The Long Game (11 page)

“
So what’s with the unmade
bed?” Spencer asked. “Everything else around here is
spotless.”

I slid the boxty from my spatula onto a plate
and glanced over my shoulder to the corner where the bed was tucked
under the slopping roof. The thick blue-and-green plaid comforter
was jumbled to one side of the bed, revealing the twisted sheets
beneath, and the pillows were thrown into a haphazard mound.

“It’s my way of avoiding a restless night.”
An image of Spencer and I spending a restless night together on the
bed’s plush surface filled my mind, and I smiled to myself before
turning to look at her.

She quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “How’s
that?”

“When I was growing up, Maggie had all kinds
of superstitions for everyday tasks. She told me once that if I got
distracted while making my bed, I’d spend a restless night in it. I
decided the best way to avoid that would be to stop making it.”

Spencer laughed. “And she was okay with
that?”

“Not really, but I think she appreciated my
ingenuity.” I flashed her a grin and turned the knob that
extinguished the gas flame under my pan. “So are you ready to
broaden your culinary horizons?”

She laughed and slid from the counter. “Do I
have a choice?”

“Not even a little.” I spooned a generous
amount of the thick stew onto the boxty already waiting in its dish
and handed it to her. She used her foot to pull a chair out from
under the small kitchen table that served as a divider between the
kitchen and the rest of the apartment and sat down. I sat my own
stew down on the placemat across from her.

“I’m going to make some tea. Want some? I
also have milk, a few cans of beer, and some flat soda if that
sounds more appealing.”

She smiled, shaking her head at me. “Tea
sounds great.”

I filled the kettle and set it on the already
hot burner, then opened a cupboard door and pulled down two of the
plain white ceramic mugs that came with my rental. I packed a tea
steeper with a flaky mixture from the battered tin Maggie had
pushed into my hands before I left.

“Is this Maggie’s famous tea?” Spencer
asked.

I turned to answer, and my elbow caught one
of the mugs, sending it crashing to the floor. It broke into
several large pieces and scattered across the linoleum.

“Dammit.” I bent to clean the mess. Spencer
knelt down to help, but I held up a hand to stop her.

“Careful. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”
I reached for the largest chunk of ceramic, then sucked in a sharp
breath and withdrew my hand. I inspected the gash on my palm. It
welled with blood, and I closed my fingers again to keep it from
dripping onto the floor. “Kind of like that.”

Spencer grabbed a towel from the counter and
took my hand. She wrapped it tightly with the towel and tucked in
the end. “Keep it up like this.” She pushed my arm toward me so it
bent at the elbow.

She stood to search for a first aid kit,
found one in the back of a drawer next to the sink, and carried it
to the table. Then she pointed to one of the chairs. I cradled my
injured hand against my chest, obeying her silent orders. Spencer
pulled the second chair closer and sat across from me. She took my
hand and rested it on her knees, then unwrapped the towel to
inspect the cut again. It was deep but wouldn’t need stitches as
far as I could tell. I watched her as she tore open a small packet
with her teeth and pulled out an alcohol swab. She swiped it across
my palm, and I hissed through my teeth.

Spencer grinned. “Now who’s six?”

She lifted my hand and blew on it to take
away the sting. I would’ve been happy to recover with her cool
breath on my open palm, but she produced gauze and tape from the
kit to finish the job. When she finished wrapping and taping it,
she turned my hand from side to side to look over the dressing.
Satisfied, she bent her head and kissed my palm. “There. All
better.”

“Nicely done.” I wiggled my fingers as if
she’d reattached a limb rather than bandaged a cut. “I’m lucky you
were here, or I may have bled to death.”

Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, well, I think you
would have pulled through, but you can thank my dad for the
first-aid skills. I was constantly hurting myself as a kid, so he
had lots of opportunities to demonstrate his technique.”

“Same here, although I’m not qualified for
much more than a Band-Aid. I was usually too busy fussing over my
injury to notice what Maggie was doing.”

“Worst childhood injury?” Spencer asked.

“Broken nose when I was twelve, courtesy of
my brother. But I totally deserved it.”

