Page 37 of Verses Of Us

She heard him inhale deeply and grasped what he was doing. Her eyes fluttered closed, a warm sensation stemming from her heart spread through her veins, but the overwhelming need to be professional tore her from her daze. This wasn’t how she’d get the interview Marie so desperately needed. But part of her didn’t care and craved to lose herself in the moment.

She wiggled, and he got the hint, releasing her from his embrace. The earth shifted beneath her feet as they touched ground and she needed a second to catch her breath.

“It’s great to see you, too.”

His eyes roamed over her body as if she was a figment of his imagination. A ghost. She supposed in a way they were exactly that.

“Christ, how long’s it been?”

“Almost six years,” she answered too quickly.

He ran his hand through his hair, now longer, and pushed it back. “Where has the time gone?”

She circled the room with a pointed finger. “Spent building one hell of a career, it looks like.”

She took a seat on the couch nearest the door and pulled out her digital tape recorder from her bag, setting it on the table. She glanced up at him expectantly.

“Ah, straight to business,” Ciarán said with a small pout as he scanned the snack table.

“I’m sorry, but I have a deadline and I’m sure Clark wants this over soon as well.”

“Clark doesn’t decide what I do,” he snapped.

The sudden, sharp tone made her sit up straight, and she cleared her throat.

He spun around, his forehead pinched. “Shit. Sorry, love. I’m on edge today.”

“That’s alright,” she lied. “Is it the tour?”

“We’re only a few days in, and it’s kicking my ass.” He grabbed a handful of Twizzlers and sat across from her, maintaining a healthy distance, and she wondered if he did it on purpose. “Getting old sucks.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “You just turned twenty-eight.”

His grin was warm as he bit into the red licorice vine. “You remembered?”

“Yep,” she answered shortly, embarrassed. Not wanting him to see her blush, she busied herself rummaging through her purse for her pen.

“Anyway…” He pinched his nose in thought. “Thirty is around the bend.”

“I suppose.” She clicked her pen, catching his attention. “Ready?”

With an exhale, he leaned back. “Let me have it.”

She pressed therecordbutton on the recorder, keeping her demeanour professional, which apparently meant stiff shoulders and dry throat. She took a sip of water.

Soon, Ciarán relaxed, crossing one leg over the other, and opened up as if it were old times. He answered any question she asked—she focused solely on his career. He praised his current album, discussed the tone of the tour, nagged about the demands of it, too, and briefly mentioned other projects he’d worked on over the years.

The hour flew by, but the tension between them never lessened, hanging over them like a rain cloud about to burst. Not once did he mention their time together in ninety-nine, or why he’d dropped her like a piece of garbage. But she didn’t bring it up, either. She wasn’t sure if he was carefully skirting the subject, or if he’d forgotten about it entirely.

Busy taking mental and written notes, she tried to focus on the interview, but the ache in her heart sputtered to life each time he took a pause and settled his steady blue eyes on her.

A knock interrupted them, and Clark peeked in. “Alright, time’s up.”

“Christ,” Ciarán huffed.

Unconcerned, Clark came in, pointing to his wrist. “It’s been over an hour, mate. We have other things on the schedule.”

“No worries, I have everything I need.” Alexis gathered her things, shoving them into her messenger bag, then reached a hand out. “Thank you for your time. The article will be great.”

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