floor, swinging her long legs out in front of her and resting back onto her hands. “There’s more.”
I nod again because I’m tongue-tied watching her hair sway over her shoulders, along her waist. This is going to be our new game? Pretending to be friends? I’m going to be a terrible friend because all I want to do is crawl across the floor, take her face in my hands, and kiss her senseless. I don’t see that ever changing.
“Well?”
I drum my fingers over the table, sucking in air through my nose so I keep it together. I lost my aunt while I was recovering in the field hospital. It’s hard to untangle the two events from each other.
“My mum died when I was young.” I blow out a breath, one sentence closer to the end of the story.
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t react like everyone else does. She doesn’t coddle me or say “I’m sorry.” Doesn’t ask after my fucking father, either, which is a relief. I like her a little more for it.
“After a few foster homes, I came to live here with my aunt. I don’t think she was ready to look after a ten-year-old boy, but she tried. She was seeing this guy—Étienne, I think. He was a count or something. I always liked his suits.”
I remembered him, the way he would burst through the door as if he’d just brokered world peace.
“Anyway, he was in love with my aunt. He had asked her to marry him for a while, but she never agreed. One night, they bet on a hand of poker. If she won, she owned his family’s chateau. If he won, they would get married.”
“And she won?”
“She ended up with the chateau, at any rate. I found myself at a fancy boarding school soon after, and she moved out of Paris to make the place a bed and breakfast.”
The question plays out in her eyes, but she never gives voice to it, thankfully. Talking about dying would be a waste right now. It’s not exactly a good time to share my past—more so than I already have. An abusive father isn’t something to toss into a conversation lightly.
“Can I stay?” Her voice is small, a thin whisper against Louis Armstrong’s raspy vocals. “For a while longer?”
I raise my arms above my head and stretch, my body buzzing at her words.
She’s going to break you.
I leave her on the floor, head into the kitchen, and prop my arms on the refrigerator, resting my head against them. I can do this. I can let her stay. It doesn’t need to mean anything.
It does.
The record screeches to a stop, grating my ears. I wince, waiting for the sound of her grabbing her purse and shoes, but it’s quiet for a time. Long enough for me to realize I’m being daft. I grab two beers from the fridge and twist off the tops.
She’s searching through the stack of records again, her back to me, when I return to the living room.
“I can go. You’re probably sick of me by now,” she says, her voice sounding unnatural.
My hands shake as I walk closer. I nudge my shoulder against hers, dropping my voice to a low whisper. “You can’t leave. I just opened a beer for you.”
Everly glances at me, then back to the record player. She drops the needle and wraps her hand around mine, our fingers lacing together. Her skin is so soft. Her dark eyelashes flutter before she looks up at me with those killer blue eyes.
She’s going to break you.
“Thanks.”
I hate it when she pulls her fingers from mine. I nod, taking a sip of my beer without backing away. Her lips curl around the neck of the bottle, and I swallow when she does, fighting back the way my body aches to hold her, kiss her, taste her.
My phone vibrates on the dining room table—two long beats, then one short. Nadine can wait.
Spring rain strikes against the open windows, earthy and cold. The city rush outside filters in, a quiet rhythm mixing with Jackson Browne playing the piano. Everly’s side presses against mine, her sweet perfume filling each breath.
She might break me, but it’s too late. I’m all in.
Wisps of hair coil around
I nod again because I’m tongue-tied watching her hair sway over her shoulders, along her waist. This is going to be our new game? Pretending to be friends? I’m going to be a terrible friend because all I want to do is crawl across the floor, take her face in my hands, and kiss her senseless. I don’t see that ever changing.
“Well?”
I drum my fingers over the table, sucking in air through my nose so I keep it together. I lost my aunt while I was recovering in the field hospital. It’s hard to untangle the two events from each other.
“My mum died when I was young.” I blow out a breath, one sentence closer to the end of the story.
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t react like everyone else does. She doesn’t coddle me or say “I’m sorry.” Doesn’t ask after my fucking father, either, which is a relief. I like her a little more for it.
“After a few foster homes, I came to live here with my aunt. I don’t think she was ready to look after a ten-year-old boy, but she tried. She was seeing this guy—Étienne, I think. He was a count or something. I always liked his suits.”
I remembered him, the way he would burst through the door as if he’d just brokered world peace.
“Anyway, he was in love with my aunt. He had asked her to marry him for a while, but she never agreed. One night, they bet on a hand of poker. If she won, she owned his family’s chateau. If he won, they would get married.”
“And she won?”
“She ended up with the chateau, at any rate. I found myself at a fancy boarding school soon after, and she moved out of Paris to make the place a bed and breakfast.”
The question plays out in her eyes, but she never gives voice to it, thankfully. Talking about dying would be a waste right now. It’s not exactly a good time to share my past—more so than I already have. An abusive father isn’t something to toss into a conversation lightly.
“Can I stay?” Her voice is small, a thin whisper against Louis Armstrong’s raspy vocals. “For a while longer?”
I raise my arms above my head and stretch, my body buzzing at her words.
She’s going to break you.
I leave her on the floor, head into the kitchen, and prop my arms on the refrigerator, resting my head against them. I can do this. I can let her stay. It doesn’t need to mean anything.
It does.
The record screeches to a stop, grating my ears. I wince, waiting for the sound of her grabbing her purse and shoes, but it’s quiet for a time. Long enough for me to realize I’m being daft. I grab two beers from the fridge and twist off the tops.
She’s searching through the stack of records again, her back to me, when I return to the living room.
“I can go. You’re probably sick of me by now,” she says, her voice sounding unnatural.
My hands shake as I walk closer. I nudge my shoulder against hers, dropping my voice to a low whisper. “You can’t leave. I just opened a beer for you.”
Everly glances at me, then back to the record player. She drops the needle and wraps her hand around mine, our fingers lacing together. Her skin is so soft. Her dark eyelashes flutter before she looks up at me with those killer blue eyes.
She’s going to break you.
“Thanks.”
I hate it when she pulls her fingers from mine. I nod, taking a sip of my beer without backing away. Her lips curl around the neck of the bottle, and I swallow when she does, fighting back the way my body aches to hold her, kiss her, taste her.
My phone vibrates on the dining room table—two long beats, then one short. Nadine can wait.
Spring rain strikes against the open windows, earthy and cold. The city rush outside filters in, a quiet rhythm mixing with Jackson Browne playing the piano. Everly’s side presses against mine, her sweet perfume filling each breath.
She might break me, but it’s too late. I’m all in.
Wisps of hair coil around
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