“Yeah?”

“I was annoyed he wouldn’t
let me skip school to go with him on a trip, so I told Maggie about
the
Playboys
he had
hidden in his dresser.”

Spencer laughed. “You ratted out your own
brother?”

“I know, I know.” I hung my head. “I’m the
worst.”

The teakettle whistled, and I hopped out of
my chair to answer it. I poured the boiling water into one mug, got
another from the cupboard, and filled that too. “Here you go.” I
brought them to the table. “Just let it sit for a few minutes
before you try it.”

“Honey?”

I scowled at her with feigned horror. “Honey?
Normal tea needs honey. Maggie’s tea doesn’t need anything but a
mug. Trust me.”

Spencer put up her hands in surrender. “So
sorry. I didn’t realize I was dealing with a tea sommelier.”

I grinned at her as I retook my seat. Her
chair was still pulled close, and our knees brushed together as I
settled into mine. “What about you. What was your worst injury as a
kid?”

“Couple broken bones, lots of cuts and
scrapes.” She thought for a second. “Oh, maybe it’s not the worst,
but this one is the grossest.” She held out her left hand to me,
palm flat. She pointed to the silvery outline of a jagged
circle.

“What’s it from?”

“I was eight, just learning to ride a bike on
my own, and I was lucky enough to fall straight onto a bottle cap.
It went so far in it had to be removed in the ER.”

I winced, imagining the metal cap where the
scar now marked her palm. “Nasty.”

She smiled, probably glad her story had had
the desired effect. “Yeah, but the worst part was the tetanus shot.
Right in the ass, and those things hurt.”

“Aww, want me to kiss it?”

She smacked her scarred palm against my
chest. “Shane!”

I laughed. “Oh, come on, you walked into
that.” I caught her hand and kissed her palm as she’d done for
me.

She didn’t pull her hand from mine. “Okay.
Favorite book?”

“To Kill a
Mockingbird
.”

“I love that one. But my
favorite is
The Secret
Garden
.”

I laughed. “Really?”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I love it, and
true love lasts a lifetime.” She lifted her mug from the table and
took a sip. Her eyes widened, and she flashed a delighted smile.
“This is really amazing.”

“I told you.” I took a sip of my own tea. The
sweet tang of citrus and mild spiciness warmed my throat. It made
me miss home. “Any pets?”

“No, although I always wanted a dog. My dad
said it was too much hassle since we moved so much.”

“I love my dogs.”

“What kind?”

“Irish Wolfhounds,” I said. “Yeats and
Beckett.”

She smiled. “Figures.”

“I know. I’m such a stereotype.”

“So, we’ve established that you love your
dogs and your mother’s tea. Oh, and you’re obnoxiously proud of
your Irish heritage. How many girls have you been in love
with?”

“None,” I answered right away.

“Is that ‘none’ as in, you’ve never really
been in love, or ‘none’ as in you’ve never even felt like you were
in love.”

“I’ve liked plenty of girls, but I’ve never
been in love. Jimmy likes to joke that my dogs are the only living
things I’ll ever say the word to. It’s a bit of an exaggeration,
but not too far off, I guess. What about you?”

“Pass,” Spencer said with a shake of her
head.

“No way. I told you about my deep and
enduring love for the wolfhounds.”

“Right, and I told you about
my love affair with
The Secret
Garden
, so we’re even.”

“For now,” I said.

“Moving on then. Beatles or Stones?”

“Van Morrison,” I said as if it was the most
obvious answer in the world.

“What? That wasn’t even a choice.”

“It should’ve been
considering that
Astral Weeks
is the greatest album of all time.”

“That’s high praise for an album I’ve never
even heard of.”

“Agh.” I grimaced. “You’re killing me. You
know who Van Morrison is, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “‘Brown-Eyed Girl.’
It’s cute if you like that sort of thing.”

The dishes rattled as my head thunked against
the tabletop. “Why is that the only song anyone knows? Are you
seriously telling me you haven’t heard ‘Domino’? ‘Into the Mystic’?
‘Sweet Thing’?”

“I may have,” she said, lifting one
shoulder.

