Page 114 of Lucas & Melissa Falling in Love
His face goes all tender then, his muscles softening, his eyes glittering, his mouth wearing a faint smile that radiates waves of love and passion. I can literally feel the heat, feel the joy welling up in me. I need to practice in my head so I close my eyes.I love you, Lucas.
It’s easy. Keep it simple. Say the words.
Leaning into him because I’m craving contact with him, he wraps his arms around me and I take his face in my hands, feeling the roughness of the night’s growth of his beard, feeling the warmth, feeling the love seeping from him—or maybe it’s my love seeping into him.
“I love you, Lucas.”
He closes his eyes for a beat and opens them and they are glistening and intense as he lowers his mouth to mine, whispering those Italian words that sound like heaven, like bliss on earth, like magic soothing my soul and making my heart swell.
His mouth is hot and tender and I deepen the kiss and he joins me and holds me tight as I run my fingers through the dark waves of his hair, holding his mouth to mine as if we’re fusing our souls.
We end the kiss and I feel queasy, like I’ve had an overdose of emotion.
“Are you all right?” he says, his concern mild, but there.
I feel nauseated and run to the bathroom and lock the door. I would be upset with Lucas for laughing if I wasn’t so preoccupied with heaving. But mostly, I’m embarrassed beyond belief. Even though he pounds on the door to let him in and help me, I won’t let him help me. I can’t stand the thought of him seeing me sick.
I brush my teeth and gargle. Then I come out of the bathroom, stomach still jittery. His smile is devilish.
“You’re not perfect,” I blurt. He laughs as if I’m a world-class comedienne who just cracked the joke of the century. “It’s not funny and the fact that you’re laughing is pretty damn insensitive for such a sensitive guy.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. But I never claimed to be sensitive.”
I roll my eyes. He frowns.
“I’m a guy. I have feelings and I know how to express them,” he says. Right now he’s expressing them loud and clear. He doesn’t like being labeled as sensitive. Staring at his bulging arms crossed against his massive chest, I don’t see what he’s worried about.
“What’s wrong with being sensitive?” I ask. Testing him.
“It depends what you mean by sensitive. Do I cry at the drop of a hat? No. Do I need my hand held when things get tough? No. Can I hold my own up against tough guys? Yes.”
“Okay. I didn’t mean to offend your macho sensibilities.” I know it’s the wrong thing to say, but I’m feeling irritable and my stomach is still churning.
We stare at each other. He’s silent and expressionless, but I can see the tension has left him. His arms are down and shoved into his pockets. He heaves a sigh. I realize I’ve just ruined my momentous moment. We should be making love right now, but it’s the last thing I feel like doing. Mostly because of my stomach and I hope it’s not a bug.
“Are you going to be all right?” he asks. “Do you want me to take you back to . . . Margo’s?” He’s always reluctant to call where I live my home—even more so than I am.
I nod. He picks up my coat and goes to put it on me, but I snatch it away.
He swears under his breath. “I only wanted to help you put your coat on. I’m not trying to take over your life.” He’s angry. He grabs his coat and shrugs into it and heads out the door, doesn’t wait for me, doesn’t look back. I dress hastily and hurry after him and I think I should call a taxi or an Uber ride and I don’t care if it pisses him off even more. So I do.
Out in the parking lot, I catch up with him.
“I got an Uber ride back to the city. You don’t need to bother driving me home. Go back to bed. Get some sleep. You look like I feel.” And I realize he’s been working nonstop too and he looks exhausted now. I should have noticed before.
He stares at me and shakes his head. “You’re something else.” He turns to go and I take his arm and stop him. He looks skyward and then levels his gaze at me. It’s a serious look, the kind I’ve seen him aim at others, like reporters or paparazzi. My first instinct is to strike out. My second instinct is to shrivel up. My third, winning instinct, is to stand my ground and stay poised. I raise my chin.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you have a funny way of showing how you love me. It means I’m not so sure I believe your words.” He stares me down. I know a challenge when I see one.
The thing of it is, I’m not so sure I would believe me either if I were him. Do I believe my own words? Do I trust my own feelings? My heart pounds wildly and I start shivering, the kind that has nothing to do with the cold day.
“I believe them. I believe that I love you,” I say. He softens, but I can see him close up again. I don’t move, frozen to the spot, hardly breathing, waiting for him to say something. Waiting for him to take me in his arms the way he does, the way he always has, and pull me against his powerful chest and his endless warmth and make it all right.
The Uber car pulls up then and we both turn to it. I feel a sob rising in my throat and my stomach churns angrily.
“Melissa,” he says.
