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Another step closer, until there’s barely an inch between our chests. He makes a rumbly warning noise, and god, I love it so much. Wish I could set it as my ring tone. “What if I try my very, very hardest and it’s not enough? What if I still can’t wait?”
Heat flares behind Andre’s eyes, and before I realize he’s moved, two hands grip my waist. They grip mehard.And this man may act all cool and collected, he may seem like the picture of restraint, but I’ve finally realized: Andre Silva is burning up for me. He’s got it as bad as I do.
Maybe even worse.
“Behave,” he scolds me, kneading my waist, my ribs, my hips. It’s like his hands have a mind of their own—like they didn’t get the memo about staying aloof. And all they’re feeling is my sweaty, gross workout clothes, but Andre’s finally breathing harder for the first time on this run.
It’s a powerful feeling, having this effect on my neighbor. I’ve felt so helpless for so long, and now here I am on these windswept cliffs, and suddenly I know down to my soul: I could bring Andre Silva to his knees. He’smine.
“Maybe I will.” I smile, so giddy with this rush of newfound confidence. “Maybe I will behave. Is that what you really want, Andre? To spend years living next door, sleeping in a different bed, knowing that every night I touch myself and think of you? Knowing that and never doing anything about it? Is that what you want?”
He blinks, stunned. I pat his bristly cheek. “Food for thought.”
When I turn and start running, there’s a long pause before his feet thud against the rocky path behind me.
I beam for the whole run home.
Five
Andre
If Faith joins the circus, I’ll follow her. They must need cooks, right? I wince and dice an onion in the diner kitchen, surrounded by shiny stainless steel and the hum of industrial refrigerators.
I like it here. I like my crisp white tunic and I like Rodrigo and Paisley, my underlings. I doubt the circus cooks have this much elbow room—nor fresh ingredients delivered by the local greengrocer each morning. Right now, I’ve got it made.
And since I own the Rockin’ Rockpool diner, I can do whatever the hell I want. I can change the menu; I can stay open late if business is good. I can keep the best table permanently reserved, just in case Faith comes in.
She’s never asked me about that. Did she even notice?
And… would I give this all up if she joined the circus? Pack it all in just to stay near her?
In a heartbeat. Shit.
I shake my head and keep chopping, prepping stainless steel bowls of fresh vegetables, while a country band croons over the radio. It’s the mid-afternoon lull between the lunch rush and dinner crowd, and normally this is when I get in the zone.
Just me, the rhythmic thud of my knife, and the cool breeze from the air conditioning. In the kitchen, I’m in control. The master of my tiny universe.
But today, I’m frazzled. My thoughts keep jangling around my skull, clashing together and giving me a headache. Thoughts like: the aching sadness of Faith’s Dear Hattie letter, and the wistful way she talked about leaving.
Thoughts of the change that came over her when I confessed I wanted her too—the way she stood taller, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Suddenly confident. The teasing smile she gave me on the clifftop, and the way it sent a bolt of heat through my gut.
Have I made her miserable all this time by holding back?
And… will she torture me now she knows?
Christ. I hope so.
My groan echoes around the metal kitchen, and I pause to rub the back of my wrist against my forehead.
“All good?” Rodrigo stands guard over a bubbling saucepan, hips swinging in his checkered pants. My sous-chef is even younger than Faith, and whatever music we have on, he finds a way to dance.
“All good.”
The head waitress Paisley leans over the counter that separates the kitchen from the diner, smirking when she sees Rodrigo’s moves.
“All quiet out here. You want me to put in that meat order?”
“Sure.”
