Heat and nerves and the terrible knowledge that we are alone in a kitchen while her kid sleeps down the hall and the whole damn world waits outside to break us.
“You should go to bed,” I say.
“Probably.”
“You don’t sound like you’re going.”
“I’m not.”
My hands curl at my sides.
“Amelia.”
“I don’t want to talk about tomorrow.”
“Good. Tomorrow’s a bastard.”
“I don’t want to talk about Jeremy.”
“Better. Another bastard.”
“I don’t want to talk about Sophie and Legend or fathers or secrets or Pearly Gates.” She takes one step closer. “I want one thing tonight that doesn’t belong to any of them.”
My whole body goes still.
The air between us turns electric.
“Think hard before you say that to me,” I warn.
“I have been thinking.”
“Not enough.”
“Too much.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
I feel that look like hands.
“Amelia.”
“I know now,” she says.
My chest tightens. “Know what?”
“That this part isn’t pretend.”
Hell.
Hell and every fire under it.
She closes the last bit of space and touches my chest with both hands.
I stop breathing.
Her palms are light at first. Testing. Her fingers curl into my shirt like they did in the alley. Only tonight there is no bourbon to blame. No crowd. No Ruthanne. No performance. No need to make anybody believe a lie.
Just her.