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But that’s as far as I’ll go. I’m human, and having a physical reaction to a handsome man—whether that man is hearing or not—is all biology. Out of my control.
Then Sullivan sweeps his thumb back and forth on my inner thigh and my stomach does a somersault while my heart reveals its half-woodpecker as it jackhammers against my ribs.
I’m going to combust. I will burst into flames if that man brings his hands any higher up my leg.
Desperately, I tangle our fingers together, placing our joined hands on his knee where it’s safe.
That’s when Patel motions to me.
“Yaya, have you dated a hearing person before?”
“This is my first time,” I sign.
“Was it difficult to communicate?” Patel’s hands move swiftly.
I keep my eyes on the interviewers. “At first. But humans are extremely adaptable. If there’s a will, there’s a way. We both want to be close to each other, so we both find ways to communicate.”
Sullivan surprises me by signing, “I’m still learning ASL, but every time I learn something new, I feel closer to her.”
Flustered, I lick my lips.
It’s unfair, really. Every time I build a defense against my attraction to Richard Sullivan, he signs and it destroys everything. Watching his clunky ASL, I begin to understand how that little piggy in the fable felt. When Mr. Pig built his straw mansion, he was probably very sure of himself, never expecting that a Big Bad Wolf would huff and puff and sign the word ‘blow’ until his house fell down.
“Say something else in ASL,” Patel signs on behalf of the eager hosts. “It’s such a beautiful language. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? It’s a language.”
I smile for the camera and hope to Chanel and Gucci and Valentino that my makeup isn’t sweating off.
Sullivan lifts both hands in an ‘alright, alright’ gesture. He angles his body on the couch so I see him better. I feel dizzy while I wait. What is he going to say? I really hope it’s nothing as over-the-top as ‘I love you’.
“I’ve learned in studying ASL,” Sullivan signs in a slow, determined manner, as if he really wants to get the sentence right, “that you should always be facing the person you’re signing with…”
I hold my breath and my pulse becomes a stabbing rhythm in my wrist.
“… if you don’t, they won’t see you and then they won’t understand you. Words will get lost. Meaning will die.”
Will die?I don’t think that’s the right sign, but I don’t correct him.
He’s leaning closer. Only a few inches separate us.
I inhale the notes of his cologne—something smoky with a hint of cinnamon.
The disloyal organ in my chest stutters dangerously.
“Yaya.” He finger spells my name fluently, easily, as if he’s practiced how to sign my name a hundred times. “Even when you’re not looking at me, I will always be facing you.”
I can feel the underlying promise, something solid, something unexpectedly vulnerable.
And it’s that vulnerability that calls to me.
That makes me press one hand into the couch and lean over.
That makes me brush my fingers across his jaw and along the back of his neck.
That makes me close my eyes…
And kiss him.
CHAPTER9
