“No,” I finally said. “Trent is not worth the trouble it would cause for you.”
“He can’t go without being—”
“He will be, don’t worry.” I inhaled and my chest constricted with the scent of Isaac’s skin and the proximity of his body to mind. “I’ll take care of it.”
It was then that I saw something from Isaac I hadn’t seen before. His stony resolve crumbled and whatever excuses had always kept him from wanting me, from allowing me to act as though I wanted him too, fell away when he began to lower his hand and I held it still against my cheek.
His skin was warm and I could just make out the sharp bite of his calluses against my face. He had an arch along his top lip and eyes like a perfect circle, a play of amber and gold vying for dominance in his irises. Not hazel really, but somewhere in the middle, someplace that said Isaac came from people divergent and varied.
“Riley…” he said, a warning I didn’t want to hear. My gaze didn’t falter; I may have stumbled with Trent, but still, I knew what I wanted, what was best for me, and that was not some overbearing, suit-wearing bully. And Isaac, sweet Isaac, took my lifted chin for the invitation it was, made a sound deep in his throat, and just like that, with a single tilt of his head, stopped fighting and kissed me.
The world went away and I heard the song of hundreds of voices inside of me that sounded so familiar, yet were unlike anything I’d ever heard before. Maybe it was that active imagination of mine working in overdrive. I’d wanted Isaac’s touch for months, had daydreamed about it for hours and now that it was here, I realized that my imagination was dull and pathetic. Reality was so much better.
He moved his mouth over mine, tentative at first, but seemed fueled by my reaction and the awesome magnitude of what this felt like. He moved more confidently, surely. Isaac wanted me and took what I offered freely—his lips soft, directing, his tongue teasing and satisfying all at once, careful of my broken lip yes, but oh, so absolute.
He moved his hands, fanning his fingers into my hair, holding my head steady and I pulled back, feeling the smile against my mouth.
“Miss Riley,” he said again, but the words were like a prayer, and I decided just then, with Isaac watching the strands of my hair slip through his fingers, that he could call me anything he wanted as long as he kept touching me. “You could tempt an angel with this mess of fine hair. I like it. It suits you.”
I responded, pulling him close, wanting the taste of his mouth again. He delivered, leading me in the movement, mouth and lips soft and sweet, a little desperate, a lot greedy and my breath grew labored, fanned out against his face and I lifted with him, following as he pulled us to our feet, as he pressed close to me and my back came up against the books on the stacks that surrounded us.
My mind was full of the outline of Isaac’s hips and thighs as we pressed together, and the sturdy, guiding strength of his hand as he held a palm against my lower back. I felt like a decadent sinner, taking and taking with no concern for consequences.
But the heat of the moment and the shadows that hid us would not keep our secrets forever. As quickly as we had come together, a voice sounded at the end of the aisle, a low, amazed curse, and we pulled apart to see Lenny’s grim face.
“Time to lock up, man.” Lenny didn’t look at me. He kept his attention on Isaac, watching him as though saying more would cause the world to shatter.
“I hear you. Give me a minute.”
One beat, then two. Then the slightest nod of his head and Lenny turned around, stalked off without a backward glance.
Isaac took a moment, watching after his friend, then he turned back to me. Before he could say anything, I spoke up.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” I told him, hoping he didn’t think I regretted wanting him, what we had done. A quick jerk of his head and I smiled, eager to take that worried look from his expression. “No, Isaac... I’m sorry we got interrupted.”
A slow, easy smile spread against his face, then Isaac’s gaze drifted to my mouth and I thought he might kiss me one more time, but he frowned, pushing his eyebrows together as he ran a fingertip against the cut in my lip. “Did I make this worse?”
“I didn’t feel a thing but the hum of your kiss.”
“My kisses hum?”
“Absolutely.”
He watched me then, eyes sharp and focused and I wondered if he’d ever tell me about all the thoughts I could read on his face; all the secrets he protected so fiercely.
“This thing between me and you, it could lead to a lot of trouble for both of us.”
“Isaac, I’m not worried. Trouble comes even if we plan for it. It comes when we don’t.”
He shook his head, smile sweet, those amber-glinted eyes sparkling like he thought I was naive or simple or a dreamer who wouldn’t be told to give up. Isaac gave me one last kiss, the first of what I prayed would be a thousand more, a million more, and then he pressed his lips to my forehead.
“Come on, I’ll walk you to your dorm and make sure you get inside safe.”
And for the first time in hours, right then with Isaac, that’s how I felt—safe.
Isaac and Riley cleared from my head as the fog of meditation ebbed until I realized where I was and what I was doing. Then, the realization hit me hard, a slap of comprehension and clarity I hadn’t felt before. I could still feel those broad hands against my back, those thick, full lips working hard over mine. Isaac had felt so familiar. He’d felt so real.
He’d felt just like—
“Oh my God,” I said, pulling Effie from her thoughts, spurring her loud shudder and gasp with one loud oath.
“What now? Man, I was in a good place—”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, jumping up from the floor to rummage around for a jacket. “I’ve got to find Nash. I have to tell him.”
“What?” Effie said, following me as I found my tennis shoes and slipped them on at the same time. I was to my door, had it flung open before she stopped me. “Tell me. What do you think you discovered?”
“I know why I feel something between us. It’s the past, Effie. Nash and me, I’m sure of it—we knew each other in another life.”
Nine
Nash
The barista with the lip ring never got my name right. She knew I took a black coffee; nothing fancy. No latte. Not shots of espresso or pumps of spiced anything. Black coffee with one splash of creamer I threw in myself. But every morning for the past six months when I stopped by the small coffee shop near my office, the girl with the lip ring and the yellow and green dyed hair wrote Dash instead of Nash on my cup.
It had gone on too long and I’d never bothered to set her straight.
“Dash?” she called, moving her head in a single shot before she pushed my cup to the front of the counter. “Have a good one.”
“You too, Stacy,” I said, grinning when she opened her mouth, probably ready to correct me since her nametag said “Lacy” not “Stacy” but a crowd of kids from the magnet school on Fourth charged through the door and the barista forgot about correcting me.
“So, who the hell is Dash?” I heard, slowing the quick movement of the stirrer in my cup at the condiments counter near the exit when that familiar voice and expensive scent hit me at the same time.