Page 78 of If Not for My Baby
“But it’s not just that.” He’s building to something. Lowering his brows, scooting closer. For a moment a chord of horror strikes that he’s figured me out just as I’ve figured out him. Worse yet, I have no clue what it is he might’ve discovered. The realization of all that I don’t know about myself is almost as frightening as wondering if a man I’ve known less than two months has somehow gotten there first.
“You’ve got an enormous heart. Those round eyes give it all away when you arrive in a new city or watch the curtains close on a staggerin’ show or talk about the love you have for your mam or sing your sweet lungs out. You’re filled up to the brim with it, Clem. So I dunno…I mean it with utter respect, of course. I think you’re brilliant. But I’m just…not buying it.”
My eyes pop wide. “Buying what?”
Tom’s gaze grows warm. “You’re as much of a romantic as the next.”
“I’ve never been in love. How could I be a romantic?”
“How do geese know to fly south for the winter?”
Animal instinct,I want to say. Which is his point. Why is he so eloquent? “There you go again.” I sigh, fighting a grin. “I feel like an acolyte.”
Tom’s surprised laugh rivals the twinkling tea light candle between us. But it’s true. I’m spellbound by his half smirks. By the way he talks with his hands. His self-deprecating chuckles. That humble shake of his brilliant head.
“It’s probably just your hair,” I add, twirling pasta onto my fork.
“Surely it is,” he agrees. “In fact, if you cut this off I’ll actually lose the ability to put together poor metaphors.”
“How biblical,” I joke.
Tom shakes his head, releasing a thorough sigh. “I’ve nothing for you to worship, Clem. If anything, I’m the acolyte. I certainly think of you each night like one.”
“Before you lay your head to sleep?” I kid, even as my breath hitches.
“Something like that.”
When I look up, Tom’s gaze is on my mouth. I imagine slipping from my chair and pressing it right under his ear. The groan he’d make as I straddled him.
Tom shifts in his seat and clears his throat. His jaw works as he downs the rest of his water in a rush. Heart speeding, my hand roams across the table until I take his fingers lightly in my own.
“Should we get the check?” I ask.
His voice is gravel. “No dessert?”
“God.” I shudder. Blunt honesty rips through me because I just cannot bear it a minute longer. “Tom, I am really hopingyouare the dessert.”
He swallows thickly. Then he nods to himself once as if he’s come to some conclusion. It looks a little like relief, whatever it is. His voice is huskier than I’ve yet heard it when he says, “Let’s go, then.”
I motion eagerly for the check, but Tom is already standing. He pulls out five hundreds and leaves them on the table before offering me his hand. When my palm is enclosed in his, I can hardly collect myself. My body heat alone is going to set this exorbitantly priced dress to flame.
The cab ride back to the hotel is a new circle of Hell. Eurydice has got nothing on me. A commercial for some bank I’ve never heard of plays in the back of the cab, the blue light illuminating Tom’s hand as he traces lazy strokes along the inside of my thigh over my dress. One gentle brush of his thumb draws a near-pained gasp from my lips. I am a panting, pulsing mess before we’ve made it halfway there.
Determined to torture him equally, I allow my trembling hand to slide along his powerful thigh until his hips buck upward. My toes curl. Neither of us utter a word. The little screen blares on about some mayoral candidate. The half-rolled-down window sends soft wind over our faces. I’m close to tears from wanting when his fingers grip under my dress just this shy of my panties.
The taxi rolls to a stop. I realize Tom’s hand is shaking when he swipes his card in the monitor. Pride zips through me at the knowledge that he’s barely keeping it together, too.
Out on the sidewalk he pulls my hand back. “Are you sure—”
“Tom.” This need is visceral. There can be no more waiting.
“All right. Go on first,” he instructs. “Room 614. I’ll meet you.”
Hurrying through the dimly lit, swanky hotel lobby, I pray to the patron saint of sneakiness that I don’t run into anyone from the band. I slam my finger into the elevator’s up button so many times I swear I crack the plastic covering.
Come on come on come on—
“Clementine,” a thick voice drawls.
