Page 85 of Lighting the Lamp
“I do.”
“Yet here you are, loitering like someone trying not to look like they’re loitering.”
She smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She doesn’t answer, just pushes off the wall and slips past me when I unlock the door. Her arm grazes mine, soft and warm, and the contact sparks straight through me. It’s something casual, a normal brush of the skin, but it short-circuits every rational thought in my head.
“You weren’t supposed to be home for another ten minutes,” she says as she toes off her shoes like this is something we do every day.
“You timing my elevator rides now? Creepy.” I shut the door behind us, slower than I need to.
“I was going to Ramona’s.” Her voice is breezy, but her fingers toy with the hem of her shirt like she’s wound too tight to play it cool. “She had a flash of inspiration for the reception table layout a few days ago. I wanted a buffer before she ropes me into another rhinestone debate.”
“Ah, so obviously, you detoured to harass me.”
She shrugs, fingers skimming the edge of the counter like she’s trying to ground herself. “Also, to remind you about the tux fitting in two weeks. Don’t make me chase you down.”
I step closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough to feel the pull tighten between us.
“You came all the way here to remind me about something on my calendar two weeks from now?”
She meets my gaze, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. “You forgot last time.”
“Once. And it was a Zoom call. You act like I ghosted a kidney transplant.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, grateful for the distraction. Under the joking and banter, the air feels charged with something I can’t name. Alise isn’t fidgeting, but she’s not still, either. There’s a hum in her body, a tension she keeps shifting from side to side as if motion alone could hold back the words she won’t give voice to.
I’m aching to close the space between us, to tip my forehead against hers and tell her I haven’t slept right in weeks because every time I close my eyes, all I see is her. Her laugh. Her scent. The way she used to look at me like I was something more than a man learning to keep it together.
We stand there, a breath apart, pretending this is normal. Pretending I’m not acutely aware of the way her hair’s falling into her face or how the heat of her skin still lingers on my arm. I don’t touch her, but I want to. I want to run my fingers along the apple of her cheek, letting them linger there as she nuzzles into me. I want to say her name in the dark, just to feel how it tastes in a moment that finally doesn’t require pretending. I want to kiss her so hard she forgets why she ever tried to stay away.
But I just lift an eyebrow and smirk. “So what’s the real reason?”
“What?”
“You didn’t just stop by for calendar management, Alise.”
There’s a beat where everything holds its breath. Her lips part like she’s going to deny it and throw out one more excuse we can both pretend to believe, but nothing comes out. And in the silence, everything we’ve been avoiding presses in. Her hurt, my longing, and all the moments we never let ourselves have.
She’s standing in my kitchen like she doesn’t know whether to run or beg me to keep her here, and I’ve never wanted anything more than to close the distance and make her choose me. But I don’t move, not yet. I promised her time, and I’m going to do my damndest to give that to her, even if it’s killing me inside.
Alise looks away first, blinking like she needs to shake it off or she’ll say something she can’t take back. Her fingers skim the edge of the counter again, but this time, she doesn’t stop. Instead, she walks past me, slow and aimless, like she’s trying to create distance between me and her feelings before stopping in front of the bookshelf. My eyes focus on her fingertips as she trails them along the edge of the bookshelf, the same way she touched the counter, like she needs something solid to hold on to, and then her hand stills.
“Beau,” she breathes, her body freezing in place. “This just came out.”
I glance at the cover in her hand,Our Vicious Oaths. N.E. Davenport is her favorite, and she’s been waiting for this book to release for months.
“I ordered it a few weeks ago,” I say, trying to keep it casual, like I haven’t memorized every little thing that matters to her. “Figured you’d want something to read next time you crash here while I’m on the console.”
Her mouth opens. Then closes it and then opens it again.
“You don’t even like her.” She presses the book to her chest like it’s something precious, and she isn’t used to someone seeing her the way I do.
“No, but you do.”
“You bought it… for me.”
“It belongs on that shelf. It’s the same one you always reach for when you drop your purse, grab a blanket, and curl up like that corner of the couch was custom-made for you”.
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and unguarded, as if I pulled something raw out of her without asking.
