Page 24 of The Royal Street Witch
He grabs for it, his pinky ring glistening under the kitchen lights, but I pull it back to my chest. “Like we agreed, just a hand in the sun. One of your perfect little fingertips!”
He laughs in a most sexy way, eyes sparkling with anticipation, and then nods. “Yes, I got it.”
I look at my phone, 5:45 p.m., but dark in the kitchen, the shades drawn shut, because outside the sun still sits in the sky, awaiting our experiment. I place the bottle on the counter and his hand slides up to it, slowly spinning it between his fingers. He’s studying it, his eyebrows squinting, his head tilting.
“If this works,” he says, eyes fixated on the thick liquid, “I’m going to have to kiss you.” And that’s when his eyes dart to mine and the air between us stills, and I allow myself to acknowledge that, yes, I would really like that, I would.
“If this works, you’re going to have to pay me.” I smirk, because even if I want him to kiss me, he can’t kiss me, and we both need to remember this is a business arrangement.
His head cocks and I run the pendant on my necklace back and forth across the chain around my neck, my eyes finding his lips. What would it be like to kiss them? His cupid’s bow so defined, his bottom lip like a pillow of flesh. The thought pushes a bolt of fire through my insides, and then he winks at me.
“Bastian,” I warn, but he picks the bottle up, holds it in the air, and squints one eye, as if he’s looking through the eye of a rifle.
“Bottoms up?” And his hair is so perfect today, styled brown waves that look messy in a sophisticated way and I hate that I’m looking at his hair at a time like this. He pulls the bottle to his wet lips and with a swiftness, knocks it back.
I lick my lips, my heart strumming in my chest, pressing my hands into my cheeks.
He gags, bringing the back of his hand to his mouth, his fangs elongating, his breathing labored.
I back up because I’ve seen those fangs before—when he about killed me the last time we were in my courtyard together. He shakes his head and swallows, showing restraint, fists clenching, mouth forced shut.
“Are…you okay?” I ask, my head leaning down as I try to meet his eyes. His head pops up and he takes a deep breath as his hand slams down on my counter, fingers sprawled wide.
“I think so?” His tongue runs along a fang and the adrenaline is thumping and it’s making me nauseous. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and mouth.
I quietly give him the time he needs to let the potion run through his veins. Hoping, hoping, this is it. Goodbye mortgage. Let it be, let it be, I chant in my head, and when he looks up at me, his fangs are gone and his breathing is steady. Air escapes my lips, a sigh of relief, and that’s when he nods.
“Let’s do it.” He strides to the back door, and I run after him, prepared to remind him.
“I know,” he laughs, “Just the tip.” He winks and I shake my head, reminded of the last time we did this. When he felt the fire burning his fingers before the sun even neared his fingertips, when the smoke rose from his hand before he set foot outside. I open the door, hold my breath, and walk outside. Turning to face him, I feel the sun spill over me, something I’ve long taken for granted.
His long fingers inch more and more out the door while his hand shakes. “No burning so far,” he reports, and I stay silent as if my words could jinx it. His foot slides closer to the sun that’s made its way onto the kitchen floor. He’s wearing Vans today as if he plans on being out, casual Friday.
When his nail hits the sunlight, my hand jolts up to shield it, but it doesn’t need shielding. He keeps pressing forward until his bare hand glimmers in the sun and his mouth whispers, “Fuuuck.”
Our breaths hitch in unison. “You gonna keep going?” I ask because I’m cautious, but not Bastian. His Vans slide onto the brick, then his face, and in seconds, Bastian Delacroix is standing in front of me, sunlight in his eyes, and he’s never been so heavenly—not ever—and my hands cover my mouth and I scream.
He crashes into me, wrapping his arms around my torso, and lifts me in the air. I don’t push him away; the exhilaration overwhelms me, and I knock my head into his chest while he twirls me.
“You fucking did it.” It’s a whisper first and then he’s yelling it as he sets me down, and I jump on top of my lounge chair and scream.
“I fucking did it!” And we stare at each other for a moment before he looks up to the sky, arms down, palms up. Aventurines are close, but man—they are even more brilliant in the sun, and he laughs, laughs so loud, and I cackle right along with him. I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be financially secure and I did it on my own.
The tears flow and I’m okay with it. I am okay with crying from happiness and I let myself just feel it. I don’t negate it. I don’t diminish it. I accomplished this, on my own, I did it.
“Seventy years, seventy years!” He takes another deep breath, arms stretched out wide, face to heaven. Then he looks to me. “Come on.” Hand extending to me. “Let’s go out.”
Grabbing his hand, I step down from the lounge chair. “I don’t know how long it’ll last.”
“It’ll be dark soon enough,” he says, checking the time and then running a finger through his hair. “The sun feels so good. The sky…”
I bet he wants to cry, but he shakes his head back and forth and places his fist to his mouth. “Thank you,” he says and grabs my other hand so that we are standing directly in front of each other, and we’re connected, our own small circle.
“I don’t know how long we have.” I pull my hand from his because it feels too good.
“There are hundreds of dark corners in the French Quarter, and I know every one. If it wears off, we’ll find one.”
“It’s risky, being seen out there…”
