Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 20816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
My chest tightens. I punch the side of the building, knuckles splitting on the brick. The pain is clean, real. It’s the first true thing I’ve felt all night.
The Uber arrives, a shiny black Prius. I collapse into the back seat, and the driver takes one look at me and peels out, radio blaring some old 90s song about heartbreak. The whole drive, I replay every word I didn’t say, every time I held back, every second I wasted pretending I was immune.
Two miles down the road, I realize it wasn’t my address I put in the app. It was hers. Oh well, there’s no time like the present to face this. By the time we reach her place, it’s almost dawn. I hop out of the Prius and give the driver a cash tip, then stumble over to the front door of the building.
I hesitate, just for a second. Then I press the buzzer to her apartment, hard. Once. Twice.
I’m done running. Tonight, I’m going to lay my heart on the line.
She answers the door in a sleep-rumpled T-shirt and a pair of ancient boxer shorts, her hair in total disarray, like she’s just stuck a finger in a light socket. She blinks once, twice, and I swear, for a second, she thinks she’s still dreaming.
“Eamon?” Her voice is sandpaper and surprise, the syllables slurred with sleep and something softer. “What the hell—do you know what time it is?”
I do. But I don’t fucking care. The last three whiskeys scrambled my internal clock, and I’m running on muscle memory and reckless need. I lean against the frame, one hand braced on the peeling paint, the other clenching and unclenching at my side.
“I know this is too late. Way the fuck too goddamn late.” I let her hear the truth in my voice. I’m done fucking hiding. “You can’t leave me.” I jerk my chin past her. Inside, her living room is all cardboard boxes, open bins, piles of books and clothes half-sorted. Her life, collapsing in real time.
She hesitates in the doorway, then steps aside. “Come in. You’re going to wake my neighbors.”
I shoulder past her and plant myself dead center in the living room, soaking in every detail. The whole apartment feels like her—colorful, chaotic, messy in the best way.
Deirdre follows me, bare feet on hardwood, and I can’t look at her without feeling like my fucking chest is being hollowed out with a spoon.
I take her by the shoulders, not rough, but firm. The smell of her cracks my control all over again. “Why are you leaving me?” I ask, and this time I can’t hide the tremor.
She looks up at me, eyes suddenly huge and vulnerable. “I’m not leaving you, Eamon. I’m leaving Midnight Mischief.”
“You’re leaving me.” I press my forehead to hers, eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t lie. Not to me.”
She exhales, and I feel the shudder all the way to my bones.
“Why do you care?” she whispers, and for the first time in years, I don’t have a clever answer.
So, I tell her the truth.
“Because I’m in love with you, you fucking idiot,” I say, and as soon as the words are out, I know there’s no taking them back.
Deirdre’s mouth falls open, then snaps shut. I brace for a punch, a laugh, or an insult, but she just stares at me, all the sarcasm and snark burned off in the wake of what I’ve said.
I kiss her.
It’s not gentle, not even close. It’s every angry word, every unsent message, every night spent picturing this and refusing to admit it. Her lips are hot and hungry, opening under mine, and she tastes like salt and sugar and all my dreams wrapped up in one package. Too bad it took me nearly losing her to figure my shit out. Her hands fist in my shirt, knuckles digging into my chest, pulling me closer.
We stagger into the nearest wall, slamming a picture frame sideways, but neither of us cares. I bury my hands in her hair and kiss her like I’m starving, like I’ve never tasted anything real before now. She moans, low and desperate, and the sound sets fire to every cell in my body.
She bites my lip, hard, and I laugh against her mouth, half-mad with relief and want. I’ve never felt more alive, or more completely out of control.
We break apart, both of us panting, foreheads pressed together, hands locked tight around each other like we’ll drown if we let go.
“I hate you,” she says, but her voice shakes and her eyes are shining.
I smile, the first honest one in years. “Liar.”
She shoves me, but it’s a joke, a prelude, a challenge. I catch her wrist, drag her back against me, and this time, the kiss is slower, deeper, every old wound and empty space filling up with her.