Midnight Valentine

36

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you, I’m just not good with surprises. Don’t sneak up on me like that again, okay?”

He nods, looking contrite, and now I feel like a jerk for losing my cool. The man saved my house, after all. The least I can do is be polite.

“Okay. This is me apologizing again. But I’d like to also add that it’s a little weird you were standing in my kitchen alone in the dark. Actually, it’s more than a little weird.” My laugh is rueful. “But I should be used to that with you by now. You give weird a whole new definition.”

When Theo smiles, the room brightens by degrees. It’s too bad he does it so infrequently, because a smile like that could end wars.

I take the opportunity to swallow more whiskey, grateful I didn’t drop the glass in my shock, or I’d probably start drinking right from the bottle.

“Here.” I set the glass on the counter and reach for the paper towel dispenser. I rip off a white square and hold it out to Theo. “You have some soot on your face.”

He takes the paper towel and wipes his face with it, smearing the soot all over instead of cleaning it off. When he stops and looks at me for confirmation that it’s better, I sigh and shake my head.

“Worse.” I moisten a cotton dish towel under the faucet. Then, because apparently I’ve lost all touch with reality, I stand in front of Theo and start to clean his face.

Alarmed, he stiffens.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But if you can be weird, so can I. And you did save my house after all. I can’t let you leave looking like you just got off a double shift at the coal mine.”

He breathes shallowly, watching me with hooded eyes, his body so taut, it could snap in two. His hands curl around the edge of the marble island, as if he’s using it to hold himself up.

“Relax, Sunshine. The torture will be over momentarily.” I meet his gaze. “Then I’ll start the interrogation.”

He swallows.

“Yeah, you should be afraid. I’ve got questions, pal. Tons of questions.”

He looks pained, then resigned, briefly closing his eyes. When he opens his eyes again, he reaches up and grasps my wrist.

I freeze. My heart starts thumping. I’m not used to physical contact, having gone without it for years, and Theo’s big hand wrapped around my wrist is all kinds of contact. It’s skin on skin, and a sudden sharp heat in the air, and a rushing noise like the ocean in my ears.

When his fingers press lightly against the pulse in my wrist, as if he’s timing the beat of my heart, I’m swallowed by a dark, painful déjà vu.

Cass used to touch me like this. His fingers always sought the places where my pulse showed itself—throat, wrist, the hollow between my thigh and hip—resting lightly against a throbbing vein until the blood beneath it quickened at his touch.

And it always quickened. The same as it’s doing now, jumping to life under the light, seeking press of Theo’s fingertips, beating, then beating faster until it’s a wild, racing thing, uncontrollable, like a leaf spun high into the sky by a fierce wind.

This is the first time I’ve truly felt alive in years.

My intake of breath seems loud in the quiet room. Theo watches my face with extraordinary focus. Our noses are mere inches apart. Under the burn of his eyes, I feel exposed, all my defenses laid bare, all my carefully constructed boundaries flattened like a house of straw blown over by the big, bad wolf.

I feel naked.

I yank my arm away and back up several short steps. The blanket falls from my shoulders and slips to the floor.

Theo holds up a hand, fingers spread, like Stop. Or, It’s okay.

God, who am I kidding? I have no idea what he means. Maybe he’s telling me I’m a five on a scale of one to ten.

“It’s late,” I whisper, my mouth as dry as bone. Suddenly, all my questions don’t seem nearly as important as getting him out of my house so I can be alone with the sea of fire boiling in my blood. Sweat has bloomed over my chest, and I’m breathing so fast, I’m almost panting.

This isn’t fear, or shock, or anything nearly as simple as those. I recognize this feeling like I’d recognize the face of an old friend, glimpsed from afar after a long separation.

Desire has a particular flavor that, once tasted, can never be forgotten.

All from the press of his fingertips on my wrist.

He pushes away from the island, stares down at me for several beats in blistering silence, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. I’m glad for once that he doesn’t speak, because it means I don’t have to either.

I’m not entirely sure what words my mouth might form in the wake of the bomb that just detonated inside my body.

He knocks twice on the top of the marble island in farewell, then turns to go.

Before he leaves, his gaze lingers on my wedding album on the counter.