Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (10 page)

“Go back inside,” he commands, no kindness in his voice.

I’m too tired to fight with him and certainly too weak to keep looking at him without caving to the need to step into his chest and wrap my arms around him, so I just turn back to the water, lean deeper against the railing, and murmur, “Actually, I’m good right here.”

I hear what I think is a curse and then he’s there, right beside me, hovering so close I can feel the heat of his chest. Not touching me, but almost.

It takes physical effort to keep my body from leaning into his, to keep my eyes locked on the river — a spill of dark ink, now that the sun’s set.

Love that dirty water
, Bostonians everywhere chant at sports games and bar crawls, taking pride in the polluted Charles. Reveling in their adoration for something broken and toxic and wrong.

I know a little about that.

“West.”

Am I crazy, or is his voice a fraction softer? A shade kinder?

I’m probably crazy. Or drunk.

Maybe both.

“It’s cold as hell out here,” he informs me unnecessarily. I know just how icy the air is between us, how many frozen degrees of separation divide his body from mine.

I nod and sip my champagne, lacking the energy to snap back at him, as I’d usually do in this scenario. There hasn’t been a single conversation between us in the past ten years that wasn’t laced with sarcasm and scorn.

First time for everything.

“Dammit, West.” His words are harsh, but his voice is uncharacteristically rattled. Like he doesn’t quite know how to handle me, when I’m not cursing at him. “Nothing’s fucking easy with you.”

“You’ve mentioned that before.” My voice is so bland you’d think we were discussing cereal brands.

He’s silent for a moment, before barking, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

I shrug, still not looking at him. “Nothing.”

“Then why aren’t you being a sarcastic pain in my ass and snapping at me for ordering you around?”

I turn my head to look at him — I can’t help myself — and as soon as our gazes meet, I feel the breath seize in my lungs.

It’s hard, so hard, to be indifferent with those dark eyes a half-foot away from mine.

Tension builds like a summer storm in the space between us — charged air currents zinging from my body to his.

His jaw starts to tick. “West—”

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” I ask, the words popping out before I can stop them. I’m not sure who’s more surprised by my question.

His brow furrows. “Tired of you being a sarcastic pain in my ass?”

I try to grin but only half my mouth cooperates. I look away before he sees the flimsy smile, proof of my deep unease.

“No,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that.”

Indifferent
, I tell myself.
You’re indifferent to him. You’ve got a hot date inside who actually
likes
you. Why waste your time on someone who so clearly doesn’t?

My inner voice is about as convincing as an oceanfront condo salesman in Nebraska.

Silence drags on. After a second, I feel him step closer. It takes every ounce of energy I possess to remain still.

“Tired of what?” Nate mutters, sounding like he’d rather have bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails than continue this conversation with me.

It’s almost enough to draw out a real smile. Almost.

“All of it.” I shrug and sip my champagne again. The glass is almost empty.

“Gonna have to elaborate on that one.”

I finally look up at him and I swear he almost flinches when our eyes meet. I’m not sure what that says about the emotions in my eyes — I’m not sure I want to know.

“Don’t you ever—” My voice cracks. I ignore it and start over. “Do you ever feel like you could just disappear and no one would even notice?”

He stares at me a beat — brow creasing, eyes active, mouth pressing into an even firmer line. My heart starts beating too fast. He’s watching me so intently, it’s like he’s never seen me before. Like I’ve changed right before his eyes into a stranger.

I look away, because I can’t look at him. Not with that mortifying question — a question that revealed so much more than I ever intended to — still lingering in the air between us.

The longer it’s out there, the more exposed I feel. Like I’ve just reached into my chest, pulled out my beating, vulnerable heart, and handed it to him on a platter.

Worse still, he doesn’t say anything. Not a single word. The silence stretches, grows, until it’s a physical presence. Until it’s so loud, my ears begin to ache with it, and suddenly, for no reason at all, I’m fighting tears.

I should’ve stuck with indifference.

Indifferent is always better than raw and afraid and lonely and broken.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Then, out of nowhere, a hand lands on the bare flesh of my arm. Every thought except
holy-frack-Nate-is-touching-me
disappears from my mind as lightning jolts through me, frying my circuit boards. I go completely still, barely breathing as my eyes move slowly from the hand curled around my arm — so unbearably gentle, like I’m made of glass — to his other fist, which is wrapped so tight around the deck railing, his veins pop like stark cords. It’s a wonder the wood doesn’t splinter under his hold.

As though he’s so tense from just touching me, he needs a physical outlet.

As though the feeling of my skin under his palm is nearly enough to kill him.

I marvel at the tandem show of utter tenderness and brute force. At his ability to keep that pain contained within himself, never once tightening his grip on me. Such total control — I’d be intimidated, if I could feel anything at all, right now.

My entire system, every ounce of sensory input, is narrowed to a single point of contact. To five callused, masculine fingers, where they grip the fragile skin of my wrist. 

My eyes trail up the muscled length of his arm to his broad chest, then to the tanned column of his throat where it peeks out the unbuttoned collar of his black dress shirt. Before I lose all my courage, I slide my gaze up over the planes of his face to meet his stare head-on.

He’s not even looking at me.

His eyes are on his own hand, where it’s curled reverently around my wrist. He’s staring at it like he doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Something stirs low in my abdomen, a pang of longing shooting through me like an electric charge.

“Nate…” I whisper, breathless.

