Page 83 of A Love Most Fatal
“Hi,” I say. She teeters on the balls of her feet at the doorway and her eyes are a bit wild, her face is cleaned of any makeup, like she was about to go to bed but came to knock on my door instead.
“Last night?—”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I rush to say. “It’s okay, really. Water under the bridge. Consider it over and done.”
“No, stop it. I mean, it’s night again.”
I nod, but I don’t follow. “It is.”
If she’s not here to tell me we should forget all about the otherworldly sex we had last night, then am I forgetting something? Some appointment we made?
“Do you. . . want to watch a movie, or?”
“It’s night again,” she says, emphatic. “It’stonightagain.”
The flush on her neck is traveling towards her face and my eyes fixate on where her teeth bite her lower lip.
I do not dare let myself think she means what I hope she does. “It . . . is tonight again.”
“Just tonight,” she reminds. I nod because holy fuck she is saying what I thought she was saying.
“Just tonight,” I agree, and catch her legs around my waist before her mouth crashes into mine. I kick the door shut behind us and deposit Vanessa onto my bed where I plan to, once again, get way too few hours of sleep.
29
VANESSA
Nate is already downstairswhen I finally make it out of the shower and pull myself together enough to call myself “ready for work.” Although “ready” is generous.
No amount of concealer can hide my under-eye bags, which isn’t to say I didn’t try. He looks tired too, but he also has the shadow of a smile across his face as he reads something on my iPad. I hate that he knows the passcode, but I have an absurd satisfaction that someone knows it and feels comfortable enough to use it. These pesky domestic butterflies in my gut have been bothering me for two weeks now.
Two weeks of waking up snuggled up to Nate in one of our beds, me vowing to myself that I will not sleep with him again only to do just that.
For once, I have no discipline. Unacceptable.
“Good morning,” I say, and he and Mom both look up in unison.
“Are you sick, baby?” Mom asks, already standing to come fuss over me.
“No.” I dodge her hands from feeling all over my face (they’d come back with a layer of makeup if she did). “I just didn’t sleep well, is all.”
“Stress?” Mom asks.
It’s been quiet since the gala, almosttooquiet. Just because nobody has attacked in a few weeks, doesn’t mean that theywon’tif we don’t keep our guards up.
“Nightmares, if I had to guess,” Mary says, brushing past us into the kitchen. “I heard. . . heavy breathing.”
I glare at her, but she stares fastidiously down at the chopped fruit she spoons into her oatmeal. Most nights, Mary is out prowling the town doing only God knows what, but last night she decided to stay home?
Rich, rich.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Mom pulls me in for a hug, which I return like a board. Mary waggles her eyebrows at me and I flip her off behind Mom’s head.
They’ve been dancing around this for weeks and I’ve been letting the silence drag on as long as possible.
“His face hides nothing,” Mom whispers in my ear, and I let out a sigh much too large for seven in the morning. “And really, you do need to sleep sometime.”
I do sleep. Some nights I get seven whole hours. Just not often these days.