Page 77 of Icing Hearts

“Amato. Clara,” Thomas mutters the greeting. That’s what I like about Thomas. No shock. No questions. Just a quiet acknowledgment that he knows.

I giggle. “Hi, Tommy.”

“Schmitty.”

The elevator hums back to life and with the lurch upward, I wrap my arm around the front of Tory’s waist and rise on my tiptoes. I start a path at the base of his neck and run my lips up and across his jawline. He cusses low in his throat, and I swear his posture falters for a second. The move almost backfires because it makes me so heady.

Thomas shakes his head and gets off on the next floor, departing with, “You two are ridiculous.”

As soon as the doors close, Tory is on me, spinning me in a rush and pinning my wrists above my head against the faux-wood paneling.

“Think you’re cute, huh?” he croons.

“I have my moments.”

Tory’s hands run down my arms, my sides, and settle on my hips. His nose grazes mine, and he speaks against my chin, low and smooth. “You’re peculiar, you know. You have many,” he kisses my left temple, hair wetting my brow, “…oddities.”

“I’m aware.” I look up as he stares down at me. Those bottomless, brown eyes see nothing but mine. They are glued to me, as if they’ll never open again and they need to soak in every facet, count every one of my lashes.

One of his brows quirks down. “What do you think of them?”

I shrug. “I’ve come to terms. What do you think of them?”

“What do I think of your delicious little oddities?” he asks. Tory’s fingers entwine with mine.

I nod.

“I think I just revealed that particular little oddity about myself, didn’t I?”

“You find them delicious?”

Tory kisses a different place between each word. “Devious.” Chin. “Delicious.” Cheek. “Delightful.” Nose. “Among other adjectives.” Brow.

“And how do you find me?” I ask when his path slows.

“D. All of the above.”

I smile. Beam. Soar. Simper.

The elevator dings and the doors groan open. Floor eighteen.

His fingers are hooked into the belt loop of my jeans at the base of my spine. I feel his thumb graze my skin as he pushes me in front of him, toward our rooms.

“We could get caught,” I mutter. “Coach will kill us if he finds me in your room.”

“He won’t.”

It’s then that I panic. When I remember why I’m in long sleeves in the first place and why I’ve been denying this for so long. I panic because I don’t know exactly what he expects or how to keep thing from unraveling.

“Maybe I should—” I start, aiming toward my own door. But he reels me back, planting me in front of his room instead. My stomach sinks. Reality sets in and the levity from moments ago vanishes. I wish they were butterflies, or even a hummingbird flapping around in my abdomen. But it feels more like swirling poison, thick as tar.

Something slides into my back pocket. He’s only inches away, and his breath teases the back of my neck mercilessly. A chill shakes down my shoulders. I lie and tell myself it’s the artificially cool hallway. Tory’s hand crawls around my waistband, and I shudder as he traces the number eight around my belly button and the top button of my damp jeans.

“Clara.” He breathes my name against the back of my ear. Tory is a man, dying in the desert, and he speaks my name as if it’s a cry for a single drop of water.

I reach back and the cool plastic of his room key sticks out of my pocket. Decision time. Either recant, hand it back and walk away. Or swipe to open the door that belongs to the man I’ve loved for most of my life. The man who is currently distracting me from rational thinking by running a single delicious digit along my waistband.

So, I tell myself that I can control this. I lie to myself, even though I’m fully aware that Tory is the only thing in my life that I cannot control.

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