I gave her a mock-stern look.

“To be honest, they don’t sound all that
familiar.”

“All right,” I said, getting to my feet. I
pulled her along with me. “We’re fixing this.”

She laughed, letting me drag
her into the living room. “You can play them, but you’re not going
to change my mind about the Stones.
Exile
on Main Street
is clearly the best album
ever.”

“Just wait,” I said. I flipped the cover of
my laptop open and pushed some keys to wake it up. My music library
was already open on the screen. I tapped the trackpad, and Van
immediately started strumming the opening chords of “Sweet
Thing.”

“It’s nice,” Spencer said, but I held up a
finger to stop her.

“Shhh.” I sat on the sofa and pulled her down
onto the cushion next to me. “Just close your eyes and listen.”

Spencer gave me a dubious look but leaned
back into the sofa and closed her eyes. Van continued to play, and
chirping flutes joined in as he sang about a girl so sweet she made
him feel like he’d never grow old. I watched a smile spread across
Spencer’s face, hesitant at first, and then full of the same
contented delight I always felt when I heard the song.

When he sang the last lyric, Spencer turned
hers to me. “Okay, I admit that’s pretty damn good.”

“Right?”

“Right.”

“Although, now I have to admit,” I said,
brushing my fingers against her cheek. “I’m starting to see the
appeal of a song about falling in love with a brown-eyed girl.”

Spencer dropped her eyes, and the shy smile I
was starting to grow fond of made a brief appearance. My hand still
on her cheek, I leaned forward and kissed her. My skin jumped with
electricity when she responded, deepening the kiss and pressing
herself into my arms. My heart sped to a gallop as the blood left
my head and filled the lower regions of my body. I told myself it
was a simple physiological response, that it didn’t mean anything,
but soon I wasn’t telling myself anything at all. My mind was
filled with the sensation of her mouth against mine and the sweet
honey-and-vanilla smell of her hair and skin. My tongue flicked
against hers, and my jeans felt immediately and uncomfortably
tight. I was also acutely aware of the feel of her breasts pressed
against my chest.

I wanted her. And part of me had to admit
that my longing had nothing at all to do with getting the book back
from Tommy. I pushed any thought of the con from my mind, hoping
the sourness that had crept into my stomach would go along with it.
My hand slid to the button of her jeans, and I fumbled with it for
a moment before she put her hand over mine. For a half a second, I
thought she meant to help me and my excitement grew, but the blood
rushed back to my head in a hurry when she gently pushed my hand
away and took her lips away, too.

“Shane,” she breathed, leaning her forehead
into mine. “I think maybe we should eat. You worked really hard to
make a nice dinner and everything.”

“It wasn’t that hard, I swear,” I said,
moving to kiss her again.

She dodged me with a giggle. “I just think
maybe we should move a little slower. You’re not mad, are you?”

Sighing quietly, I stood and offered a smile
and my hand. “Of course not. But I am starving.”

Spencer’s grin was full of gratitude and
relief. “Me, too. Even if you’re making me eat an adorable little
lamb.”

She popped off the couch to stand in front of
me, and I kissed her nose. “I promise you’ll love it.”

“We’ll see.” She smiled and stepped around me
to head back to the kitchen.

I stood, staring down at the spot on the
couch we’d been occupying a moment before. I wasn’t lying when I’d
told her I wasn’t mad, but the thought of eating was the furthest
thing from my mind despite my rumbling stomach. Something else
gnawed at me, but it wasn’t until I turned and caught her shy smile
that I could name the feeling. It wasn’t frustration or even
disappointment. It was relief.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

“WHAT DO YOU mean you didn’t make a
reservation?” Spencer pulled me to a stop in the middle of a
tree-lined path in Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square. “You can’t
just walk into Jardin and ask for a table.”

“Spence, it’ll be fine.” I started down the
path again, but she yanked her hand from mine.

“Shane, this is ridiculous. We’re not getting
in, and even if we could, it’s a terrible idea. That place is crazy
expensive. There are tons of other great restaurants within walking
distance. We can go to one of those.”

“I thought you said you’ve been wanting to
try it.”