Текст книги "The Long Game"

Автор книги: J. Fynn

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

CHAPTER TWELVE

“YOU HAVE NICE hands,” Spencer said, running her fingers down my palm.

We’d spent every evening together in the week since the party, and tonight was no exception. She stretched out across the sofa in the sorority’s living room, her head resting in my lap. It was rare for us to have the common area to ourselves, so even though the television was on, neither of us paid it much attention.

“You have nice everything,” I said, catching her fingers between mine.

“Be more specific,” she said with a grin that made my blood stir.

I shifted my hips slightly. “I like your nose.” I leaned forward to kiss the tip of it. “Your chin.” I pressed my lips to the southern point of her heart-shaped face. “And I especially like your mouth.”

She lifted her head to meet my kiss. It started as a peck, but when her lips parted, I tucked my hand under her head to pull her face even closer. She slid a hand around the back of my neck, and her cool fingers against the sensitive skin at my hairline immediately made my kissing more insistent.

“Jeez, get a room.” Moira, the OIA sister responsible for Spencer’s passing French grade, leaned against the doorframe that opened into the living room.

“You’re one to talk,” Spencer said, though she pushed herself up so she was sitting next to me instead of lying across my lap. “You know how many episodes of The Daily ShowI’ve missed because you and your latest boy toy are hogging the living room?”

Spencer’d explained on my first evening in the house that the OIAs had a strict rule about when boys became boyfriends and were thus welcome in the upper level of the house. Frankly, it was a rule I was beginning to resent. The closer I got to Spencer, the sooner I’d have access to Tommy and the book he’d stolen from Pop. Still, I had to admit there was something admirable about a group of girls looking out for each other, even when it would be easy to look the other way. It reminded me of what Pop had said about giving the young members in the clan a little breathing room without letting them get into too much trouble.

Moira giggled. “Fair enough. But it’s Project Runwayday, so the TV’s mine in 20 minutes.”

When she’d gone, Spencer pulled her feet up and turned so she was facing me. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said, resting her head against the back of the sofa.

“Time flies.” I grinned at her. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I’d planned to press her a little more on the subject of family tonight, maybe even work into the conversation that I wouldn’t mind meeting her dad. But somehow the entire evening had passed without me getting any closer to an invitation to Tommy’s than I’d been since I’d run into her accidentally-on-purpose outside the Carroll Center. Still, I didn’t want to press my luck either, and the idea of spending a little more time with Spencer certainly wasn’t the worst thing I could imagine.

“You have an early class tomorrow, yeah? I should probably let you get to bed.” I slid to the edge of the sofa.

“Don’t you dare,” she said and threw her legs into my lap, pinning me to the cushion.

I laughed, surprised but perfectly happy to stay put. I leaned back into the sofa and looked at her. “Okay, then. So what should we do for our last twenty minutes of alone time?” I wrapped my hands around one of the slender feet in my lap and kneaded the arch with my thumbs.

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes. “This is good.”

I continued working the sole of her foot, moving from arch to heel. A contented smile lit her face as she relaxed deeper into the couch. Relaxed and happy. Perfect.

“So tell me more about your family. I know you’re an only child, but what about cousins, aunt and uncles, grandparents?” It was easy to keep my tone casual when I already knew the answers to my questions. Any family she did have, Tommy wouldn’t have told her about.

“Nope. I mean, I guess I could have relatives on my mom’s side, but you know. My dad was an only child, and his parents died when he was a teenager.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said it was just you and your dad. Must’ve been tough.” My fingers moved to her ankle. “I’m not sure what I would have done without my brother.”

“It was lonely sometimes, but honestly, we moved around so often I probably wouldn’t have been able to see extended family very much anyway. Sometimes, the fact that it was just him and I made things easier.”

“I can see that.” My hands had worked their way to her calf muscle, and my fingers moved under the hem of her cropped jeans. “Jimmy and I have gone on our share of road trips. It’s not the same as moving around a lot, but it’s nice when you spend so much time with someone on your own. You get to the point where you can just sort of read each other without doing much talking. It’s nice.” And it makes running cons much easier when you were leaving town the next day.

“Exactly,” she said. She might have said more, but my fingers brushed the back of her knee and the resulting shudder apparently drove away any other thought she’d had.

“They’re thinking of coming up for Christmas,” I said, switching to her other foot. “Maggie hasn’t seen snow since she left Ireland.”

Spencer finally opened her eyes again and smiled. “It’s so weird that you call your mom Maggie.”

