The Truth About Air & Water (Truth in Lies #2) (47 page)

“Put me down.”

“I know that’s not in the plan,” he says gravely. “You’ve got to stick to the plan, Tally. We’re on number nine then. Prepare yourself. You’ve got to keep it together until you finish what you’ve started. That’s how a plan works.”

He’s not smiling when I get a glimpse of his face, not at all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

White Horse -TALLY

“You really need stitches.” I press a fresh QuikClot packet to his head and dab at the wound hoping it will stop bleeding with each pass. He winces, and I hold myself back from tracing his jaw line and kissing him again because we are far too close in proximity to each other in his small guest bathroom.

Yes.

It would appear, we are too far into the game—the list, the plan—this insanity.

His hair is wet from the shower, and he smells so good. Standing between his legs and playing doctor to his head wound is messing with me.
My mind and my plan.

“Okay,” he says squinting up at me in the bright bathroom light, while I still firmly hold the packet to his head. “Let’s say I
do
need stitches. That’s three hours in the ER for them to figure out that I
need stitches
,
maybe a tetanus shot
. The media will surely find us there because—
let’s face it
—news was a little slow in Fresno until you showed up.” He laughs. “So, now that would make it four in the morning which means no sleep at all because we basically spent the majority of the night in the ER.
Waiting. Getting stitches. A tetanus shot
.
Dodging the press.
And more importantly and the worst news of all, there’s no chance to finish number nine before you say with remarkable certainty
I’ve got to go, Elvis
.” I frown at the way he’s looking at me. “So. We don’t get to finish your list. You leave. I’m screwed out of number nine which I’m really looking forward to, by the way,” he says softly, “all because I need four little stitches for a superficial head wound.
No.
That’s all I’m saying. Just
no
to the ER and getting stitches.”

“You’re just saying
no
? That was quite a speech leading up to a simple
no
, Superman.” He laughs again.

“Kimberley calls me that.”

“Not tonight. I don’t think she called you
or thought you were
Superman, tonight. And I am certainly not Wonder Woman in her eyes tonight either.”

“Not tonight.”

“I can’t decide if she likes me or hates me,” I say on a sigh.

“She
loves
you,” he says with confidence. “She never did any of this stuff before for any of my
other
girlfriends that I can
remember
.” He grins at my unhappy look. “
Kidding.
Not that many girlfriends that I know of.”

He frowns and looks a little uneasy as we both seem to drift toward thoughts of LA and Trinna Danner
again
.

“Just know, she’s very protective of those she cares about. Kimberley Powers is brilliant. Controlling. Powerful. She was engaged to my brother and then when Elliott died... Well, we’ve been close ever since. Sure she handles my PR stuff, usually there’s not so much to handle. She’s a tough talker, and appears to gloss over other people’s feelings half the time, but she has good intentions and big heart. She’s like a sister to me. And she loves you, Tally. She loves me. Brad.”

He gets this delectable smile and I have to fight off the desire to kiss him. “I’m glad she has Brad. She’s really happy these days—the most I’ve seen her since Elliott...” His smile fades. “But Kimmy knows pain, just like you and I do. Okay, that’s enough with the feels. Please focus on fixing my head. I don’t want to spend the night in the ER and miss out on all the fun associated with the ninth item on your epic list.” His mouth curves up. “We deserve to give each other a proper number nine, don’t you think,
Miss Cloves and Vanilla
?”

“You are way too optimistic—laced with far too many lofty expectations—about number nine.” I laugh nervously and then lean over to examine his head wound again and avoid looking at him altogether.

Instead, I announce the good news: the blood has stopped oozing from his head.

“Okay, you’re going to have to be patient and let me do this and trust that it’s going to work. Cara hit her head on the edge of the swing and Sam did this same kind of thing a few months ago so we didn’t have to traumatize her with a visit to the ER.” I steal a look at him. He’s frowning over the mention of Sam. “Anyway what you do is knot the hair, tie it actually from each side, pulling the edges of the wound together.” I bite my lip at the intense look he’s giving me. “And there’s always the option of a little Super Glue if that doesn’t work.”

