Pas de Deux: Part One (A Cross and Pointe Novel Book 1) (18 page)

“He was just being nice and didn’t want to make me look stupid in front of my sister. You know how Niq can be.”

“Well, it’s not like I know him.” Jazz piped the buttercream onto the cupcakes in pretty swirls. “But I don’t think it’s rocket science, my dear. The man likes you. So let him like you.”

“I’m telling you, we’re just friends.” Sammi scrubbed at the mixing bowl Jazz brought over to her. “That’s all.”

Jazz rolled her big brown eyes and shook her head. “Whatever you say, Samuel. Go on, get out of here. Go work on something awesome and make me proud in June.” She held up a hand at the stormy look on Sammi’s face. “
If
that’s what you decide to do.”

After making the deposit of the day’s sales, she caught the bus just as it was pulling up across the street. As she settled into her seat, she felt her cell phone buzz in her pocket and she pulled it out, smiling when she saw name on the screen.

CILLIAN:
What are you up to tonight?

SAMMI:
Dancing stuff.

CILLIAN:
Showcase?

SAMMI:
...

CILLIAN:
So you’re gonna do it?

SAMMI:
HELL NO.

SAMMI:
Maybe. But no.

CILLIAN:
Cool. You got a safe ride home?

SAMMI:
Bus.

CILLIAN:
Key word: SAFE. You change your mind, I’ll take you home.

She smiled and rolled her eyes, but it was nice to know that he was genuinely concerned for her well-being.

Who looks out for his well-being? Are you even sure he’s single?

He might not be. The harsh lesson of her recent past created a hard little knot in her chest and it pushed hard against her breastplate; people were not always who or what they appeared to be. The weakened armor of her self-preservation whispered that it was so much easier to imagine Cillian was actually a scumbag with a girlfriend, making Sammi think he was footloose and fancy-free.

You’re not being fair. Or honest with yourself.

Cillian just didn’t seem like the kind of guy to do the things he’d been doing—seeing her home, buying her a late dinner to make her feel better, travel across the city just to bring her medication to her, agree to attend a family dinner—only to go home to his actual significant other.

And…those moments…

Outside her door. In the truck together when she’d held his hand. Hugging him—the first person outside her family that she’d willingly touched. The look in his eyes at her door after the lounge, and the night before last, couldn’t be faked. He had feelings for her.

You can’t deny how you feel. How he makes you feel.

On the tail-end of every panicky “don’t touch me” feeling she’d had, there was always an odd twinge of something else—something like yearning, wistfulness. She’d felt it when he’d taken her home the first time and she was terrified he’d been about to kiss her. She’d felt it just before descending into the turmoil of an anxiety attack when he’d been lying on top of her at the gym in the ring, when she’d felt his nose in the curve of her neck, inhaling a deep breath. She’d felt it when she slipped her arms around him to hug him for the first time, the need to be close to him overwhelming her.

No. You don’t get close.

It was better that they remain just friends. After the “ordeal” in New York, as she’d taken to calling it, it was the most she could reasonably expect out of a relationship with someone she cared about. Friendship meant boundaries, and boundaries were comfortable.

They were safe.

A dim memory flashed through her mind from the night at the gym, when she’d been in the vise-like grip of panic, hardly able to breathe or think or move. Her body had felt like it was twenty degrees too warm and she’d been certain she was about to die.

Then something cool on her neck, and a deep voice murmuring to her.
“Sam. Sammi, it’s okay. You’re all right. I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you. You hear me? You’re safe.”

Am I?

She desperately wanted to be. She wanted to trust Cillian.

What would Dr. Bornemeier say?

Her therapist in New York had been more or less unable to help her, probably due to her unwillingness to talk about what had happened. The only thing that Dr. Bornemeier had said that resonated with her was something about leaps of faith as part of her healing process, learning to trust again by opening up to people.

During that particular session, the advice had not only fallen on deaf ears, but Sammi had kicked over the coffee table and raged at the doctor.

“Go through what I did and tell me how it easy it is to trust!”

It had been their last session, and she hadn’t been to therapy since she’d moved to Boston.

Opening yourself up to someone who’s been there for you a handful of times now might be considered a leap of faith, eh, Samantha?

As the bus jounced along, an idea sprouted in her brain, its roots taking hold and the vines sliding around her mind. The yucky, prickly warmth around her throat and face crept over her and her stomach turned queasy.
Bad idea. Feel like I wanna puke, so it has to be a bad idea.

She shut her eyes and drew in some deep breaths through her nose. The sick feeling in her gut intensified, along with the beat of her heart.

Leap of faith.

Tilting her forehead against the cool glass window brought instant relief; the sickly warm feeling on her skin receded, and her gut slowly unknotted itself. Her heart rate slowed back to normal, and she picked up her phone in one clammy hand.

He’s not going to hurt you. You know this.

SAMMI:
Hey. Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow? Maybe watch a movie? You’re probably working, but, if you want to take a break, you’re welcome to stop by.

Her fingers trembled as she hit the button to send the message and she immediately dropped the phone back into her lap, pressing against her temple as she squeezed her eyes shut.

This is what regular people do. They invite other people over for dinner and movies. It’s perfectly normal. It’s what friends do. Cillian is your friend.

There was the briefest moment of placid acceptance, and then the fear came roaring back to the forefront of her mind.

But your own home? Access to your personal space? Access to you in your personal space? What was wrong with a restaurant or a movie theater? Normal people do that, too! And it’s safer! Did you learn nothing?

Her nerves hummed like a tuning fork as her heart sped up from a trot to a full-tilt gallop. Sweat beaded her forehead and she got embarrassed at how loudly she was breathing when an older woman in the next seat slowly turned her head to stare at her.