“If you met her, you’d understand. It’s hard to think of her as anything else.”

“I’d love to meet her. And Jimmy, too. You know, if you’d be okay with it.”

I hoped the grin spreading across my face told her I was excited by her desire to meet my family and not that she’d just given me the opening I’d been waiting for. “I’d be more than okay with it,” I said. “They’ll love you.”

Color appeared in her cheeks, and she smiled shyly. “You think? I’d probably be really nervous and say something stupid.”

“I doubt it, but even if you did, that’d probably just make them like you even more.” I let go of her foot and took both her hands in mine to pull her closer. “I certainly like you better when you get a little flustered. At least then you’re not intimidating the shit out of me.”

She gasped in mock-horror and poked me in the ribs. Laughing, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her onto my lap. She squirmed against me, though there was nothing in her expression that suggested she wanted to be anywhere else. She’d given me the perfect opportunity to ask about meeting her dad, but instead we were kissing again, following what had become a familiar pattern of slow, deliberate movements that quickly progressed to a more intent—even frantic—need to be close to her. To taste her.

She fidgeted in my lap again and maneuvered one leg over mine so that she straddled me, her hands on my chest. I trailed my fingers down her spine and gathered a handful of her shirt, balling it in my fist so I could feel the exposed skin of her back against my other palm.

“You know, you could skip class tomorrow. You aced your French quiz, so you deserve some time off, don’t you think? Maybe stay in bed all day,” I said.

“As lovely as that sounds, I can’t. I’ve never ditched class in my entire life.” She kissed me, stopping to nibble on my bottom lip for just a second. “But my class isn’t thatearly. I can definitely stay up for a little while longer.”

She slipped her hand under my shirt, her fingers splayed against my stomach. My ab muscles tightened reflexively, and my pulse thumping in my ears almost drowned out the sound of the phone buzzing on the table beside us.

Spencer pulled her face back, leaning over the arm of the couch to look at the phone’s display. I immediately moved my lips to her throat, trailing kisses down to the hollow of her collarbone.

“Shit,” she said under her breath. “Sorry. Can you hold that thought for just one second?” She flattened her lips between her teeth, her brow pinched apologetically.

“Onesecond,” I said and nipped at the skin of her neck to make myself clear.

“Promise.” She grinned and reached to answer the phone.

I moved my hands to her hips, ensuring she’d stay put during the conversation.

“Hey,” she said to the person on the other end of the line. “What’s up?” She paused, listening. “Yeah, you already told me about that, remember? Like, last week sometime.” Another pause.

She shifted slightly, and I sucked in a breath as her body moved against mine.

“Not much, just hanging out with Moira.”

Her eyes flickered to my face, but I pretended not to notice. Curiosity was getting the better of me, though. Who was she talking to, and why did she lie about who she was with? The thought that there might be another guy on the other side of the conversation sent a possessive twitch through my fingers, and they instinctively tightened on her hips. I wanted to believe that competing with another guy would slow down my plan, but the jealousy gnawing at my stomach told a different story. I tamped it down and forced my face into a neutral expression.

“Yeah. We’re about to watch Project Runway, but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

Not if I could help it, pal. Even if it meant stealing her phone again.

“Okay.” Pause. “Love you, too, Dad.”

It took my mind a second to get past the word “love” to the word “dad” and still another to realize it had been Tommy she’d lied to about who she was with. Apparently, she was far more excited by the idea of meeting my family than introducing me to hers.

Spencer was silent as she laid the phone aside, and it took her several seconds to look at me again.

“My dad,” she said.

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Sorry,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I don’t—”

“It’s okay, Spence. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

Her head snapped up, and there was real remorse in her soft brown eyes. “No, I want to. It’s just…my dad…he’s super protective. I haven’t really dated much, and whenever I have, I’ve never told him about it.”

“I get it,” I said with a shrug.

“I know it sounds pathetic, but I just feel like I need to protect him, you know?”

Her expression was so pained that whatever irritation I’d felt quickly melted away. “It’s okay, Spence.” She moved to look away again, but I caught her chin and forced her to face me. “Seriously. I’m more than happy to stick around and show you why I should be the first guy you introduce to your dad.”

A slow smile spread across her lips, and she laid her head against my shoulder. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Of course.” I wrapped my arms around her waist and buried my face in her hair. “I’m not in a hurry.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE HOT OIL gave a satisfying hiss as I spooned the last of the potato mixture into the pan.

