When I told them I was coming to London, they were dead set against it. Tears were cried and guilt was liberally used, but given I’d recently undergone a literalcome to Jesusmoment, I’d dug in my heels and put my needs and wants in front of theirs for the first time since Connor died. My stubborn streak had come as a shock to them, though there wasn’t a whole lot they could do about it. But because I’m also a loving and mostly dutiful daughter, I agreed to stay with family to give them some peace. My parents weren’t always like this, but they have more reason than most to want to wrap me in cotton.
“The good kind of crazy, I hope,” he says, ducking his head to stare out the passenger side window. “Is that a pink front door?”
“Yep. That’s the kind of crazy Aunt Doreen is.”
“Is she a fan of Barbie, this aunt of yours?”
“That’s more Pepto-Bismol pink than Barbie.”
“Did she get the paint cheap?” He frowns at the door as though it offends him.
“It’s bright and cheerful,” I say in her defense. “And we can’t all live in a fancy penthouse or hire a decorator. Or live in palaces of monotone.”
Those striking eyes flit my way, and I know what he’s thinking. I’ve been to his apartment.And I found a little bit of paradise there.
He clears his throat. “Palaces of monotone?”
“Yes.” I nod like I mean it. Like the color palette offends me when I haven’t even thought about it.
“I suppose it is a bit…”
“Boring,” I mutter, supplying the words he wasn’t looking for.
“Are you enjoying living in London?” he says in a subject change.
So we’re going to beat aroundallthe bushes. Now that we’re alone, we’re going to ignore what happened that night. Fine, I can play along. “So far, I like it a lot.”
“You don’t mind the weather? Surely, you must miss all that Florida sun.”
“The sun shines here, too.” I glance out the window to where the sun is just setting in a watery, orange haze. The spring days have been pleasant, but the sun has been little more than a yellow ball in the sky, lacking heat and intensity.
“What about friends? Have you made friends?”
“This is beginning to sound like a phone call from home,” I reply with a huffing chuckle. “I’m not fifteen, you know.”
“It’s hard sometimes not to slip into old roles, I suppose.”
“You’re not my brother.” Not even close. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Not in the way he’s talking about. “What about you, Whit? London looks good on you.”
He doesn’t answer, though his brows pinch.
“Do you date very much?” I ask, not playing along.
“I didn’t ask you about your dating life,” he answers carefully.
“I assumed that’s what you meant when you asked about friends.”
“It was not.”
“Aren’t you curious?” I twist in my seat, mirroring his position. Okay, exaggerating it. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for my lips to brush his.
“Mimi,” he says, filling my name with a warning.
“I am. I am so, so curious. Especially in light of recentdevelopments.You see, I have this insatiable”—his eyes flare—“curiosity.”
His eyes hold mine before dropping very deliberately to my lips. He leans forward, just a touch, and my breath halts, half in and half out of my mouth. I almost anticipate him moving closer, my body tilting of its own accord. I want it so bad I can almost taste it… when his head dips and his gaze slides to the house again.
“It’s going to be a buzzkill taking a date back there,” his low voice rumbles.
