.

      "Well? Did I?"

      "No."

      "Then perhaps you could tell me why you spoke to me like I was the one who... I was the guy... well, like shit basically?"

      "Because you..."

      "Yes?"

      "I spoke like that because..."

      "I'm waiting..." His voice went up a note at the end, dripping with sarcasm like honey from a comb.

      "Because you'd seen me..."

      "I'd seen you...?"

      "You'd seen me in trouble. I asked you for help, and I hated the fact I needed y— it. And you saw me vulnerable, and I hated you for it. And I wanted you to go. And I didn't want you to go." I sniffed, fighting back tears, damn near hating him for making me do this, yet knowing I had to.

      "So what you're saying is..." He took one step forward and I resisted the urge to take one back. "You treated me like dirt because you were embarrassed?"

      "You could say that."

      "Piper. That's just... rude."

      "Some would say that. Others would think it was..."

      "What would they say?"

      "Okay, okay, it was rude. You helped me out at the computer shop, I was angry at Richard. I took it out on you because I hated the fact I needed your help. And I admit, I called you because it was you I wanted to see. I knew, in the back of my mind I'd get embarrassed at your being the one to see me in a vulnerable state but some sick part of me was going to use that. I hated that I longed to see you again. That's not like me at all. So the only way I could stop myself wanting to see you is if I was too embarrassed to do so, but it didn't work. Even after I'd shown myself up by appearing not quite perfect and actually needing someone, it didn't work. I still missed you. And I fucked up. And I'm sorry. But I... well, there it is. That's all." I shrugged, breathless now, embarrassed again and definitely nervous.

      But honest.

      "Why..." He rolled his shoulders in an extended shrug, glancing at me, then tilting his head as if choosing his words carefully. "Why would anyone in their right mind hate wanting to see someone again?"

      "I would have thought that was obvious."

      "No." He bit his lip before speaking again. "That's why I'm asking."

      "Well, someone might not like missing another person in case that other person wasn't... um...of the same mind. I didn't want you to come to me because I needed rescuing, Leo. I just wanted... want..."

      He looked me in the eye but said nothing.

      "I was trying to make you back off so I didn't have to wait for you to leave. I didn't want to get used to having you around if you weren't going to be around for long..."

      "And what made you think that?"

      "We ended up in bed on the first date. Things like that don't usually go anywhere, do they?"

      "Says who?"

      "Well... people..."

      "Piper, you don't want to listen to people. People talk bollocks. What you want to do is ignore people and try asking me what I think for once."

      "Then tell me what you think."

      "I think if it was a one night—I mean, a weekender, let's just say I can't remember the last time I had that many orgasms in a forty-eight-hour period."

      My face burned at the memory.

      "I can't remember..." Another shrug. He looked heavenward and I wondered what he pictured. "I can't remember the last time I had that much fun with a girl, and wanted to see her again, and ended up having it all thrown back at me quite so carelessly. Like it meant nothing. I was only worth contempt, not even a glimmer of respect."

      "I've said I'm sorry, what more do you want? I didn't know. I didn't know any of that; you didn't tell me."

      "It was never the right moment."

      Fuck. Bad timing. Story of your fucking life.

      "But..." As he spoke again, my heart skipped a beat. "I'm telling you now."

      I turned in a half-circle, gripped the back of his settee, hung my head. Telling me what, Leo? Telling me what?

      "I didn't call you back after that voicemail because I assumed it was a Saturday night, you would have had a few—"

      "Well you assumed wrong."

      "And I didn't want you to say those things drunk."

      "I wasn't drunk then, and I'm not drunk now."

      "And I wanted you to come to me and say them sober, face to face, and without any prompting from me."

      "Check. On all three counts. Done it. If you're trying to bring me down, there's no need. I already feel bad enough as it is."

      "No, I'm not." Footsteps padded behind me and his voice drew nearer. "I'm not trying to do anything. You didn't want me to contact you out of pity? I didn't want you to contact me out of some sense of guilt. Or obligation. Really, Piper, I just wanted to hear you say it without me having to prompt you. That's all."

      Time stood still as I waited for him to say or do something. I couldn't see what else there was for me to say or do.

      Leo's fingertips brushed the inside of my elbow and my breath caught when his hand moved up, then down, stroking tentatively. "Okay, you're going to have to turn around now. There's something I want to say. I don't say these things on the phone, and I'm not saying them to your back."

      I turned on the spot, and he didn't move an inch. To be this close to him after what seemed like an eternity took my breath away.

      "When..." The hand that had stroked my elbow rested on my waist. "When my intercom went and I realized it was you, I..." He swallowed, and a second passed before he spoke again. "I was relieved. And happy. And I thought, good, you've come back. And it was your own decision to do so, but now you are here—" He cut himself off with a brief frown, and brought his face closer to mine. That familiar feeling of his warm breath on my face, the stubble of his jaw

against me. "Will you stay?"

      Panic rose in my throat, over what would happen if I took that risk. But, with him right in front of me, his breath on my face, the scent of his skin in my lungs and his hand on my waist, there was no risk involved, only certainty.

      "Yes." The word was a simple exhalation. Inevitable. "Yes, I'll stay."

Scarlett Parrish lives in the U.K. When not writing, she likes to visit the cinema, listen to music (usually 30 Seconds to Mars or John Mayer) and stay out of trouble. Two out of three ain't bad. Some of her favorite things are chocolate, sleep and erotica novels. She doesn't get nearly enough of

any of those. Visit her blog at

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