“You all right, hon?”

Sammi offered a weak smile. “Yup. Thanks.” She turned back to the window and pressed her forehead against it again. As before, the cool glass calmed her.

Leap of faith, Sam. The only thing Dr. B said that you held onto, so it must be important. And what the hell is taking him so long to reply?

A moment later, her phone buzzed and she scrambled to quickly snatch her phone up into her hand to read the message.

CILLIAN:
Sure. Sounds good. Let me know if I can bring anything.

A confusing mixture of excitement, anticipation, and sheer, utter terror shot through her and she felt like throwing up again. Her hand moved toward her bag where her meds were stashed, but at last second, she pulled back before she caught the zipper.

Leap of fucking faith.

Bite me, Dr. B.

“Jay, I can’t do this.”

Sammi paced frantically the next evening as they cleaned the café, and she looked at her watch for the thirtieth time in half as many minutes. There was exactly one and a half hours until Cillian was supposed to arrive at her apartment.

“I think I gotta cancel.”

“Hell, no, you’re not canceling. Just relax. Okay? I’m proud of you.”

“I don’t know how to
do
this,” Sammi hissed. “I’ve never had a guy over before. I mean, not since I lived in New York before…everything. What if he’s a psycho? What if he robs me or tries to do something, or…something?”

“He might be a psycho, to be fair. But I highly doubt he wants to rob you. And he’s been at your apartment way later than seven-thirty at night before and he’s had you alone at the gym. If he wanted to do something to you, I’m quite certain he would have done it already.” She reached out and grabbed Sammi by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. “Calm down! This is a date, you should be prepared to have—”

Sammi gave her a murderous look and Jazz grinned.

“
Fun
,” she finished innocently. “Have fun.”

“Well, I feel like puking,” Sammi announced. “Like, what do I wear? Do I wear makeup? Am I supposed to shave my legs? I literally do not know what to do. I’m twenty-six. This is pathetic.”

“I mean…you should always shave your legs.” Jazz looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “I think the makeup you have on now is fine. It’s subtle. Natural. You should take your hair down, though.” Her eyes moved over Sammi critically. “As for what to wear, it’s your house. Wear whatever you want to be comfortable in.” She shrugged negligently. “Wear panties.”

“Jay!” Sammi put her hands on her hips. “Not helpful.”

“Okay, okay. He’s always been in gym clothes every time I’ve seen him, because he’s always at the gym. He’ll probably wear something like that to your place, so just wear, like, yoga pants and a cute top. Just be casual. It really doesn’t matter what you wear, okay? Now,
chill
.”

“What about the food? Do you think what I made is okay?”

“It’s perfect.” Jazz shooed her toward the door. “Stop freaking out.”

“I need a tranquilizer. Or, like, a Quaalude.”

“A Quaalude?” Jazz repeated, stopping in her tracks. “Do you even know what that is, Scarface?”

“I’m kidding. Kind of. I
can’t
relax, but I really don’t want to take my meds.”

“Good for you.” Jazz held up a finger. “What you need is a good, stiff shot of whiskey and you’ll be fine.”

“Right, I’ll get drunk. Nothing could go wrong.”

Jazz grabbed the deposit bag from Sammi and pushed her forward, locking the café door behind her. “Just go get ready, go
relax
, and have a good time. And I want a full report in the morning.”

Sammi waved and trudged off toward her apartment. It was a half-mile walk, but she needed it to calm down and burn off the nervous energy jumping through her body. As she walked, she ran down a mental checklist. The food she’d prepared was ready to go, it just needed to be assembled after he arrived. She’d straightened up last night; she usually kept things very tidy and deep-cleaned once a month, so it hadn’t been too much work other than to fold throw blankets and scrub cat hair off the upholstery.

It’s all fine. I’m just not fine.

She hurried up the stairs into her apartment. Her small kitchen was sparklingly neat and the whole place smelled of vanilla, caramel, and cinnamon—her favorite aromatic combinations, courtesy of a few triple-wick candles. Fiddling with the light switch on the wall, she decided to keep the lighting bright enough to see by but not too low, either.

A nice welcoming, homey glow. Not romance or seduction.

Finally, she moved to her bedroom and studied herself in the full-length mirror. Jazz probably had a point—being that Cillian’s work attire consisted of athletic clothing, she should probably expect him to show up in that and not a three-piece suit, which meant there was no need for her to be dressier than her normal comfortable lounge clothing.

She changed into black yoga pants and her favorite old NYU sweatshirt that she’d cut to hang off her shoulder just right and pulled bobby pins out of her hair to let the long locks fall free, ruffling her waves. Her makeup needed just a little refreshing, and she brushed her teeth before applying a lightly tinted lip balm that tasted like peppermint. After a spritz of her favorite perfume, she appraised herself in the mirror.

“Sure are doing a lot for ‘just friends’,” she told her reflection, then blew air hard between her lips and stalked out of the room.

In the kitchen, she pulled down plates from the cabinet and set them neatly on the counter. Another fifteen minutes, and he’d be knocking at her door. The warm yucky feeling pricked her skin and her gut clenched up again. She clutched the edge of the counter.

“Get a damn grip,” she mumbled, squeezing her eyes shut. They popped open a second later, remembering her prescription bottle a few feet away on the counter. She reached out to grab them, then stopped halfway there.

Don’t.

Dr. B had given her a number of ways to calm herself down, cautioning her that the medication should be used as a last resort if the relaxation techniques failed to work. Somewhere over the last year, Sammi had skipped the techniques and gone straight for the meds.