Thomas & January (15 page)

I felt his cell phone drop on the bed as soft swishes of cloth slid into the bottom of his duffel. I turned over and stretched out, my legs practically shot two feet off the end of my bed.

“How did we both sleep on this tiny nothing,” I said out loud, my voice hoarse from disuse.

“Well, that leg was wrapped around mine,” he said, pointing to each part as he continued his explanation, “that stomach was pressed to mine, that beautiful face was buried in my neck. It was the best and worst night’s sleep of my life.” I smiled. “Good morning,” he said, smiling back.

“Morning, Tom. How much time do we have?”

“’Bout an hour.”

“I’m gonna shower then.”

“All right, I’ll go check out downstairs while you do that.”

“Thank you,” I told him, kissing his cheek as I trudged toward the shower.

Chapter Eight

Take A Picture

<
January
              We were on the road and headed toward the Channel Tunnel an hour later. I made sure I had all my meds with me but Tom assured me the ride was exponentially smoother than a water voyage and it would take us straight to Paris in only two and a half hours. I knew Europe was small but it was flabbergasting to think I could go from London to Paris in the time it takes to watch a film. Okay, the film would be
Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
, but still, that’s pretty amazing.
              We dropped the car off at the rental place and cabbed it over to the Chunnel station. The entire process from leaving the hotel to boarding the train took less than an hour. I was impressed, thoroughly. Impressed because everything we did in Texas seemingly took a day’s commitment. One, because everything is twenty miles away regardless of where you’re going but also, to be honest, we just move slower than the rest of the world. It’s why we’re incorrectly pegged as slower thinkers. We aren’t. In fact, we’re sharper than most people; we just take our time, fewer mistakes that way. I think I sort of preferred it that way, but a little change of pace was always nice. Always.
              We boarded the Eurostar and easily found our seats.
              “Comfortable?” Tom asked.
              “Very,” I said, laying my head on his shoulder and whipping out a bag of Twizzlers I brought from home. “Want one?
              “Always.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a vine. That’s when I noticed it.
              “Your jacket’s unzipped.”
              “So it is,” he said, glancing down at himself, not realizing the significance.
His t-shirt was plain as day. He slumped a bit in his seat making it stretch tightly over his stomach. He’d chosen a charcoal grey tee and it was light enough for me to count each individual muscle in his abdomen. My own stomach clenched in the need to outline each one.
              “My God,” I blurted, unaware I’d said it out loud.
              “What?” he asked absently, chewing his Twizzler.
              “Oh,” I gulped, “nothing. I, uh, just-nothing.”
              “
Okay
,” he sung, narrowing his brows in suspicion.
              “Want to listen to my iPod with me?” I asked. It was very important that I changed the subject.
              “For business or pleasure?” he asked.
              “Purely pleasure,” I said, my face and neck warming to a deep crimson. I could feel it burn up my neck slowly. I leaned into my bag in front of me to retrieve my iPod, letting my hair fall.
              “Your hair has a bit of split, January. I can see your skin.”
              “Damn it,” I said, blushing deeper, fighting a grin and sitting up.
              He leaned into the side of my face and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Not to mention the heat I can feel just emanating off you.”
              “What?” I panted, turning toward him.
              “I can feel it when you blush. It settles here,” he said, bringing my hand to his chest. “And here.” He brought my hand down the abdomen I wanted to line with my fingers.
I yanked my hand back as if it was on fire, making him laugh loudly.
              “Shh,” a little old English lady told him over her shoulder.
              “Sorry,” he said, but the decibel of his laughter did nothing but rise. “Sorry,” he said again as the lady stared harder. He choked and coughed into his hand to control himself. “Sorry, ma’am.” She turned around. “You’re going to get me in trouble, January,” he whispered.
              “Me? You can’t do things like that, Tom. Seriously.”
              “Why not? That blush of yours drives me up the wall. If I can’t see it at least once morning, noon, and night, I don’t feel complete.”
              “Oh, shut up,” I said, blushing yet again. “Stupid blood.”
              “No, it never lies,” he said more seriously. “I love your blood, it paints the most beautiful things on your face.”
              “It doesn’t,” I told him, rubbing at my cheeks.