“Wait, so what’s this again?” Spencer stood on tiptoes to peer over my shoulder. She slipped her hands around my waist, and I suddenly had the urge to abandon the cooking altogether and show her the attention she deserved. But I’d promised her dinner, and Maggie’s claim that a man could make any woman fall in love with him if he knew how to cook kept me focused on the task at hand.

“You’ve never heard of boxty? I think you better get started on that letter of resignation from your Irish sorority now.”

She dug her fingers into my waist. “We don’t all have Irish mams, you know.”

I laughed, squirming away from her tickling. “Boiling hot oil here.”

“Oh, fine. Be safe and boring.” She kissed the back of my neck and wandered down the line of cabinets that made up the galley kitchen.

I’d been pretty lucky in terms of finding accommodations. The apartment was in the converted loft of a detached garage about a mile from the Balanova campus. The space was small but cozy, and the owners allowed me to rent by the week, which suited me fine.

“So what is boxty?” she asked as she hoisted herself onto the countertop by the sink.

“It’s a kind of potato pancake. There’s lamb stew in that pot.” I gestured to the back burner. “Together, they taste pretty amazing.”

“Lamb? Really?” Spencer pulled a face. “Like, fuzzy, adorable, baaaah kind of lamb?”

I laughed. “Is there another kind?”

“No way am I eating that,” she said and crossed her arms to punctuate her declaration.

“What are you, six? At least try it. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

She frowned, still skeptical, but I could tell I’d won the exchange when she sniffed at the air again. “Fine. I’ll tryit.”

“And like it.” I winked.

“No promises,” she said, though she beamed at me. “Did Maggie teach you to cook?”

“She taught me everything I know.” I deftly flipped the potato pancake. “There’s this old rhyme that goes something like, ‘Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan. If you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll never get a man.’ But Maggie always changed it to, ‘if you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll never bea man.’“

Spencer giggled. “The more I hear about Maggie, the more I like her.”

We grinned at each other. I knew Spencer liked me, and it was only a matter of time before she’d warm up enough to tell Tommy she was dating someone, but I also felt a small pang of regret that I’d never get to introduce her to Maggie.

“So what’s with the unmade bed?” Spencer asked. “Everything else around here is spotless.”

I slid the boxty from my spatula onto a plate and glanced over my shoulder to the corner where the bed was tucked under the slopping roof. The thick blue-and-green plaid comforter was jumbled to one side of the bed, revealing the twisted sheets beneath, and the pillows were thrown into a haphazard mound.

“It’s my way of avoiding a restless night.” An image of Spencer and I spending a restless night together on the bed’s plush surface filled my mind, and I smiled to myself before turning to look at her.

She quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“When I was growing up, Maggie had all kinds of superstitions for everyday tasks. She told me once that if I got distracted while making my bed, I’d spend a restless night in it. I decided the best way to avoid that would be to stop making it.”

Spencer laughed. “And she was okay with that?”

“Not really, but I think she appreciated my ingenuity.” I flashed her a grin and turned the knob that extinguished the gas flame under my pan. “So are you ready to broaden your culinary horizons?”

She laughed and slid from the counter. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not even a little.” I spooned a generous amount of the thick stew onto the boxty already waiting in its dish and handed it to her. She used her foot to pull a chair out from under the small kitchen table that served as a divider between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment and sat down. I sat my own stew down on the placemat across from her.

“I’m going to make some tea. Want some? I also have milk, a few cans of beer, and some flat soda if that sounds more appealing.”

She smiled, shaking her head at me. “Tea sounds great.”

I filled the kettle and set it on the already hot burner, then opened a cupboard door and pulled down two of the plain white ceramic mugs that came with my rental. I packed a tea steeper with a flaky mixture from the battered tin Maggie had pushed into my hands before I left.

“Is this Maggie’s famous tea?” Spencer asked.

I turned to answer, and my elbow caught one of the mugs, sending it crashing to the floor. It broke into several large pieces and scattered across the linoleum.

“Dammit.” I bent to clean the mess. Spencer knelt down to help, but I held up a hand to stop her.

“Careful. I don’t want you to cut yourself.” I reached for the largest chunk of ceramic, then sucked in a sharp breath and withdrew my hand. I inspected the gash on my palm. It welled with blood, and I closed my fingers again to keep it from dripping onto the floor. “Kind of like that.”

