“It would break me too.”
Lowering his forehead to mine, his eyes flicked open. This was my Simon. “Jesus, Charlie. You don’t know what you do to me. You could destroy me.” His words trailed off as he cupped the right side of my face and angled his lips to take mine. The kiss was hungry, desperate, and I opened to him as his tongue delved inside. I kissed him back with the same passion, but the entire time, his words echoed in my head. You could destroy me. It was true. I was almost thankful for the knock at the door that forced us apart.
I stepped out of the safety of Simon’s arms to reach for a tissue out of the box on his desk. Dabbing at my tears, I tried to salvage my makeup. Given the amount of concealer staining the white tissue, I was doing a shit job of it. Simon took several deep breaths before opening the door a crack.
“Simon, what the hell? Open the damned door. I just got off the phone with Arthur Jackson, and he’s agreed to head up your campaign. He’s pulling the committee documentation together, and this thing will officially be off the ground.” Simon let the door swing wide, and an older, gray-haired version of him stepped into the room, leaning on a cane. He clapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “You’re going to do me proud, son.”
“Dad, could we discuss this another time?”
Simon’s father looked up and then around the room. His posture turned rigid when he saw me. I shifted slightly so my right side dominated his view.
“Well, now. Aren’t you going to introduce us, Simon? I’m assuming this is the … friend your mother mentioned. The one who couldn’t join us for supper because she had to work at … what was it? A tattoo parlor?” He studied me like I was a circus freak. “What was your name again?”
Simon’s features hardened to granite. “This is Charlie, Dad. She’s my girlfriend.” Simon moved to stand next to me. “Charlie, this is my father, Jefferson Duchesne.”
I held out a hand, and wondered if he’d deign to shake it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
He gripped my hand for a moment before dropping it. “We have important matters to discuss. If you’re finished with your … girlfriend … perhaps we could chat.”
Simon pulled me against him, and I winced at the twinge in my side. Looking down at me, he stiffened and said absently to his father, “I’m not actually. We can talk tomorrow.”
Confusion darkened Simon’s expression. Reaching out a hand, he tilted my face toward him so he could see my bruise more clearly. My thought about doing a shitty job salvaging my makeup was confirmed.
“Simon, this is important,” his father insisted.
“Dad. Not now.” Simon’s tone was implacable. His father spun, leaving the office in a huff, the door banging shut behind him.
Simon exploded. “What the fuck happened? Did someone hit you?” His thumb skimmed my cheekbone.
“I … I made poor choices last night.”
“What kinds of poor choices?” He started to wrap both arms around me, but stopped when I recoiled. “Seriously, Charlie, what the fuck?”
I swallowed. “I kind of … got knifed?”
All of the color drained from Simon’s face, and his eyes flicked over me maniacally. “Where? Jesus Christ! What the hell?” He was roaring now, and I was glad the door was closed.
“In the Quarter, just off Bourbon. I was drunk and by myself.”
He looked like he wanted to shake me. He gathered the skirt of my maxi dress and lifted it up.
“Hey—wait.”
“Shut up.” I would have taken issue with his words if he hadn’t dropped to his knees in front of me. He shoved the bunched skirt into my hands. “Hold this.” His touch was light as he surveyed the angry red slice.
“I’m fine.”
He ignored my words. “Con do this?”
“Of course not!”
“No, I mean, did he glue you up?”
“Oh. Yeah. I was passed out. Don’t remember anything after calling him.” I hastily filled him in on the other hazy details of the night.
The hurt in his eyes at not being the one I called for help was obvious. “At least you had the sense to call someone.” He pressed a kiss to my stomach beside the wound. “I owe Con then.”
After a long moment, he stood. I dropped the bunched fabric, once again covering the evidence of my idiocy.
“You got knifed, but still put on a dress to come apologize.” He sounded a little awed.
Embarrassment flushing my cheeks, I bit my lip and stared at the ground. “Yeah.”
He tilted my chin up again and leaned down to kiss me. Just the barest brush of his lips across mine. And then he kissed my bruise.
When he pulled away, his expression was serious. “For a first fight, that was a doozy.”
“So we’re good now?” I asked.
Simon nodded. “We’re good.”
“I guess getting knifed means no makeup sex?” I asked, trying to interject some humor into the intense moment. But my statement knocked another question loose. “Why did you think I had sex with Con?”
“Saw your … goodbye on the street this afternoon.” His jaw tightened. “It was … pretty friendly.”
“That’s because Con is a friend. I’m not going to apologize for my history with him. You just … need to get over it.”
“Let’s just say I’m still working on it.” Simon threaded his fingers through mine. “How do you feel about dinner?”