              “Yes, it does,” he said, grabbing my face. His thumbs grazed over my jaw, back and forth, back and forth. He mesmerized me. “It tells me just how much I affect you and, in turn, you enchant me. You’re breathtaking, January.”
              He drew his fingers through my hair roughly and cupped my face in his palms, but he didn’t lean in for a kiss like I expected him to. Instead, he brought those hands across my face and down my neck to my shoulders then back up.
              “And what a beautiful canvas to paint.”
              The conductor came over the speaker and spoke in French before relaying the same message in heavily accented English.
              “I have no idea what he just said,” Tom said, shrugging his shoulders
              “He welcomed us aboard and mentioned that it’s thirteen twenty-three now and that we should be arriving at Gare Du Norde at approximately sixteen forty-seven in the afternoon.”
              “What? How in the world did you understand that?” Tom asked, bewildered.
              “I speak French,” I told the window, staring at the deck as we departed the station.
              “You
speak French
?”
              “Yeah, I didn’t tell you that?” I turned to him, confused at myself.
              “No, you failed to mention that you’re bilingual.”
              “Oh, I’m not bilingual,” I told him, a smirk tugging at my lips.
              “No?”
              “I’m
multi
lingual. I speak four languages.”
              Tom stared at me as if he didn’t believe me. He couldn’t look away; he stared hard into my eyes begging for an explanation.
              “It’s not a big deal. Kids are sponges,” I offered. He still didn’t understand. “I wanted to work for the U.N. as a translator when I was little, so during the summers I learned different languages. It was worth it because it comes in handy though I’d
never
work for the U.N. now.”
              “Amazing.”
              “Meh, not so much, I learned some crazy things about the United Nations and decided they weren’t exactly the...”
              “I wasn’t calling the U.N. amazing, January. I was calling
you
amazing.
You’re
amazing. Incredible, actually. Every time you make me forget that you’re extraordinary with your down-to-earth ways, something else blindsides me and reminds me just how out of my league you really are.”
              I sat up a bit and scooted closer into his side. I could not believe what he’d just said. I grabbed his arm and leaned into his body. I needed him to feel what he needed to hear. “
You’re
out of
my
league? You’ve got to be joking, Tom.”
              “Hell no, I’m not joking. You are way out of my league, January.”
              “This is going to be a problem, I can tell,” I teased him.
              “It is?”
              “Yes, because you keep forgetting what an incredible musician you are and how talented you are at your job. How everyone in this business calls Seven, desperate to contact you so they can steal you away. You’re a rock star, yet you’re oblivious to it because you’re always on the road. It’s stupid, but it is what it is. Trust me, Thomas Eriksson, I play in the minors and you’re the hypothetical starting pitcher for a team who won the World Series five years consecutive. You’re so big league it makes my head spin.”
              He grinned at me. “That’s utter bullshit but I love you for saying it.”
I opened my mouth to argue with him but he stopped me by pressing his lips to mine and I forgot my own name let alone whatever argument I had.
              /p>

The English countryside held enough charms to distract us from conversation. We fell into a comfortable silence save for our shared earbuds. We listened to the entire
Aim and Ignite
album. The only contact we made was physical. Tom lined my palms with his index finger over and over, making me sleepier than my medicine was.

              When we entered France, he nudged me in the ribs. “All the graffiti’s in French.”
              “Imagine that,” I teased him.
It got quiet again as we examined the new countryside.
              “Talk to me,” I told him, breaking the silence.
              “What do you want to know?”
              “About your family.”
              “Which one?” He smiled, and the sun gleamed brightly over his white smile.
              “The one you grew up with.”
              “Well, my parents have lived in New York City for most of their lives. They met in a Greenwich Village shop where they’d go to get coffee every morning before work. They married six months later but couldn’t conceive right away.”
              “That’s sad. Were they trying?”
              “Yeah, they said they just went with it though and were surprised with the news they were pregnant with my sister Christina five years into their marriage. They didn’t think it was possible. Then I came along three months after Christina was born.”
              “Oh, dear. You were a surprise, then.”
              “You could say that,” he told me, grinning.