Spencer grabbed a towel from the counter and took my hand. She wrapped it tightly with the towel and tucked in the end. “Keep it up like this.” She pushed my arm toward me so it bent at the elbow.

She stood to search for a first aid kit, found one in the back of a drawer next to the sink, and carried it to the table. Then she pointed to one of the chairs. I cradled my injured hand against my chest, obeying her silent orders. Spencer pulled the second chair closer and sat across from me. She took my hand and rested it on her knees, then unwrapped the towel to inspect the cut again. It was deep but wouldn’t need stitches as far as I could tell. I watched her as she tore open a small packet with her teeth and pulled out an alcohol swab. She swiped it across my palm, and I hissed through my teeth.

Spencer grinned. “Now who’s six?”

She lifted my hand and blew on it to take away the sting. I would’ve been happy to recover with her cool breath on my open palm, but she produced gauze and tape from the kit to finish the job. When she finished wrapping and taping it, she turned my hand from side to side to look over the dressing. Satisfied, she bent her head and kissed my palm. “There. All better.”

“Nicely done.” I wiggled my fingers as if she’d reattached a limb rather than bandaged a cut. “I’m lucky you were here, or I may have bled to death.”

Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, well, I think you would have pulled through, but you can thank my dad for the first-aid skills. I was constantly hurting myself as a kid, so he had lots of opportunities to demonstrate his technique.”

“Same here, although I’m not qualified for much more than a Band-Aid. I was usually too busy fussing over my injury to notice what Maggie was doing.”

“Worst childhood injury?” Spencer asked.

“Broken nose when I was twelve, courtesy of my brother. But I totally deserved it.”

“Yeah?”

“I was annoyed he wouldn’t let me skip school to go with him on a trip, so I told Maggie about the Playboyshe had hidden in his dresser.”

Spencer laughed. “You ratted out your own brother?”

“I know, I know.” I hung my head. “I’m the worst.”

The teakettle whistled, and I hopped out of my chair to answer it. I poured the boiling water into one mug, got another from the cupboard, and filled that too. “Here you go.” I brought them to the table. “Just let it sit for a few minutes before you try it.”

“Honey?”

I scowled at her with feigned horror. “Honey? Normal tea needs honey. Maggie’s tea doesn’t need anything but a mug. Trust me.”

Spencer put up her hands in surrender. “So sorry. I didn’t realize I was dealing with a tea sommelier.”

I grinned at her as I retook my seat. Her chair was still pulled close, and our knees brushed together as I settled into mine. “What about you. What was your worst injury as a kid?”

“Couple broken bones, lots of cuts and scrapes.” She thought for a second. “Oh, maybe it’s not the worst, but this one is the grossest.” She held out her left hand to me, palm flat. She pointed to the silvery outline of a jagged circle.

“What’s it from?”

“I was eight, just learning to ride a bike on my own, and I was lucky enough to fall straight onto a bottle cap. It went so far in it had to be removed in the ER.”

I winced, imagining the metal cap where the scar now marked her palm. “Nasty.”

She smiled, probably glad her story had had the desired effect. “Yeah, but the worst part was the tetanus shot. Right in the ass, and those things hurt.”

“Aww, want me to kiss it?”

She smacked her scarred palm against my chest. “Shane!”

I laughed. “Oh, come on, you walked into that.” I caught her hand and kissed her palm as she’d done for me.

She didn’t pull her hand from mine. “Okay. Favorite book?”

“To Kill a Mockingbird.”

“I love that one. But my favorite is The Secret Garden.”

I laughed. “Really?”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I love it, and true love lasts a lifetime.” She lifted her mug from the table and took a sip. Her eyes widened, and she flashed a delighted smile. “This is really amazing.”

“I told you.” I took a sip of my own tea. The sweet tang of citrus and mild spiciness warmed my throat. It made me miss home. “Any pets?”

“No, although I always wanted a dog. My dad said it was too much hassle since we moved so much.”

“I love my dogs.”

“What kind?”

“Irish Wolfhounds,” I said. “Yeats and Beckett.”

She smiled. “Figures.”

“I know. I’m such a stereotype.”

“So, we’ve established that you love your dogs and your mother’s tea. Oh, and you’re obnoxiously proud of your Irish heritage. How many girls have you been in love with?”

“None,” I answered right away.

“Is that ‘none’ as in, you’ve never really been in love, or ‘none’ as in you’ve never even felt like you were in love.”

