Dirty English

Shit. But she was all wrong for me. I mean, she was skittish as a colt. How in the hell would she ever fit in my world?

She won’t , the cynic in me said.

“Why are you so nice to me?” she said suddenly as I set her purse at her feet. Her eyes searched mine. She continued. “I mean, I made a fool of myself at your party, then I came in your apartment and hit on you and then pushed you away right when things got heavy …” She swallowed and gazed out the window. “I’m sorry. I’m a real bitch.”

I exhaled and bent down on my knees next to her seat. We stared at each other.

Breathlessness mixed with exhilaration hit me, as if I were about to take a dive off a cliff straight into an ocean below. I pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I’m nice to you because you’re worth it, Elizabeth.”

THAT AFTERNOON I took a nap feeling as worn and thin as old paper, as if I’d been folded and refolded a million times.

Visits with Mom tended to do that, but today had been the worst ever.

I made a mental note to call her tomorrow after the dust had settled to make sure she and Karl had given up on their plan.

I groaned and rolled out of bed from my nap and got dressed, pulling on a pair of black eyelet shorts and a halter top. I brushed my hair in a ponytail and applied makeup with a heavier hand than usual. My body was jumpy and twitchy. I needed out of the apartment, but I couldn’t think of a single place to go. Blake and Shelley had gone to lunch together earlier, and I hadn’t heard back from either of them.

After pacing around the apartment, I peeked out the balcony window to check out Declan’s place. He’d mentioned going to work out on the way home and then seeing Dax, so I assumed he hadn’t returned.

The minutes ticked by. I paced past my extra bedroom a few times but nothing eased me. Something insistent clawed at my brain, itching to get out. Finally, I stepped inside the extra bedroom and turned the light on. My artist pad sat out on a small desk with a myriad of colored pencils next to it—just waiting for me to draw.

Not thinking about it too much, I walked over to the pad and opened it, thumbing through some of the old designs I’d created. After a few minutes of mulling, I grabbed one of the pencils and twirled it between my fingers.

I licked my suddenly dry lips, feeling the tendrils of inspiration for the first time in ages.

And the thing is, my hand seemed to know exactly what I needed to create. Something vibrant. Beautiful.

I closed my eyes and pictured the tattoo on Declan’s neck.

I recalled the reverence in his voice when he’d talked about his mother.

What must it be like to be on the receiving end of that kind of emotion—from Declan?

With furious fingers, I drew half a dozen different dragonflies and then used colored pencils to decorate them. Some were big, some were small, but all had that ethereal quality I imagined a dragonfly had.

I pictured engraving a dragonfly on a bracelet. Or a plaque on a necklace.

No, no.

But the more I thought of it, the more I realized I was thinking way too much about Declan and not just the dragonfly. Frustrated, I set the pad aside.

I didn’t need to think about him.

He was exactly what I didn’t need.

I stood and paced, shaking my hands out.

God, I needed a release.

I needed someone inside me.

And that person could never be Declan. I wanted him too much.

Because today in the car when he’d said I was worth it, all I’d wanted to do was wrap my arms around his strong shoulders and sink into him. I’d wanted to unbuckle my seat belt and crawl in the back with him. I’d wanted to trace my tongue over every inch of him, my hands following, learning the map of his body, committing it to memory.

But I can’t!

Which is why an hour later I found myself sitting in the bookstore café, sipping on a soda as people came and went.

It wasn’t my night to work, but then that wasn’t why I was here.

I found an easy mark, a cute-in-a-geeky-way kind of guy. I studied him, recognizing him from an astronomy class last fall.

Medium height and lean, he strolled among the stacks with an intense expression. In one hand he had a notebook and periodically he’d pause at one of the chairs at the end of each row and sit down to jot notes.

Studious. Not over-the-top hot. Perfect.

I left money on the table for my drink, gathered my purse, and made my way over to him.

A dark corner of my mind whispered yes, he was the one tonight , but my heart was silently judging me. I ignored my stupid heart and stopped in front of my mark.

I leaned against the shelving. “If I had to guess, I’d say you are a TA prepping for our first week of classes. Your professor must love you.” I smiled broadly.

He glanced up from his seat, swept his eyes over me appreciatively, and stood. He grinned in a self-deprecating kind of way I found endearing. “Uh, yeah, but the professor I work for barely knows I’m alive. I do all this work with no recognition.”

“That sucks.” I stuck my hand out. “Elizabeth Bennett, by the way. Sorry to interrupt, but I had to come over and say hi. We had a class together last year? You sat in the middle and I sat in the front.” I laughed. “Truthfully, I always wanted to talk to you, but when you left class you always had a girl waiting for you in the hallway.” This part was true. He was always on my list of possibilities, but I never fooled around with guys with girlfriends.

He leaned in and took my hand briefly, giving me a clear view of his soft brown eyes. “Harry Carter, astronomy major. I remember you, of course. You wore lots of jewelry to class. Yeah, that was my ex. We broke up this summer.” He made a little shrug, his shoulders dipping. “Her loss, I guess.”