My face heated. “Maybe.” A few months ago, I would have loved knowing that Mitch thought I was cute. But every cell in my body had come alive when he’d called Simon my pirate, and I couldn’t downplay how I felt anymore. Not just about the pirate, but about the man who played him. Mitch thought Simon was smitten? Well, so was I. A few months ago, Simon had been the last man I’d wanted in my life. Now he was the only one.
“Well, you’ve got his address. He’s in the same house he’s always lived in, just by himself now.” Mitch tilted his head back, finishing his beer, then he pointed the empty bottle at me. “You should go check on him.”
“Yeah. I think I will.” I clutched the phone tighter in my hand. I’d come to Jackson’s tonight to get answers, but the answers weren’t here. The good news was, I had turn-by-turn directions to where I’d find them.
* * *
• • •
Dusk was already streaking the skies when I left Jackson’s, and I made a stop on the way, so by the time I pulled into Simon’s driveway it was nearly full dark. I didn’t knock on his door immediately. Nerves took over and for a minute or two I sat in the driver’s seat, taking in his house, too scared to move.
I’d never thought much about Simon’s life outside of Faire, especially where he lived. I’d certainly never pictured him in a two-story Colonial at the end of a quiet street. Mitch said he lived alone, and from the outside the house looked far too big for only one person. But the white picket fence and well-tended lawn gave the impression of an idyllic family home, and I pictured Simon as a child here, running around after his big brother in that yard. It made my heart ache with nostalgia for something I’d never actually seen.
Finally I shook it off and headed up the front walk. When my foot hit the porch a light came on, so he’d either seen me lurking outside or there was a motion sensor. I hoped for the latter.
My hand shook as I rang the doorbell, but I pushed the button before I could lose my nerve, then struggled to take a breath over the pounding of my heart. What was I doing here? Taking advice from a random piece of paper in my Chinese takeout? This was crazy.
Nothing happened at first, so for the space of a few heartbeats I was awash with relief. He hadn’t seen me lurking after all. Then a few more heartbeats, and the door still didn’t open, and the relief drained away, replaced with dread. He knew I was there and he wasn’t going to let me in. How long should I stand on the porch like an idiot, hoping he’d come to the door? Should I ring a second time? Should I slink back to the car? Should I—
The door swung open. My heart rate spiked until I could feel it in my throat, and for a second neither of us spoke. Simon looked like his usual unflappable self, but different at the same time. More casual. The times he’d been out of costume he’d been in his usual button-down shirts and crisp jeans. Simon wasn’t a dress-down kind of guy.
But at home he was, apparently. At home he wore a faded gray University of Maryland T-shirt and a pair of well-past-broken-in jeans that sat low on his slim hips. This was not someone who had plans to go out, much less entertain visitors.
“Emily?” My gaze flew back up to his face. He’d obviously taken a shower after Faire like I had; his hair was still a little damp and fell over his brow. I’d seen him with that smoldery guyliner around his eyes so often that he looked oddly vulnerable now without it. The silver hoop still hung from one ear. He cocked an eyebrow, and my face flushed. I’d come to his door and then stood there staring without saying a word.
“Hey,” I finally said, trying for a smile and mostly failing.
“Hi.” He looked down at the bottle of rum I held in my arms. “You know I’m not actually a pirate, right?” But he stepped back from the doorway and waved me in.
“Oh, I bet he’s in there somewhere,” I said with an airiness I didn’t feel as I walked past him and inside. His house looked . . . settled. Lived in. The front hallway was lined with what looked like thirty years’ worth of rows of family photographs. But the kitchen gleamed with new appliances, and the old kitchen table only had one placemat, with an open laptop and a pile of paperwork on the other end. He’d been in the middle of something, paying bills maybe, and I’d interrupted his quiet Sunday night.
Simon walked past me into the kitchen, where he got two shot glasses down off a shelf. I opened the bottle of rum, and he poured us shots.
“So what are you doing here?” He slid one of the shot glasses across the kitchen counter to me.
Good question. I downed the shot in an effort to stall and shuddered at the bite of the alcohol. So many questions bubbled to the surface of my brain in answer to his. So many things I wanted to know. About him. About us. Was there even an us? Where could I possibly start?
Sensing none of my inner turmoil, he sipped from his shot glass, savoring the rum, keeping his eyes on me. He looked as placid as always, while the top of my head was about to fly off. How dare he kiss me like that and not give a shit about it afterward.
There was a good starting point. “You kissed me.” I spat the words out, accused him.
“Ah.” He set his glass down and fiddled with the cap on the rum bottle. “I did.”
“More than once. You kissed me today.”
He picked up his shot glass again and knocked back the rest of the rum before splashing in a little more. “I did. In character.”
“What?”
“Your character likes my character. The pirate.” He picked up the bottle of rum, sloshing the liquid in illustration. “You kissed me back, you know.”
“You kissed me out of character too.” I waved off his offer of a refill. I’d had half a beer at Jackson’s and wanted to keep my head clear. “Last Saturday, when you were yelling at me for missing pub sing and moving some tables around.”
He clucked his tongue before taking another sip of rum. “The tables were fine where they were.”
“They’re even better where they are now.” I sucked in an annoyed breath. This was not what I had come here to talk about. “And then you kissed me.” There. Back on topic. “That was not in character.”
“You’re right.” He closed his eyes and dropped his head. “I’m sorry.”
I blinked. “Sorry?” That was the last thing I’d expected to hear, and the word stung. I remembered our kiss, our real kiss. How he’d pulled away, tried to apologize. And I hadn’t let him. I’d pulled him back and made him kiss me again, and he hadn’t wanted to.
Oh, God. I’d misread everything. I wanted to get out of this kitchen, run out of his house and forget I’d ever met him. But, like poking at a bruise, I had a morbid desire to make it hurt more. “You’re sorry you kissed me.” Yep, that hurt worse. Nausea rose in my stomach. I couldn’t look at him; it hurt too much. So I kept my eyes trained on the kitchen floor. On his bare feet, poking out from the bottoms of those old, frayed jeans.