Page 77 of City of Love

But it doesn’t work. If anything, his mood darkens. “I have something to tell you too,” he says, looking pained.

My heart stutters a little bit at the expression on his face—because there isn’t one. He’s wearing a perfectly neutral mask, blank and concealing. The only indication he’s feeling anything is the muscle twitching in his jaw.

He’s starting to freak me out.

“Noel,” I say slowly, cradling his face with my hands. I let my thumbs stroke over his cheekbones, reveling in the roughness of his scruff. “What’s up?”

When his eyes finally meet mine, they take my breath away. Their normal green seems to have darkened into something stormier, and they’re swirling with both regret and resolve.

How can I tell that just by looking at his eyes? It’s not like they come with a decoder or something. But I would swear it; regret and resolve are the emotions I’m seeing.

“Noel,” I say again, my voice much calmer than my insides. “Talk to me, please.”

His eyes drop to my mouth, and he looks conflicted for a second before kissing me apparently wins out. His lips come down on mine with utter desperation, his hands tangling in my hair. He’s lost, consumed, and he pulls me along with him. The intensity of this kiss sends a jolt of panic straight through me.

Because he’s kissing me like this is the last chance he’ll ever get.

He slows down after a minute, though, his ministrations becoming tender and languid—sweet kisses, though no less searing in heat. This man is just a really good kisser. His lips worship me, cherish me, and I marvel at the things they’re saying without words.

When Noel finally pulls away, he takes a step backward, moving away from me. I go to close the space, but he holds one hand up, halting me in my spot.

“We can’t do this, Lydia,” he says, his voice rough. “This—you and I—it’s a mistake.”

I blink in surprise, trying to process his words. “We…can’t do this?” They feel strange on my tongue, like I would never have thought to put these particular words into this particular order. It simply wouldn’t have occurred to me.

He nods, grimacing. “I meant what I said earlier. I’m bad for you, sweetheart. I’m not safe for you to be around, and I’m not the kind of person you want,” he says.

He sounds so steady, so sure. How does he sound like this when he’s saying such ridiculous things? Is this a dream? A nightmare?

I shake my head, as though that will help clear my thoughts. “I don’t understand,” I say. There’s a weird sort of anxiety writhing around inside, the kind that’s trying to warn me that I’m about to have the rug pulled from under my feet. But I refuse to heed its warnings.

I reported Marcus. I was brave, I tell myself desperately.Noel isn’t going to leave me after that.Somewhere in the back of my mind, my brain is pointing out that there’s no logic to this train of thought—that Noel doesn’t even know about Marcus yet, and that Marcus has nothing to do with our relationship anyway—but that voice is hard to hear.

“What I’m saying,” he says, looking me dead in the eye, “is that I can’t be romantic with you. We can be friends, Lydia, and I want us to be friends, but nothing more. Do you understand?”

The silence around us is filled by my racing thoughts, my unraveling happiness.

I was so excited to tell him. So proud of myself. I was so strong, so brave.

And it didn’t even matter. Because I was wrong, and Marcus was right: no one wants me but him.

Chapter 24

Lydia

There’s silence in Noel’s flat, but it’s a silence so loud and so fraught that I just want to hide. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by this turn of events, but somehow I am.

How stupid am I? How could this be a surprise? Have I forgotten being cheated on last year? This isn’t even the first time Noel has set me aside, I realize with a devastating pang in my chest—he didn’t want anything to do with me before he learned who I was. I was just the rain-drenched inconvenience on his doorstep.

Because I am not, and never have been, wantable.

I search desperately within, casting around for anything I can do or say to shut out the pain rising in my chest. When I finally land on something, I seize it gratefully.

“You thought kissing me was the best way to tell me this?” I say, trying to call up anger on my own behalf. It’s feeble, though, half-hearted at best.

He pushes one hand through his hair, and I’m at least consoled by the fact that he looks completely miserable. It’s petty, I know, but it would hurt if this didn’t bother him at all.

“That was selfish,” he admits, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry,chérie.”

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