Complete sugary shock.
I’ve never touched a girl before. Never hugged a girl who wasn’t my stepsister or mom or stepmom. Never wanted to—until London.
“Get off—”
“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s me,” I murmur against the side of her head, and it’s as if my voice—my presence—is enough to loosen every muscle in her body and simply give in to me.
Give in to my warmth and comfort.
No matter how badly I can feel my frantic heartbeat in my ears, I give in to the foreign feeling and embrace London tighter.
My lips brush against her freezing cheekbone, and it takes all of me not to feel an ounce of something as I dive my nose into her hair. That all-familiar rosy vanilla blend is all I breathe.
She is all I breathe.
I don’t know what it feels like to have a crush, but London Héroux could be something like it.
“You never came back.” London trembles through her sobs, suddenly struggling in my grip as if she wants me to let go. I hold on to her tighter. “I hate you, Tate. Get off me!”
You never came back.
My brows knit in confusion. “I did come back.”
“No, you didn’t! You made me look silly; that’s what you did! Get OFF!”
I panic. “I’m just trying to help. Stop screaming, London. Somebody’s going to think I’m hurting you!”
“You are,” she cries, slipping out of my hold. “Get off me before I scream for the police!”
I raise my hands up to my head in defense and slide away from her on the bench, instantly missing her warmth.
I thought this was where it would begin.
Where the real fight would start.
Where all the reasons why she hates me so much would escape.
Instead, London looks at me, like really looks at me, and I get lost in those darkened baby-blues that scream fear. Not of me, but of something that was.
My brows furrow, and I attempt to work this out. Attempt to understand the reasons behind London’s sobs, which have now mellowed down to whimpers and hiccups.
The reason there’s pain written all over her face as she tightens her pink trench coat and scarf.
The reason there’s a dark blue blotch forming just under the right side of her lip.
It’s highlighted by the silvery moonlight and dim lighting from the art deco lamp two feet away. The bruise is huge and raised, causing that side of her lower lip to be swollen and a tinge redder than her candy-floss-colored plump lips.
Those I seem to stare at more tonight.
I don’t know why I’m feeling so protective of her; all I know is that I don’t want her hurting. I don’t want her in pain. I want to know who did this to her.
Who made her black and blue?
Who made her cry here tonight as the stars twinkle down, hitting the surface of the lake and reflecting up into those baby-blue delights?
Unable to stop myself, I give in to temptation and reach out a hand to her. Gliding it over her cold chin, I cup her jaw, and my thumb automatically rushes up to brush over soft lips.
Whoa.
I need to gulp down as I explore her lips with my thumb ever so slowly. A slight gasp escapes her when I begin tracing the outline of her lips, making me wonder if she likes it. If she likes me touching her lips like this.
She’s so beautiful…
She’s older than when I last saw her. Less of a little girl.
The tension eases, and her shoulders drop as I continue. My touch seems to calm her down, and I decide I like that. I like seeing her relax around me.
My thumb slows just before I reach her swollen bruise, and so many questions rush to my head. One, in particular, stands out. And it’s all I think about as her eyes squeeze shut, and her face scrunches up when I lightly graze my thumb over the mark.
“When did this happen?” I whisper into the night.
A moment passes. “Four nights ago.”
“Does it still hurt you?”
Eyes still closed, she nods.
“Who did this to you?”
Nothing.
She gives me nothing.
I hate the way her lower lip trembles like that, in sadness.
I slip my thumb away but keep cupping her face. I think I like the way my heart skips a beat when I do. And the way she looks at me, like I’m the only thing that matters.
Swallowing thickly, I slip my hand away and study her pretty face. The tip of her nose is so red from the cold, but I think it’s the cutest thing ever. That same coldness seeps into my bones.
“London?”
She opens one eye. “Mhmmm?”
My heart is in my throat.
Thump. Thump. Thumpppp.
Chewing my lower lip, I play with my hands and pray to God she’ll say yes to what I’m gonna ask.
“If I press my forehead against yours, promise you won’t get mad at me and scream again?”
Both of her eyes open wide at my question, and I’m pretty sure diving face-first into that freezing lake feels better than the extended silence between us.
My stomach flips, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m going to be sick or because I like the way that scarlet blush works its way up her tear-stained cheeks.
“Okay,” London whispers back, her breath creating a fog in the air. That’s how cold it is. “I promise.”
I shut my eyes and do just that. I lean in and press my forehead against hers.
We inhale at the exact same time.
All I feel is her when her hands come to rest on my knees. And even though it’s one of the coldest Manhattan winter nights, right now—with her—this unspeakable warmth wraps around me that feels like the heat of hell. Because perhaps that’s exactly what I am, a devil for going against everything my parents have ever warned me about the Hérouxes.
That they’re untrustworthy. Cheats. Worthless.
And while that may apply to her parents, London isn’t worthless. Or a cheater. Or untrustworthy. She seems smart. And important. And beautiful.
And hurt, so freaking hurt.
But by who?
I catch a glance of her two bracelets. The first is a Hello Kitty one, and the other, a soft pink pearl bracelet. She’s such a girly girl. A true sucker for anything pink and sparkly.
When I kiss away the tears on London’s cheeks, my lips burn from the sparks that fizzle despite the wetness.
A noise escapes London’s throat that I’ve never heard before, and it’s something half between a silent sob and a moan.
I like it.
My lips linger on her cheeks for what feels like forever.
I wish we could have spent the last three and a half years like this at night. Every. Single. Night. I’d take anything with London instead of my father’s screams, the alcohol bottles shattering against the wall, and all the hospital visits after he gets so drunk that he gets into fights and becomes concussed.
As I rest my forehead against hers again, I catch a flicker of her eyes, which look up at me and gently fill with tears, creating a beautiful glimmer.
Okay. London Héroux is my crush.
“You look pretty when you cry…” I murmur and scratch the back of my head before adding with a sad smile, “Not that I want you to cry because nobody would want that. It’s just that… well, you look pretty when you cry. That’s, uh, that’s what I’m trying to say.”
I don’t expect London to giggle, but I’ll take it. “You literally could have said that paragraph in six words.”