Page 92 of Lucas & Melissa Falling in Love
“Glad to hear it, but I’m not sure you’re the best judge of the situation.”
“How do you figure that?” I’m not sure how we got on this subject, but I’m enjoying it. It feels like a game and it feels like I’m winning. Maybe because he’s letting me, but that doesn’t make it any less fun.
“Because you don’t know your effect on men. I can see it. Ihaveseen it. You’re blind to your ownje ne sais quoiand that in itself is part of your allure.”
“You speak French pretty good for an Italian guy.”
“Changing the subject?”
“No, just spellbound by your French.”
He laughs, then he pulls me in.
“How about the rest of that tour? You were going to show me your bedroom.”
“Don’t you want to see the kitchen?”
“For an Italian, I’m not much of a cook.”
It’s my turn to laugh and the frisson in my gut sends a pleasant trill through my whole body so that I can feel his charm to the ends of my hair.
Separating from him before my legs collapse from infatuation or excitement—same thing—I take his large warm hand and lead him down the hall. But I have to talk.
“I used to entertain my girlfriends here all the time. They loved coming over after a night out or on a Sunday afternoon and we’d have drinks and gossip and try on each other’s shoes. I’d give mini-lectures on investments.” I stopped abruptly at that and he squeezed my hand. “Guess I won’t be giving those lectures any more. Maybe I’ll talk about making a successful comeback instead.”
“You will.”
We enter my bedroom and, with no furniture, it seems even larger than it did before.
“You know what I miss most of all?” I know I’ve broken the flirtatious spell we had, but I can’t help my compulsion to tell him about this feeling welling up in me.
“Tell me.” His eyes are dark, but no less interested, intent on listening to me as if I’m about to tell him a billion-dollar secret or how to live forever. Maybe they’re the same thing.
“I loved having my parents visit, how I’d prepare for days making sure the place was perfect, spotless and plan the menu down to the last crumb. I’d serve them dinner and take them to a Broadway show, or we’d have hors d’oeuvres and go out to dinner. They even stayed over a couple of times.” I found myself standing at the wall where the head of my bed used to be, looking out the window in the direction of Times Square. Lucas didn’t say anything, just watched me, knowing I still had more to share. Gotta love a guy who knows you that well.
“I basked in their pride and I felt wonderful. But it was like I’d only read the first volume of a two-volume book. I was missing a big chunk of myself. I needed to know my birth parents too.”
I turned to him then and held his arms, needing him to understand. Needing to wrap my own head around this half-baked feeling I felt.
“I want to see who they are, but I want them to see who I am too. I want them to see who they rejected and to be sorry that they did. I want them to regret their decision when they see what a great person I am, what a great daughter they lost. And I want them to apologize and beg my forgiveness.” Shrinking back because I’d said more than I realized I had in me, revealed more to Lucas than I should have. But then he always seemed to turn me into the emotionally brave woman that I never was before.
“Of course you want all that. Youshouldhave all that. Your birth parentsshouldbeg you for forgiveness”
“But?”
“But you may not get everything you deserve. Your birth parents may be less than deserving of you. One thing I can guarantee, you will get your chance to show them who you are. You will meet your birth parents. I promise.”
“If they’re still alive.”
He nods, but doesn’t say I’m being unnecessarily gloomy because he doesn’t need to. I can feel it and I don’t like it.
“Whatever happens, I can promise you I’ll be all right,” I say. I have no idea what it is about Lucas that prompts me to be so emotionally effusive. He’s the perfect person to tell all my inner feelings to because he never judges me. Or at least he reserves judgment.
“Come here,” he says but he doesn’t wait for me to move. He reaches out and pulls me in. Then he turns me against the wall. It’s the wall where my bed would have been.
He leans against me, hard, fully aroused, hot, his mouth almost touching mine. With my eyes wide open his face is so close it’s blurry, but I keep my eyes on his, focus on his dark lashes and the sparks, the glazed hungriness. My heart’s beating too fast to think, but I talk anyway.
“We’re standing on my bed. I think the ghost of it is haunting me, making me want to lie here with you.”
