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Somehow, I feel like I am.
My fingers shake beneath the table, and I clamp them around my thighs, resisting the urge to fall into old tics. The bite of my nails against my skin makes me wince, but I focus on the pain and try to regulate my breathing against it.
“Boyd and Riley!” Juliet greets, their presence large and looming behind me. “Glad you two could make it after all. Have a seat, my sister’s around here somewhere. I’ll tell her you guys haven’t eaten yet.”
There’s a flash of panic behind Riley’s eyes that I don’t quite understand, and she glances to her brother, who stands in my blind spot.
“Oh, no,” Boyd says quickly, a hand coming to rest on the back of my chair, making my spine go rigid. His thumb grazes the buttons on the back of my dress, his heat seeping into me like spilled coffee, incinerating my resolve in an instant. “We already ate. Just stopped by to say hi to Craig and Kieran before we head home.”
“I’ll show you where they’re at,” Juliet offers, pushing her chair back and rounding the table. Riley plops down beside me, reaching to fiddle with one of the votive candles in the middle of the table.
Boyd clears his throat, removing his hand from my chair. “Riley, let’s go.”
“Sounds boring,” she says, shrugging. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
I feel him hesitate, and when I finally raise my eyes, I’m met with his intense stare, losing myself in the longing and hatred raging in his depths. “I can stay with her,” I mutter, unable to break away.
His nostrils flare, and he glances at his sister once more, the hard set of his jaw stern and intimidating and completely hot.
Jesus, what is wrong with me? Where’s the evidence that he’s any different from the guy I couldn’t be with a few months ago?
“You know what?” Juliet says, clasping her hands together. “Why don’t I show Riley the dessert table? Surely you have room for carrot cake. My sister makes the cream cheese frosting from scratch. And Fiona can show you where the guys went, Boyd—she knows this place better than I do.”
I can tell he really doesn’t want to take his sights off his sister, but he doesn’t protest when she willingly puts her hand in Juliet’s and lets her tug her away. He stands there staring at the spot they disappear through, shoulders more tense than I’ve ever seen them.
“It’s really good cake, for what it’s worth,” I say. He turns, eyebrows raised as if surprised I’m speaking to him. “I think, with carrot cake especially, the icing can really make or break it, and Caroline’s is perfect. Plus, the cake itself has this moist quality—”
“Fiona.” The curt way he interrupts, like I’m an annoyance and not something he finds the least bit entertaining, cuts deeper than it should, given we aren’t anything to each other. “Can you show me where your brother and father are, or do I need to just find them myself?”
Heat sears my cheeks, and I just know my face is as red as my hair. Pushing my chair back, I get to my feet and smooth out my dress, swallowing over the embarrassment coating my throat. “I’ll show you.”
We walk upstairs in silence, passing paneled walls with the various paintings of patron saints and portraits of the Pope over the years hanging up. My nerves are needle pricks beneath my skin, making me dizzy even as I try to get them under control.
Guilt floods me, warring with the desire funneling into my veins, leaving me feeling completely powerless against the pull Boyd Kelly has on me.
The door to the admin office is locked when we get to it, and even though I knock as hard as I can, no one comes to open it.
He leans against the wall, turning his head toward the crown molding on the ceiling, and I take a moment to drink him in after all this time. The ink on his skin, the honey-colored hair that’s a little longer than it once was, swooping down just right over his forehead, the sharp angle of his jawline.
All the things that fueled my lust for him in the first place, culminating together now to remind me of how badly I messed up.
How badly I miss him.
How, when I went to bed the night my mother died, all I wanted to do was call him. Have him comfort me like he used to, distract me until I wasn’t spiraling and couldn’t feel anything but the pleasure he was giving me.
But that’s not coping, that’s codependency—at least, according to Professor Garrett, who, in lieu of therapy, has become something of a mentor for me. Even if she doesn’t realize it.
Boyd clears his throat, shifting as if he’s uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry about your mom. She was an amazing lady.”
When I swallow, it feels like I’m eating gravel, and I force a smile as I nod toward the door. I don’t want his condolences, or his pity. I want him.
“I’m sure they’ll be out in a minute,” I say, turning back toward the stairs, eager to put some distance between us. To clear myself of the dirty thoughts I’m having while I’m supposed to be in mourning.
His hand lashes out, encircling my wrist, keeping me in place. “Fiona.”
Pinching my eyes closed, I fold my lips together with a devastated sigh.
“Fiona,” he repeats, this time with more force, like he can’t believe he’s saying it in the first place. I can feel the restraint in his hold, can sense the fear holding him back, reminding him that he’s supposed to hate me.