“I’ve liked plenty of girls, but I’ve never been in love. Jimmy likes to joke that my dogs are the only living things I’ll ever say the word to. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not too far off, I guess. What about you?”

“Pass,” Spencer said with a shake of her head.

“No way. I told you about my deep and enduring love for the wolfhounds.”

“Right, and I told you about my love affair with The Secret Garden, so we’re even.”

“For now,” I said.

“Moving on then. Beatles or Stones?”

“Van Morrison,” I said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

“What? That wasn’t even a choice.”

“It should’ve been considering that Astral Weeksis the greatest album of all time.”

“That’s high praise for an album I’ve never even heard of.”

“Agh.” I grimaced. “You’re killing me. You know who Van Morrison is, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “‘Brown-Eyed Girl.’ It’s cute if you like that sort of thing.”

The dishes rattled as my head thunked against the tabletop. “Why is that the only song anyone knows? Are you seriously telling me you haven’t heard ‘Domino’? ‘Into the Mystic’? ‘Sweet Thing’?”

“I may have,” she said, lifting one shoulder.

I gave her a mock-stern look.

“To be honest, they don’t sound all that familiar.”

“All right,” I said, getting to my feet. I pulled her along with me. “We’re fixing this.”

She laughed, letting me drag her into the living room. “You can play them, but you’re not going to change my mind about the Stones. Exile on Main Streetis clearly the best album ever.”

“Just wait,” I said. I flipped the cover of my laptop open and pushed some keys to wake it up. My music library was already open on the screen. I tapped the trackpad, and Van immediately started strumming the opening chords of “Sweet Thing.”

“It’s nice,” Spencer said, but I held up a finger to stop her.

“Shhh.” I sat on the sofa and pulled her down onto the cushion next to me. “Just close your eyes and listen.”

Spencer gave me a dubious look but leaned back into the sofa and closed her eyes. Van continued to play, and chirping flutes joined in as he sang about a girl so sweet she made him feel like he’d never grow old. I watched a smile spread across Spencer’s face, hesitant at first, and then full of the same contented delight I always felt when I heard the song.

When he sang the last lyric, Spencer turned hers to me. “Okay, I admit that’s pretty damn good.”

“Right?”

“Right.”

“Although, now I have to admit,” I said, brushing my fingers against her cheek. “I’m starting to see the appeal of a song about falling in love with a brown-eyed girl.”

Spencer dropped her eyes, and the shy smile I was starting to grow fond of made a brief appearance. My hand still on her cheek, I leaned forward and kissed her. My skin jumped with electricity when she responded, deepening the kiss and pressing herself into my arms. My heart sped to a gallop as the blood left my head and filled the lower regions of my body. I told myself it was a simple physiological response, that it didn’t mean anything, but soon I wasn’t telling myself anything at all. My mind was filled with the sensation of her mouth against mine and the sweet honey-and-vanilla smell of her hair and skin. My tongue flicked against hers, and my jeans felt immediately and uncomfortably tight. I was also acutely aware of the feel of her breasts pressed against my chest.

I wanted her. And part of me had to admit that my longing had nothing at all to do with getting the book back from Tommy. I pushed any thought of the con from my mind, hoping the sourness that had crept into my stomach would go along with it. My hand slid to the button of her jeans, and I fumbled with it for a moment before she put her hand over mine. For a half a second, I thought she meant to help me and my excitement grew, but the blood rushed back to my head in a hurry when she gently pushed my hand away and took her lips away, too.

“Shane,” she breathed, leaning her forehead into mine. “I think maybe we should eat. You worked really hard to make a nice dinner and everything.”

“It wasn’t that hard, I swear,” I said, moving to kiss her again.

She dodged me with a giggle. “I just think maybe we should move a little slower. You’re not mad, are you?”

Sighing quietly, I stood and offered a smile and my hand. “Of course not. But I am starving.”

Spencer’s grin was full of gratitude and relief. “Me, too. Even if you’re making me eat an adorable little lamb.”

She popped off the couch to stand in front of me, and I kissed her nose. “I promise you’ll love it.”

“We’ll see.” She smiled and stepped around me to head back to the kitchen.

I stood, staring down at the spot on the couch we’d been occupying a moment before. I wasn’t lying when I’d told her I wasn’t mad, but the thought of eating was the furthest thing from my mind despite my rumbling stomach. Something else gnawed at me, but it wasn’t until I turned and caught her shy smile that I could name the feeling. It wasn’t frustration or even disappointment. It was relief.