Page 73 of First-Time Caller
“Swaying, then. You’re a good swayer.” She hums back something noncommittal and my hands tighten on her. “I should get you home.” I sigh.
“What?” She leans back in the circle of my arms, pouting. I grin at the look on her face. She’s so fucking cute.
“No,” she whines.
I push her hair back over her shoulder. “Yes. Sadly, ‘Thong Song’ has come to an end.”
It ended about a minute ago, but Lucie didn’t notice and I didn’t want to point it out.
“Do you have any more quarters?” she asks. I shake my head and her shoulders slump in defeat. “Damn.”
“Next time,” I tell her, guiding her to the table, making sure to keep my hand on the small of her back. Neither of us is particularly steady, but she has the added complication of death-trap shoes. She wobbles as she collects her things, managing to get only one arm in her coat. She lets the rest of it drape over her shoulder as a yawn twists her mouth. Her fist digs into the curve of her cheek.
She looks adorable. Deliciously disheveled. I stand there in the middle of the bar and stare at her. Coincidentally, I realize I’m fucked. Because it would be one thing if I only enjoyed spending time with Lucie because of how her legs stretch for miles beneath the flimsy material of her skirt, or how her nose scrunches when she laughs, or how she looks at anything and everything with unflagging optimism. But it’s all of those things and a bunch of other stuff too. How smart she is. How sharp. How generous and open and lovely and kind. I like all of those things and no single part rises above or sinks below the rest.
I help her slip into her jacket and I pinch the top two buttons closed, fumbling with the too-small closures. My knuckles brush against the curve of her breast and she inhales sharply.
“I’m going to walk you home now,” I tell her, my hand slowly moving down the rest of her buttons. I hope that by the time I reach the bottom of these tiny, ineffectual bits of plastic, I’ll have cobbled together some common sense.
“Okay,” Lucie says, not moving an inch. She angles her face up and her nose nudges mine.
I release all that common sense like a balloon, watching it float happily away.
“Lucie,” I breathe, scrambling for restraint if common sense can’t be bothered. She’s been drinking. So have I. I can’t kiss her, even if the devil on my shoulder is bellowing obscenities, daring me to drop my mouth to hers and see if she tastes as sweet as she sounds. My fingers twitch and I let go of her coat. Unfortunately for me, she stays plastered against my front.
“I’m going to walk you home,” I repeat, hoping I might be able to convince one of us.
Her eyes close, lashes spread in a fan across the tops of her cheeks. Her nose brushes against mine again and a shudder works its way over my shoulders, my body trembling. I can smell the gin she’s been drinking. The faint trace of whatever perfume she wears.
“Lucie,” I whisper. I think I’m begging, but I have no idea what for. To let me go. To drag me closer. I don’t know.
Someone bumps into her from behind and she sways on her feet, her hands clenching in the front of my T-shirt. I steady her with my hand on the small of her back, my thumb edging over the curve of her ass.
“Watch it,” I snap at the dumbass behind her. Lucie drops her forehead against my chest and slumps against me. I sigh and grab my coat, tossing it over my arm as I gently guide her forward. She wobbles as we weave through the crowd, and as soon as we’re on the marble front steps of the bar, I tug her to a stop. She looks at me with heavy, sleepy eyes, a question in the tilt of her head.
I drop to the step in front of her and look at her over my shoulder. “Hop up.”
She stares at me. “What?”
“You can’t walk on cobblestone in those shoes.” I hunch over a little bit more. “Hop up.”
“On your back?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll fall.”
“I won’t.”
She bites her lip and I have to swallow against the groan that rumbles up inside of me. “Lucie. I’m not going to drop you,” I promise. “Let’s get you home.”
“I could walk barefoot,” she suggests.
“Yes. Please walk barefoot down the streets of Baltimore in March.” I jerk my head forward. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
“You’re bossy.”
“I certainly can be,” I tell her.