His eyes snap to mine, but his hand doesn’t move. “You drunk, West?”

“No,” I say, even though it’s kind of a lie.

“Five glasses of champagne say otherwise.”

My mouth parts and my eyes narrow. “What, you’ve been spying on me?”

“Don’t think watching the most boring date in history counts as spying. Even if you are wearing your fuck-me heels.” 

My brain actually stutters inside my skull, hearing the phrase
fuck me
come from Nate’s mouth, watching those lips form such sensual, sinuous words. Words that should insult me, not turn me on.

“Excuse me?” I snap, mustering all the anger I can manage to cover my sudden lust. “For your information, Cormack is not boring. He’s charming. And good-looking. And unlike
some people I know,
he doesn’t feel the need to assert his manhood by brooding and glaring and grunting like a bull in heat.”

“West—”

“Frankly, it’s none of your fracking business who I date!”

“
Fracking
?”

“And furthermore,” I barrel on, ignoring his amused question. “These are not fu… fu…” I swallow hard. “They are not
those
kind of heels.”

His mouth tugs up at one side and the sight of it makes my heart skip a beat.

“Can’t say the word
fuck
, West?” He sounds vastly entertained by the idea.

My cheeks heat.

Oh, I can, all right. I just worry that if I say
fuck me
while you’re standing so close, my body will disobey orders and wrap around you like a tree frog.

“Just a word, West.” He leans closer, practically inducing a heart attack. “No need to be afraid of it.”

“I’m not afraid of anything, you condescending ass,” I hiss, tugging my arm from his grip and praying I don’t fall over. To my dismay, he lets me pull out of his hold. I miss his touch as soon as it’s gone, cursing myself even as I curse him.

“I’m an ass, now? Thought I was a bull in heat,” he mocks. “And I gotta say, charming as your elementary, barnyard-animal insults are… I’ve been called worse.”

“Oh,
fuck
you, Nate.
Fuck
you,
fuck
off, go
fuck
yourself.” I twist my face into the mimicry of a smile and make my voice sweet as pie. “How was that? Was my usage correct? My diction on point? Because, if we’re quite finished here, I have to go do something more interesting. Like alphabetize my entire bookshelf by title, author, and genre. Maybe un-gunk the lint from my car speakers with a toothpick. Oh, or translate the entire works of Tolstoy into Pig-Latin.”

He stares at me for a beat, those dark eyes glittering, that almost-smile playing on his lips. I’m breathing too hard and I tell myself it’s from the anger coursing through my system. Not something else. Something stupid. Like attraction.

“There she is,” he murmurs under his breath, those dark eyes locked on mine.  His tone is hushed, amused — almost like he’s talking to himself. About me, rather than
to
me.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I snap, but my anger feels suddenly stretched thin.

There she is. There she is. There she is.

His words beat through my mind like a tribal drum beat.

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are already shuttering away whatever emotion flashed there seconds ago. I glare at him, fully prepared to launch in again and ask why the hell he insists on antagonizing me at every opportunity, but before I can get out another word a voice cuts across the deck like a thunderclap, shattering the moment.

“Phoebe?”

Phey-bee.

“Crap on whole wheat,” I mutter, taking an abrupt step back from Nate and turning to face Cormack, who’s crossing the terrace with a look of concern on his face.

I think I hear Nate curse again, though I don’t know what
he
could possibly be pissed off about, unless it’s the fact that he can no longer taunt me with Cormack here to witness it.

“You were gone a long time. I thought I’d come check on you,” Cormack tells me, though his eyes are locked on Nate. I can’t help but notice his usual charming smile is nowhere to be found. When he reaches my side, his hand immediately finds the small of my back in that possessive way of his.

I fight the urge to stiffen at his touch, looking anywhere but at Nate.

“Just enjoying the fresh air,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level. My eyes lift to Cormack’s. “Thanks for checking.”

He smiles faintly before his gaze shifts back to Nate, who’s crossed his arms over his chest and adopted a seriously intimidating expression. It’s one I’ve never seen before and I immediately dub it his Badass Mercenary look.

Tight mouth, scary eyes, pervasive silence. 

So, basically his normal look… on steroids.

To my surprise, Cormack doesn’t turn and run. His spine straightens as he meets Nate’s hard stare, and he shoves a cordial hand into the space between them. Nate stares unmoving at the other man’s hand and, eventually, Cormack drops it and shoves it back into his pants pocket.

“I’m Corma—”

“I know who you are.” Nate’s voice is arctic cold. Colder than I’ve ever heard it. “And I don’t know what game you’re playing here, O’Dair, but it ends now.”  

Cormack actually laughs —
laughs!
— like he isn’t standing two feet from the most intimidating human on planet earth.  There’s a strange gleam in my date’s blue-green eyes that wasn’t there earlier, and a smug smile playing out on those killer Irish lips.

I’m instantly set on edge.

Something’s happening here. And, as much as I’d like to think the tension between them is because they’re both madly in love with me —
HA!
—  I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. They clearly have a history.

Judging by the frost crystalizing the air between them, I’m guessing it’s not a happy one.

At least a decade passes as the men face off, neither breaking the heavy silence. The tension builds until I can barely breathe around it.

“Maybe—” I start, but my words are immediately cut off.

“West, go inside.” Nate never looks away from Cormack. “I’m going to have a chat with your…” He pauses intentionally, a hard smile curling at his mouth. “…
friend
.”