Fantasy.
He discarded his suit jacket and bow tie, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt and rolling the sleeves to his elbows. He tried to read – but every book in his room reminded him of Min. He tried to review options for the fall opera, composing and deleting an email to the director more times than he could count, but he didn’t want to think about going back to New York. To going back to being her professor.
What do you want, contessa?
Everything.
He wanted to give her everything. He would crawl through fire to give her everything. If only the giving wouldn’t also take everything he’d worked so hard for.
By one o’clock in the morning, he gave up on sleep. The silence of his room was oppressive. He swiped a half-finished bottle of wine from the kitchen and slipped from the boarding house. As he reached the front door, the hushed tones of Barbara arguing with her latest lover spilled from the open windows on the second floor. He pulled the door closed behind himself as quietly as possible and made his way into the garden.
Liam took a swig from the bottle as he walked. The moon provided a surprising amount of light, making it easy for him to wind his way between the bushes and trees. He ran his hand lightly over the dancing statue at the garden entrance and then, without hesitation, took the path to the left.
As he rounded the last bend in the path, the firefly bush twinkling ahead of him, he froze. There on the bench, her face framed in moonlight, was Min, sipping white wine from a half empty wine glass. Her hair fell around her shoulders in loose waves and she’d washed the makeup from her face, revealing that freckle on her nose that haunted his dreams. She’d traded her gown for a pair of black yoga pants and a silk and lace camisole, the lace barely concealing the shadow between her breasts and the silk betraying the fact that she’d left her bra behind. He wanted to memorize the topography of her body with his mouth. He drew a deep pull from the wine bottle to stifle the moan that bubbled up in his throat, his cock stirring at the thought of all the ways he hungered for this woman.
His eyes locked on the hollow of Min’s throat, on the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. As she saw him, she paused, the wine glass in her hand halfway to her mouth and a look in her eyes that he couldn’t quite read. The glass hovered for a moment, and then she brought it to her lips and tilted her head back, draining it in a single gulp. When she looked back at him, her eyes were dark. Wild.
I should leave.
But Min inclined her head towards the bench with a raised eyebrow, inviting him to join her. And fuck if he didn’t want that more than his next breath. He slid onto the bench beside her, his arm grazing hers, bare skin on skin. He watched Min trace his tattoo with her eyes. She swirled her fingertips in the air half an inch above his skin as she followed the dark lines of ink that formed the curving music staff and thorns wrapping around his forearm. A shiver ran down his spine at the near touch.
Liam held up the bottle in his hand in offer and she nodded, her lips parted. He refilled her glass and passed it back to her, his fingers lingering a moment too long where they brushed against hers. Holding up the bottle in a silent toast, he took a long sip from it before setting the bottle on the ground by his feet and focusing his attention on the firefly bush.
I will not look at the hollow of her throat. I will not remember how her skin tastes. I will not read into the way her thigh is pressing against mine.
Clearing his throat, he gestured to the bush with a tilt of his chin. “I’ve never seen so many fireflies in one place.”
“There’s a garden on campus,” Min said, her voice shaky. It took all his resolve not to look at her, to try to read in her eyes what she was feeling. “Behind Hecht Hall. But there aren’t as many as there are here. This is more like my grandmother’s farm in the Berkshires. I spent so much of my childhood in her garden. In the summer, you could look out over the fields and it was like someone had strung them with twinkle lights,” she said.
“It sounds magical.” He traced the curve of her face with his eyes. He couldn’t make himself look away from her again.
“It was.” Min closed her eyes, the hint of a smile at the edge of her lips. “All you could hear were the cicadas. And the air smelled of rosemary and basil and strawberries.”
“Do you visit often?” he asked. He could picture her now amongst the strawberries and the fireflies. He would paint her body in berry juice, draw himself a map of her freckles to follow with his tongue.
“She died, a little over a year ago,” Min said, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m sorry.” He took her hand in his where it lay in her lap and squeezed.
“I heard you’re not flying back with us,” she said, her gaze focused on their interlocked hands.
He nodded, searching her face for a clue as to what was going on in her mind. Usually he could read her so well, but she was hiding herself from him tonight. And he hated it.
“I’m staying for another few days to try to hammer out a deal with that donor. The dean has already promised him naming rights – if I can close the deal, that is. I have to figure out what production he wants to see this winter.”
“So we’ll be seeing a new name on the theater soon,” she said.
He shrugged. “Could be. He wants to name it for his son. The Aidan Amery Dietrich Theater,” he said, drawing his hand across the sky as if he were pointing to the marquee.
When he looked back at Min, she’d gone pale. All the blood had drained from her face and her mouth hung open, though she didn’t appear to be breathing.
“Min?” he asked, sliding closer to her on the bench and cupping her face. “What’s wrong?” All of a sudden, she started breathing again in great gasping breaths, but her eyes remained unfocused. Panic flared in his chest. He worked to keep his voice steady. “Min, talk to me.”
She turned red-rimmed eyes to meet his face, but she was looking right through him. “Mr. Dietrich hates German opera. His whole family does,” she said, her voice eerily detached. “Everyone tries to get on his good side by programming the Germans, but he doesn’t want that. Puccini. Verdi. That’s what the Dietrichs like.”
He scanned her eyes. “How do you know that?”
She swallowed hard, closing her eyes and drawing in a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth. He recognized the calming technique and gave her a moment to breathe in again and again. When she opened her eyes, she was steadier, but she’d shuttered herself off, retreating somewhere further away from him, from whatever was haunting her. He’d never seen her like this – cold, detached.
