“You don’t have a greeting for me?” My lips curl. Not quite a smile but something more bittersweet. I note she has no smile for me, yet she laughed for my brother. There was laughter and touching, of that I’m sure. And the way he held her looked like it was a precursor to a kiss. Bitter without the sweet, my thoughts turn to damning him. Why him? Why now? And why the hell is she standing in front of me?
“Hello, Alexander.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she shakes her head almost infinitesimally. Shaking away signs of shock or perhaps contrition? But then I notice the red tip of her nose. Cold or embarrassment? And why the fuck do I care? “I guess you must be surprised to see me here.”
Surprised? Yes. Angry? Definitely. Yet strangely grateful to set eyes on her again. My sanity remains; she is every inch as lovely as I remembered her.
What a night and what I wouldn’t give to gain a repeat, to have her one more time. To watch her reactions as she reached that point, the point I’d been driven to bring her to again and again. A night when pleasure was the only purpose—not my pleasure or hers but ours. She didn’t offer me what she thought I wanted; instead, she gave me everything. And she took. Feasted. Surrendered to her pleasure under the guidance of my hands.
What a night. With a very amicable and grown-up parting where, as the sun rose the next morning, I’d kissed her once more. A final farewell, or so I thought.
I realise I’d fallen silent while remembering, while staring at her. Her arms tighten over her chest, and for one horrible moment, I consider this her reaction to my gaze. That I’ve made her uncomfortable. But as she valiantly tries to suppress a shiver, I realise that isn’t the case. I know she’s as affected by the sight of me as I am her, given her rapid exit, but she’s also not dressed for the weather.
I slide off my jacket and swing it around her shoulders. “Here.”
“No, you don’t have to—”
“Watch you suffer from hypothermia?” I reach out to tug the lapels closer at the same time Holland grips them. My fingers brush hers and are met with an almost familiar zing of electricity. Just like the first time. I turn hot and cold instantaneously, my insides fiery and molten even as the chill of the evening air penetrates my shirt.
“Well. Thank you.” She hunches her shoulders as a tiny shiver runs through her, the colour in her cheeks more from the temperature than embarrassment as her fingers tighten on my jacket. I watch as her gaze dips before she seems to force herself to lift her chin, fixing her attention on some point in the darkness behind me.
Can she be so completely unaware of my attention? My fascination? How I drink in the tiny nuances of her. Her damp bottom lip glistens in the lamplight like a temptation to taste, the escaped strands of her hair dancing in the cool night air. Here we are, almost strangers, yet we’re both aware of some of the shades and tones of the other’s behaviour. How they are in their most private of moments. The sounds they make when at their most vulnerable.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?” Oh, so that’s what she’s waiting for, bracing herself for. “God knows I’m surprised to be here.” Not to mention horrified to be standing in front of me, according to the way her shoulders hunch.
“I’d say you’re working,” I answer gruffly, forcing the thoughts away.
This is Holland the waitress, not Holland the lustful holidaymaker.
My gaze roams over her, my fingers itching to do the same as I recall the curve of her waist and the full softness of her breast. The feel of her skin under my hands.
A fucking waitress. Should it come as such a surprise given how she lied so easily that day? We were cousins for a while before we were lovers. I was gay, and she was flying back to America.
As far as lies go, dishonesty regarding your employment status seems harmless. And, fuck it. I lied, too. I’m lying now—a lie by omission as I fail to tell her what I’m doing here. Who I am.
No, her appearance has nothing to do with Griffin. She isn’t an amazing actress, and this meeting is as much a shock to her as it is to me. Though I’m not the one staring at the dark cobblestones. Embarrassment, likely. Or perhaps she has more sense than me and doesn’t trust herself to look her fill. I almost smile at my own ridiculousness. It’s a nice thought, but I saw the way she looked at my brother.
“I see you’ve met Griffin.” Despite best intentions, my words are stiff.
“Who?” Her brows retract, her gaze following mine to the embossed piece of finery she holds in her hand. “You know the lawyer?”
“Better than I’d like to.” In so many ways. But we can’t choose who we’re related to. “And you?”
“Barely at all.” Her fingers fold around a business card while we dance around the facts and the occurrences that brought us here. But I’ll be damned if I speak just for the sake of words. For the sake of convention. We’re hardly old friends catching up.
I want to know what she’s doing here.
What she’s doing here dressed like a waitress.
“I met him earlier this year,” she suddenly supplies, filling the silence between us.
I find myself mastering a smile, thinking she wouldn’t be much use in an interrogation. Does she feel unnerved, or perhaps silences make her uncomfortable. She wasn’t especially verbose that night, but she was delightfully noisy . . .
“In January, I think,” she offers again. “In Chelsea. At a dinner party.”
“Like this?” I indicate her outfit with a lazy gesture of my hand, her gaze flicking down almost as though surprised to see the damn pinny she’s wearing.
“No, I was a guest,” she grates out, her gaze fiery as it meets mine. “I am allowed a social life.”
And there she is. At least, this is a little more like the woman I’ve known.
Known for less than a day, I remind myself.
“Yes, of course you are.” I resist the urge to step closer, to keep a decent distance between us. Not a kissing distance; best to avoid temptation. For her sake, at least. “Forgive me, as I understood it, your social life belongs on the other side of the Atlantic.” Though I score a point with words, the way I fold my arms across my chest is a reminder to myself that I shouldn’t want her.
“It wasn’t strictly a lie,” she mumbles, her gaze slipping away again.
“But you do live in London, not America.”
“So, I might have told one or two lies that night. It’s not like I owed you anything. Certainly not the tale of my life story.”
“No, but a little honesty would’ve been appreciated.” The mild rebuke is at complete odds with the roar of sensation building inside.
“Are you trying to tell me that everything you said that night was the truth?”
God help me because, against every instinct, I find myself stepping closer, my eyes sweeping hotly over her. “The important things were.”
And she sees it then. Reads my every intention. Hears once more the words I’d whispered as I’d broken her down only to build her back up again. And with that acknowledgment comes an empty longing. My body recognises hers, mourning our lack of connection. Grieving the space between us, hating the cool of the night air.