and is gone.
My head is stil swimming, my face burning at the edges where he touched me with his warm hands as his mouth moved over mine. This time, there was no negotiation, and he wasted no effort with restraint or testing my boundaries.
Pul ing my body up against his, one arm encircled me as he leaned down. He kissed me gently but deeply, drawing a response that was al hunger and instinct. My hands clutched his shirt, holding on for dear life until he stopped and opened his eyes, his forehead against mine, his breaths echoing mine—ragged and wanting more.
“Goodbye, Dori,” he whispered, and my own farewel hung in my throat as his lips grazed my cheek, and then he was walking to the car, never looking back.
I fear that I’l compare this kiss with every other kiss I wil receive for the rest of my life, an unattainable standard by which to measure future faceless men. Maybe I’m being melodramatic, and the memory of this kiss wil begin to fade tomorrow, or next week, or someday. But tonight, I’m on fire, walking quietly up the staircase to my room, as though my lips are the conductors of every possible significant feeling, and every neurological receptor in my body is flooded with heat.
Mom and Dad are asleep, the slit of space beneath their bedroom door dark. My bedside lamp is on. The curtains are drawn. Clothes I left in the dryer are now folded and stacked on my dresser; various toiletries cover the top of my desk. Esther waits on my bed, her tail thumping the mattress slowly, like a drum. I run my hand over her silky head and she nuzzles into it, her tongue lol ing out one side head and she nuzzles into it, her tongue lol ing out one side of her mouth. She looks like she’s smiling, this beloved expression of hers one that usual y brings an answering smile to my face.
Tonight, my lips feel numb. No, not numb. Bereft.
When he asked me to dinner, he said You’ll be off to your life and I’ll soon be off to mine. No false promises, no option or threat of postponing the oh-so-inevitable end. The dinner, the conversation, the kiss—these were al part of a pleasant but no less certain goodbye. Since the moment I met him, I’ve looked forward to the end of our frustrating association.
Now it’s over, he’s gone, and I feel a hol ow place inside, like he’s taken a slice of me with him as a souvenir.
Chapter 30
REID
“So, think you’l do more volunteering after this?” Frank asks as we lay out a recent donation of decorative pavers from the patio to the back gate.
“After my court-ordered penalty is complete, you mean?” The flagstone slabs vary in size. Making a pathway of them consists of what Frank terms puzzle-piecing and I cal guesswork. Frank is usual y easygoing, but when it comes to stone placement, he’d give Dori a run for her perfectionism money. Dammit, I don’t want to think about her. I glare at the cloudless blue sky, removing one glove and using the bottom of my t-shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. LA is enjoying another summer heat wave, and since the saplings we’ve planted amount to tal sticks with very little foliage, there’s zero shade in this yard.
“Dori’s not here, you know,” Frank says.
My eyes snap to his. “What?”
He takes a generous few gulps from his water bottle.
“You may be here under court order, but you could have been a bastard about it, could’ve given a lot less effort than you have. As far as I’m concerned, you’re volunteer enough to go by the title. I’d be happy to have you back.” This echoes what Dori said the night before last. And clearly, I can’t stop thinking of her. “Thanks, Frank. That means a lot coming from you.”
“Yep.”
Frank dislikes compliments, no matter how vague. Last week, Dori whispered, “Watch this,” after making me promise not to react, and then she told Frank that he looked very handsome in teal. He glanced down at his teal linen shirt and blushed, mumbling something resembling,
“Mmmph,” before bul eting to the other side of the patio.
Dori turned back to me with the naughtiest look ever on her face. With effort, we suppressed our laughter as I fought to disregard the desire to pul her onto my lap and kiss her.
Shit. Stop thinking about her already. I’m almost out of here. This day and one more.
“Volunteering for real—I don’t know. It’s possible,” I tel him, recal ing my conversation with Larry a few weeks ago about doing manual labor charity work, when I retorted something along the lines of no way in hell. Wow. I’m a grade-A dick.
Tomorrow is my last day at the Diego house, and George cal ed last night to let me know that production has moved the dates up on my Vancouver project. I’l be on location in three weeks—the day before Dori returns from Ecuador. I have less than a month to beef up and pack on the last five pounds of the twenty I promised to add in order to land the role. George warned me that the director and some of the production team were against hiring me because they wanted the character to be older and bigger, but the guys financing the film wanted my name in the credits. Money talks, but if I screw this up, I could depreciate my future value and seriously lessen the chances of anyone giving me another shot at a film like this one.
To that end, Olaf has promised to kil me starting this weekend. Awesome. If nothing else, maybe I’l be able to get some sleep after he shreds me every day. I tossed and turned so much last night that I found myself up at 4 a.m.
Googling Vancouver’s weather, popular attractions and hot night spots… and then Quito’s weather, topography, possible safety issues and time zone (two hours ahead of LA and Vancouver, which are the same).