Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

He listens. Nods slowly, writing on the napkin some more. “She would have liked adult Maybell, I can tell you that. She would have liked who you’ve grown up to become.”

I lean into him, more for the excuse to be close than any other reason, and smile to see that he’s sketching me.

“Your pendant,” I muse, tapping the miniature version in ink.

“Your pendant,” he says, briefly touching the one that rests against my chest. My skin responds with goose bumps. “Looks better on you.”

I prop my elbow on the counter, chin in hand, posing for him. His eyes flicker from me to the drawing, me to the drawing, the edge of an amused smile flirting at his lips. “You can move a bit, you know.”

“Hm?”

“You’re being so still.”

“I don’t want to mess you up.”

He tips his head back, searching the ceiling. The sound that escapes his chest is a cross between sigh and laugh. “Maybell, I can draw you from memory. With my eyes closed.”

“Is that so?”

“Hands behind my back.”

“Now you’re just bragging.” I steal the napkin from him, helpless not to admire it. “That’s it. We need an art gallery down here for the guests to look at. I’m your number one fan, of course, but there’s room for more in the fan club.”

He sits forward over the counter, fingers in his hair, tousling it and trying to cover his face. The strands are too short to do the job, so he suffers in the open. “The drawing is pretty because the subject is pretty. I like drawing you.”

I’m not finished inflating his head. The man needs more ego. “The flowers you’ve put in the background are the best combination ever designed.”

“I was inspired by the flowers I see you gravitate toward whenever you’re in the garden.”

The storm outside rages and Wesley brings the lightning, radiating all around his magnificent frame like a halo. His eyes lock on my mouth, darkening.

I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he eases off his seat. As I turn, he takes my hand and pulls me along with him. We move to the center of the room, pressed close.

“Um.” My heart is the ocean slamming against a rocky shore. “Hi. Hello.”

For once—once—that anticipation, that tingling on the nape of my neck, that intoxicating awareness injected straight into my veins, isn’t vicarious. It doesn’t belong to an imaginary Maybell in a fantasy, a guess at what she might feel. It’s mine. And I think: At what point did my happy place stop being a dream and start being the person in front of me?

“Hello,” he returns, palms cradling either side of my face. “I’m trying something.”

“Try anything you want,” I reply, and he gifts me a half smile, then a kiss on my temple.

My pulse pounds, vision tunneling. The lights in the clouds begin to slide, converging together.

“A lot of times there’s a disconnect between what I want to do and what I can get up the nerve to do,” he confesses. “But with you, I’m anxious in a good way. Let’s see if I’m any good at this.”

“At what?”

I think I know what, but I can’t hold still. Suspense is eating me alive.

He retreats. I watch his reflection in the glass panes shift closer until he’s behind me, hands roving up either side to grasp my upper arms. The room tips onto its side, everything in it rolling except for us and each golden filament of light. The air is weighted, dropping lower, lower.

In the glass, his mouth hovers at my throat, just below my ear. Every molecule in my body sings. “I would like to touch you,” he says faintly. “If that’s okay.”

The air is so heavy now that it’s a drum pound.

“That would be perfect.” My voice sounds foreign to my ear, husky and strange.

He drops a kiss to my neck, eliciting a shiver. Then he blows softly along the hollow, migrating over to my shoulder. “This,” he says, toying fondly with my hair. “This is what I’ve wanted.”

Tension thickens as his hands gain confidence, no longer hesitating. He circles me, eyes going dark. Swipes a thumb beneath my chin and raises it so that I’m meeting his inscrutable stare.

“I’ve wanted it, too.” I want to swallow the rest, but the truth escapes. “Badly.”

I think he likes the truth. It makes him hold me closer.

I explore the planes of his chest, stomach. Then he can’t hold himself back any longer and wraps his arms around me, face descending with palpable intent. There’s a bright moment in time as we look at each other, and we know, like we’ve shared the thought with telepathy, what tonight means. Then there’s a brush of lips to initiate. And another. There’s warm breath, me tilting his jaw in my caged hand to see how malleable he is. He bends to my will easily.

His tongue slips into my mouth and it’s two things at once: quick pulse, hot blood turning in my ears. It’s languorous, long fingers of molten gold in a slow spill across the floor, burning the room away. With every thumping beat of my heart I am being ruined. I never want anyone to hold me again if they don’t hold me like this.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, our reflections watching each other.

My heart is too large to fit inside my chest. “Honestly?”

“If you’re willing.”

“I’m thinking that I’ve had dreams about getting our hands on each other and none of them live up to this.”

He bites his cheek, eyes downcast. “You dream about me?”

“I can’t help it.”

“No, I . . .” He wets his lips, picking words carefully. “I love that you do.”

“There’s the literal dreaming,” I venture. “And then, you know.” How do I say this without saying it? Oh, well. Caution to the wind. “Fantasizing. Everybody fantasizes.”

I’m starting to worry that I’ve overshared when he stares at me with a keen intensity and he says, “Can you tell me?”

“I could show you, if you’d like.”

He takes one step backward, which