Page 35 of Guarded
It was a timely reminder. Jeremiah had places to go and lots of firsts to experience. If I let him too close, it’d be all the more painful when he left.
“Why don’t you go grab it now? We’ve got time before the slam starts.” I pulled my hand away, needing the distance. My smile was bright, but it dimmed at the flicker of rejection in Jeremiah’s eyes.
He covered it quickly as he got to his feet. “Good idea.”
I exhaled slowly as he vanished from sight. It didn’t do a thing to calm my racing heart. I took my left hand into my right and stroked the palm thoughtfully. It was hot still, burning from where it had been in contact with Jeremiah’s skin.
Not in a painful way. It burned the way a fire gives warmth. The way it keeps humans alive in the coldest of winters. How it acts as a beacon of hope in the darkness.
It didn’t make it any less dangerous though. Jeremiah’s fire would burn me alive if I let it.
He sat back down beside me, sliding the book onto the table. “Please tell me this is the right one. The girl behind the till scared me a little when I told her I hadn’t read it.”
I tapped the cover. “It’s a bit of a cult classic. Well, in Britain anyway. There’s a film of it too, but I prefer the book.”
His lips curved and a fresh set of butterflies burst from their cocoons. “Then it’s definitely the book for me. I’ll read it this month and…maybe we can talk about it?”
I mean, come on. How the fuck was I supposed to not fall for him? He wasn’t just listening to what I was interested in, he was actively seeking it out and taking an interest himself.
Dangerous. That’s what Jeremiah was. A danger to my heart and the carefully constructed walls I’d spent so long building.
I smiled shyly. “I’d like that.”
Someone stepped onto the low makeshift stage and started fussing with the mic. Jeremiah took the opportunity to lean closer and whisper in my ear. “If you align poetry with torture, why did you choose this for our date?”
I couldn’t tell him the real reason—that it was less intimate than eating by candlelight. That our conversation wouldn’t be able to get too deep because we’d be listening to others.
That I was fucking terrified of how much I liked him. That was the real reason.
Obviously, I didn’t say that. “Only bad poetry. Let’s hope this doesn’t fall into that category.”
Jeremiah shot me a bemused look as an older lady took to the stage. With her flowing skirts and multiple scarves, she fit every stereotype of what I’d been expecting tonight.
See? Everything’s going according to the plan.
But then they dimmed the lights and a hush descended.
It shouldn’t have made a difference. Both Jeremiah andI had superior senses. We could see almost as well in darkness as we could in full daylight.
For some reason though, it did.
I was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was. Our elbows were resting on the table, mere inches apart. Shoulders and knees brushed, the material doing little to contain the sparks passing between us. I could turn my head slightly and take his lips with mine. And, with every heartbeat that passed, I was forgetting why I shouldn’t.
This place was a terrible idea.
A smattering of applause broke out and I jumped to join in. Shit. The first lady was done already, and I’d been too obsessed with Jeremiah to pay any attention.
Perhaps if I did, I’d be able to control myself better. When the next person took to the stage, I fixed my eyes on them determinedly. I was going to listen this time. Listen and enjoy it.
Two stanzas later, and I realised the flaw in that.
This wasn’t good poetry. It was bad.
Very. Very. Bad.
Jeremiah and I exchanged an incredulous glance, both our lips twitching. His eyes were sparkling, asking me a silent question.
Is this supposed to be good?
