Page 41 of Silver Linings
I need to get a grip.
“What about you? Walrus or armadillo?” I’m desperately trying to move my mind to anything other than that sliver of skin and the wisps of icy hair falling around her face.
“Definitely a walrus. Armadillos are basically roadkill, and I’m not trying to become some rando’s dinner.” I’m saved from having to respond when she asks a follow up question. “What do you do for fun?”
I open my mouth to respond but the words catch in my throat. I—I can’t think of anything, and thinking back on recent years only dredges up memories of long hours working for my dad. But Silver is staring at me with expectant eyes, and the thought of telling her the truth—that I don’t know what fun is anymore—isn’t something I want to do.
“Usually wind up at The Blackbird.” I focus on painting my section of the wall while thinking up a question of my own before she can ask me any more. “Did you always want to work around books?”
She hesitates. “You’re supposed to ease into the intensity of the questions, Hal.” Her intonation reads like she’s joking, but I can see a slight shuttering behind her eyes.
“If you aren’t comfortable—” She waves me off, focusing intently on the spot she’s working on.
“My dad used to take me to the bookstore every Saturday when he wasn’t on a work trip. It became sort of a tradition. He loved books and always said he wanted me to have worlds I could escape into when I needed it.” She takes a deep, steadying breath. “I guess I wanted to keep the tradition alive even though he isn’t. When you work in a bookstore, every day can be Saturday.”
She looks over to me then, and I can see a deep pain cascade over her whole being before she catches it and forces a smile.
“Favorite ice cream?” I ask, wanting to turn the fake smile into a real one.
“Chocolate hazelnut crunch. You?” She grabs the roller out of the tray and points it at me menacingly. “I swear on Ben and Jerry, if you say you don’t like ice cream too, I’ll never speak to you again. I can’t handle you not liking donutsandice cream.”
I laugh, big and hearty and real. She keeps doing this to me.
“I like ice cream, and I guess butter pecan is my favorite.”
She scoffs. “Okay, grandpa.”
I don’t think, I react, taking the paintbrush in my hand and swiping it down her cheek. She’s frozen, delight and shock written clear across her face like the stripe of pale green that now adorns it. Slowly, she nods her head, pursing her lips and clearly plotting my demise.
She looks up, and the fire is back in her eyes. She slowly steps toward me, a hunter stalking its prey and a wicked gleam in her eye. I take a step back, hands up in surrender, but quickly hit the corner of the cabinet.
“Listen, Savannah, I think we can talk this through like rational adults.” I finally take part in her game of names to try and placate her, but all it does is bring a dark sort of glee to her stunning face.
She prowls closer, within arm’s reach now. “The thing is, Hector…I’m not a very rational person.”
With revenge burning in her gaze, she brings up the paint roller and starts a path from the edge of my jaw, down my neck, and onto my arm, covering half my tattoos.
I deserve this fate and have nowhere to go—she has me caged in.
But then, she makes a move to do the same to my other side. I grab hold of her wrist to try and wrangle the roller out of her hand. Her grip is firm when she turns on her heel, swinging herself under my arm and fighting for control. In the process of the maneuver, she ends up in front of me, her back flush to my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist.
She tugs, and it pulls me closer and—shit. That fact she fits against me perfectly is not something I need to know. This close, I can feel the softness of her skin, feel her hair tickling my chin, smell her apricot-scented shampoo, bright and fresh. If I don’t get out of this position soon, it’s going to get awkward for her and embarrassing for me.
But something in me aches to hold on, to allow myself this one thing, whether I deserve it or not.
“Give up, Harlan,” she pants.
“Not a chance, Skylar,” I echo, my breath ruffling the loose strands of hair framing her face.
She rotates her head to the side to look up at me, mouth mere inches from my own. There’s a hunger in her stare I’m certain is mirrored in my own.
I look down at her, gaze darting to her parted mouth. My breath puffs in and out in rapid succession, a silent question in my eyes.
A line thatshouldn’tbe crossed.
A line I’ve beenthinkingabout crossing for weeks.
A line we bothwantto cross.