He took his soda from the chair back in front of him, uncapped it and took a swig. The movement of his throat swallowing made me want to instantly become something edible and sweet so I could slide down his body in an ultimate connection. My fingers tightened on the arms of my chair and I shivered the thought away as I watched him place it back.

              “Anyway,” he continued, bringing me back to the present, “I have one more sister named Chloe. She’s your age and at the Art Institute of Dallas actually.”
              “What’s Christina up to?”
              “She’s in PR in Manhattan. She’s married to a pretty good guy.”

“What his name?”

“Pierre. He’s French.” He snapped at an idea. “I have the best idea. When I introduce you to my parents, you can translate the private conversations between my sister and her husband. It drives the family crazy.” My heart beat frantically at the thought that he expected me to meet his family. “Wait,” he thought out loud, “you’ll probably just join them against us. Never mind, I change my mind.” He smiled at me.

“Your sister speaks French?” I asked, hoping I didn’t give away my ridiculous excitement that he saw a future with me.

“Yeah, they met during college. Her university had a campus abroad in Paris. Enough said.” I smiled at him. “My mom and dad are both teachers.”

              “Cool. And what are their names?” I asked him.
              “Walter and Michelle, but you can call my pops Walt.” He fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, seemingly nervous. “I’ve wanted to ask you something, January, but I wasn’t sure how to ask.”

“Just say it,” I prodded him with my shoulder.

“I’m going back to the States for a week for Kelly’s wedding and I-I thought maybe, if you want, you could come as my date?”

              I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I didn’t know how to answer this. I did want to go with him to New York, I really did, but it was just too freaking weird knowing I’d be meeting all his friends as he watched the girl he just recently considered the lost love of his life get married. I mean, yeah, he said she meant nothing anymore but no one can just shut off like that and he hadn’t even gotten an opportunity to get over her properly.
              Suddenly I realized I needed to be very careful.
              “Shit,” I heard him say, breaking me from my thoughts.
              “What?”
              “I’ve scared you off, I can tell.”
              “No, it’s just-it feels weird you asking me to see Kelly get married. I don’t know her, but I feel this weird thing for her. I don’t like her.”
              This made Tom laugh. “Baby girl,” he said with a bit of his inherited Texas lingo. He picked up my hand and kissed the back. “If I have to spend the next month convincing you she’s nothing to me, I’ll do it. She doesn’t even hold a candle to you, MacLochlainn.”
Thomas

The Windmill Festival was just a few days before Kelly’s wedding, but we weren’t going to Paris just to sit around and wait. The label bought us rail passes to pal around Europe, allowing us to check out as many bands as possible. We were starting in Paris because I wanted January to see the band Jamaica and a few of their starting lineups the next night. I’d planned on working our way through Europe by rail until the festival and then head straight home for the wedding, which surprisingly the thought of didn’t affect me at all. I didn’t even feel a dull ache. It was as if my body had forgotten all about Kelly and I knew I had January to thank for that.

Damn, that girl was incredible.
Zap
.

I had a week to convince her to come with me. She was coming home with me. She was definitely coming home with me.

The next night, we waited in line to see Jamaica.

“Did Jason talk to Georgia Asher?” she asked me.

“I think so. I hope it went well. She’s going to be huge and I hope we get credit for her.”

“We will,” she told me, her smile reaching her eyes.

I studied her. “You have really beautiful lips, January.”

She shyly pinched them together, a red flush crept across her face. I grabbed her face and brought those lips to mine until they were loose again and she kissed me back.