Page 86 of The Love Destroyers

My lips lift at the corners, despite my best attempts to shove them down, and my shoulders start shaking. I’m laughing and trying to hide it, badly.

He starts to laugh with me, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and his face lighting up. But he instantly presses his hand to his ribs. “You’re killing me, Em.”

“Let’s get you into the car,” I say, my voice softer than I’d like it to be, because even now, I’m worried about being nice to him. Because I feel myself softening, and I know that when I harden again, I’ll be spread thin—like a bar of butter that’s forgotten its shape.

He’s not a man who’s serious about women—I know that from his sister, and from his own admissions. Even if he were, I would be a fool to be serious about him. I know he’s done bad things, illegal things. Being with him could be an even bigger threat to my career than Jeffrey.

I unlock the car, and he climbs in with a gusty groan. Before he can lean over and strain his rib, I reach in and work the seatbelt around him, leaning in slightly to click it into place, my hand glancing over his coat and his jeans. An intimate knowledge of him—of what he looks like without any of this on—flashes through my brain and fries my synapses.

When I pull away, he’s staring at me. There’s a warm look in his eyes as he says, “Are you going to cut up my vegetables too?”

“You eat vegetables?” I ask in mock shock.

His grin weaves through me, creating more memories I’m going to want to hold onto. “I would if you’d cut them up for me.”

I put my hand on my hip, noticing the way his eyes dip to follow the motion before lifting again to my face. “The charcuterie board didn’t do it for you?”

His grin widens. “I get the sense that they put it together from the salad bar at the cafeteria. The cheese was cottage cheese, and bologna was one of the meats. Not that I’m complaining.”

“So I only have a sliver of my mother’s authoritativeness.”

“Which means you have three times as much as most people. It looks good on you.”

I smile at him, feeling a tugging sensation in my chest. A yearning for him to see me and like what he sees. It’s a vulnerable feeling—the kind that I normally shut down. But I sit with the discomfort as I circle around the car and then get in beside him.

We talk about nothing on the way to the apartment, and I know without asking that he saw my weakness. Instead of fitting his finger into the wound or teasing me for it, he’s giving me a moment to collect myself. It’s unexpected. And it only makes this softness I’m feeling worse. I’m that butter, spreading thinner and thinner. Losing my solidity.

I should mind, but maybe the full moon Leap Day is melting my brain, because right now, I do not.

When I park the car in the garage beneath his building, he glances at me. “Will you unlatch my seatbelt?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “I'm not sure I could manage it without you.”

Obviously he could, since clicking out requires a lesser motion than clicking in, but I want to do it. So I do, and when he gets out of the car, towering over me, he asks, “Are you going to come upstairs? I don’t see Chuck’s car. He must still be with your mother.”

I’d still love an update about how that’s going, but I’d be lying if I said it was foremost on my mind.

“I’ll get you settled in,” I say, because I don’t want to leave him yet. Maybe it’s because of the full moon Leap Day, and the feeling that anything that can happenwill.

Maybe I’m wasting its magic, being here with Seamus, instead of going through the contents of Ellie’s phone. My career and reputation depend on me finding at least one smoking gun. But I don’t want to leave him yet. I can’t.

I hurry around the car so I can grip his arm and help him out—and then don’t want to let it go after I shut the door behind him. It’s thick and sculpted, and it feels good to hold him.

His eyes find mine, and the look he’s giving me is so deep and penetrating, I feel a hot shiver work through me. I try to deflect by asking, “Where’s your car?”

“You mean Ingrid?” he asks with a twist of his lips. My hand is still wrapped around his arm, and I feel it flex slightly, moving beneath my touch. I drop my hold. “I don’t know if I’m ready to introduce you to my girl. She might get jealous.”

Rolling my eyes, I add, “Sheis an inanimate object.”

“Says a woman who bought a practical car in an impractical color.”

“I like red.”

“Then you’d like Ingrid. She likes to go fast and take turns at reckless speeds. But she’s a bit of a bitch. She always pops lights right before inspection time.”

“You shouldn’t call women bitches,” I chide teasingly.

He shrugs. “So she’s an asshole. A shithead. Whatever you want to call her. Do you still want to meet my shithead?”

“I do,” I admit. There’s been a growing hunger inside of me, for time with Seamus. For touching him. For knowing him. I’ve seen his streak of kindness, and his delicious perversion, and now I want to see what else his passion can build.

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