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12
IVY
Oh my God.
I stand there, frozen in place, already freaking the fuck out over my impending arrest. I’m going to have a mugshot! In my second-best back-up glasses! My parents will probably send it out as a holiday card, too. I’ll never be able to show my face at the American Institute of Archeologist mixers again!
But just as the footsteps approach the attic doors, Reeve grabs my arm, scoops up the box, and yanks the both of us into the massive wardrobe lodged up under the eaves. He scoots back, our bodies crushed up against each other in the narrow space as he pulls the wardrobe door almost shut, leaving just a crack to peer through.
“… I know they’re in here somewhere,” Braithwaite is saying, as he leads someone else into the attic. He pauses. “Did you forget to turn the light off last time you were up here? It’s a waste of electricity, you know.”
The light!Crap.
I cower there, burying my face in Reeve’s jacket. I can’t look. Any minute now, he’s going to find us …
“Start with the boxes over here,” Braithwaite continues. “Remember, we need the maps from eighty-eight. And use gloves,” he adds in a snooty voice. “The papers can be very fragile. I have some here you can use.”
I feel Reeve’s stifled chuckle. “He carries gloves, too,” he whispers softly in my ear. “You’re secret historian soulmates.”
I don’t reply. How can he joke when we’re about to be hauled off in handcuffs? I wait there, heart pounding as …
Footsteps recede. Braithwaite leaves.
There’s silence.
Huh?
I lift my head, gingerly turning to peer through the crack in the door. There’s a younger guy in the attic, digging through boxes. He’s dressed just as formally as Braithwaite, with the same pallid skin and serious spectacles. Braithwaite-in-training. As I watch, he puts in some earbuds, pulls up an old armchair, and settles in, leafing carefully through the documents with his be-gloved hands.
He has no idea we’re here.
I exhale in a rush, my heart racing.
“Looks like we’re going to be here a while,” Reeve murmurs, his lips brushing softly against my ear. “Better get comfy.”
He shifts against me, and a bolt of awareness crackles through my body as I finally register just where we are: crushed together in the dark wardrobe with only a thin crack of light coming through the door. Reeve’s arms are still wrapped protectively around me, and I’ve got my back to the wardrobe wall, pressed up against his chest, close enough to feel the heat of his body, and the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat through his open jacket.
Close enough to kiss.
My pulse kicks.
My body is already wired from the adrenaline of the near miss, but now, my blood starts burning for a different reason.
I can feel him.
Reeve.
We’ve been bantering back and forth for days, all that sizzling chemistry flying between us, but it’s been at a safe distance. Playful words, and flashes of memory, and, yes, the occasional surge of inconvenient desire breaking through like a curl of low heat in my stomach, but I could manage that. I could handle it. Stay in control.
Now, I’m suddenly surrounded by him;drowningin him.
Body-to-body, the scent of his soap overwhelming me: something citrus and light that still somehow is more intoxicating than the richest whiskey. His breath is whispering on my skin, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as we wait there, holding each other in the dark. His torso solid, and real, and physical in a way he hasn’t been since that night on the rooftop.
Oh.
I swallow hard, glad that it’s too dark in here for him to see the way my cheeks are flushing right now, and how my legs feel weak. There are about four layers of clothing between us, and his hands are resting respectfully on my waist, and I’ve never been more turned on in my entire life.
Is it possible to melt into a puddle of pure desire? Because fuck, I’m dissolving right here, just from the weight of his body gently pressing me back against the wall, and the soft whisper of his breath, warm against my cheek.