“Anything
to preserve the…what did you say?” He grins. “The
lofty expectations
as it relates to number nine.”

I’m a little taken aback by the provocative look on his face. My hand starts to shake. “Let me see if I can do this.”

“You can.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m sure of you,” he says simply.

After that unexpected praise and the way he’s gazing at me, I can no longer look at him. To break the spell he’s trying to cast on me, I grab a comb and carefully part his hair around the wound. “Good thing you need a haircut. It’s long enough. I think this will work.”

“Then, do it.” He gets this wicked smile. “So we can do something else that is
guaranteed
to be a lot more fun.”

“
Guaranteed?
But is there a return policy?”

“Not exactly, but I can almost guarantee your satisfaction. A little trust?”

“
Trust
you?” I shake my head side-to-side.

The revelations with LA come back to me full-force where I envision Trinna Danner’s pregnant form and glowing smile. Pregnant. Linc’s baby? We don’t have those answers yet and won’t for some time, and trust is nowhere to be found in any of that.

There’s a plan. Stay with it.

My smile slips from my face.

Linc looks up at me and doesn’t say anymore because somehow I think he knows what I’m thinking.

Instead, he closes his eyes and leans into me a little more.

“Just do it, Tally. I can take it. I’ve developed a high level for pain.”

“Me too,” I say simply.

He’s playing John Mayer’s album,
Where The Light Is
.
Naturally.
Because what we need around here is more seductive innuendos between us. There are never enough of those. He pours me a glass of wine, assures me I’ll like it as he touches my hand in passing, and then continues to move around his kitchen as the confident gourmet chef I know him to be. He insists we eat, that we need the nourishment for what lies up ahead.

Who’s running this show?

I watch him intently looking for signs that this is all prearranged, a set-up of some sort. And yet, it’s the little things about him now that zing through my psyche like little arrows lancing my memory each time. It’s the ease with which he is just being with me. His patience. His kindness. The way he gestures with his hands. The way he pours my wine first and waits until I taste it before he pours himself a glass. The way he talks while he cooks. He always used to do that. The way he stops and gets this look of contemplation before he answers my questions—simple or more complex—he takes his time in answering, like he always did.

It’s all the same. Lincoln Presley is the same, but still different somehow.
Dare I say, better?
That thought alone does something to me.

I’m the one who’s free falling here.

We eat in silence side-by-side at the bar and the déjà vu returns. “You like it?”

“Yes.”

It’s the same.
It’s the same dish he made me the first night we were together almost five years ago—sauteed chicken with this touch of rosemary and garlic. The herbs, the seasonings, the memory of him assails my senses and leaves me breathless and undone.

He’s the same but different.

How is that possible?

How does that work exactly?

Where do we go from here?

How can I possibly leave him?

“Tally? Are you okay?”

I look over at him and smile a little because one side of his hair goes every which way like a little boy’s untrained cowlick because of my doctoral skills. “I’m fine.”

“And you’re lying.”

I sigh and wilt under his steady gaze. “What are you doing to me, Elvis?”

“So. I’m
not
in trouble,” he says with a wide smile. “Good, it’s working.”

“What’s working?”

“This.”

He lifts my chin up and kisses me. First gentle then more insistent. Five minutes. We’ve torn each other clothes off and now go at it on his living-room rug. Faster, smoother, better than before. His fingers move along my inner thighs and his breath and the distinct touch of his tongue soon follow this magical trail as I willfully part my legs for him. Soon, I’m crying out his name as his amazing body urges mine to respond to his miraculous touch. I’m more than ready for him when he gently lowers himself inside of me. With our eyes wide open we gaze at each other and brazenly acknowledge what it feels to connect in this way. I rise up to take more of him inside, and he whispers my name as he moves deeper.

We are together and we are changed because of it. I can sense it and when I look into his eyes I know he feels it too.

Who’s running this show?

Where’s the plan now, Tally?

I lay on top of him. Naked. Our sweat runs together but the slightest of movement between us causes me to start to slide off of him which we both find extremely funny for some unknowable reason that only carnal knowledge permits.

“Tally.” The way he’s said my name causes me to raise my head from his chest where I’ve been listening to his thundering heartbeat since we first finished.