Page 54 of If We Were Young

“Oooh.” The air whooshed from me like a balloon that’d been slowly deflated three weeks after a party and had become nothing more than a misshapen wrinkled sponge of its former self.

Dark shirt, dark jeans. Midnight eyes and half a smile.

And all I could think was what Angela just said about… Oh God.

“Hi.”

My chest eased but then tightened again as he swept his gaze over me, his lips curving at the edges.

“Hi.” Breathless.

He smelled beautiful, of soap and fabric softener. Warmth and rain, secrets and wishes.

“I’m ready, I’m ready.” I launched myself out of the house, narrowly missing tackling him to the ground.

“You okay?”

“Yes, yes.” With the stealth of a ninja I turned back to the house, poked my head through the door, and shot a pointed glare at Hannah and Ma. “Not too late, Ma, you’re in charge.” I shut the door on her affronted open ‘O’ mouth.

He shot me a glance, cryptic, maybe something code breakers from World War Two had to deal with. When he pressed his key fob toward his car, my stomach dipped down to my toes.

“I’m sorry Fred couldn’t come.” I tried to fill the silence.

In the reflection of the car window I caught him pulling a face.

“He’s highly qualified, you know? I wouldn’t have hired him otherwise. I had to fight for him, in fact.”

Matthew turned and pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m sure he’s very talented.”

“And Amanda?” I needed someone else on this dinner. Anyone.

I squirmed under his gaze. “Just us.”

My lips pursed, and I breathed slow. “Okay.”

“I don’t bite, Ronnie.” His slow smile slipped along his face and the dark, cold street warmed.

The car ride seemed short, just long enough for me to get high on the smell of his car. My stomach cramped tight and by the time he cut the engine I’d grown so hot the cardigan was the first thing I planned on taking off.

I glanced out the window and then swizzled back to stare at him, meeting a questioning depth in his gaze. “Why here?” I barely whispered. My heart beat louder than the passing traffic on the road.

“You used to like it, didn’t you?”

I turned, unable to look at him. I didn’t want him to see all the words I had on my face. The whys and hows.

He got out of the car without speaking and stepped around to open the door for me.

I got out, my legs quivering, and I pulled my coat tighter around me. For some reason he smiled. I wished I knew all the reasons. Forget understanding the universe; I’d settle for understanding Matthew Carling’s smile. It hinted at secrets and thoughts I knew I shouldn’t want to know.

As we walked along the pavement, my red towers clacking and forewarning everyone of our arrival, our fingers brushed. I gasped a breath. Like I was a teenage movie montage.

His fingers snatched mine tight and squeezed. His touch warm with a delicate roughness to the edges, like the chill March weather had dried his skin. I shivered. Ange’s comment came back to mind, bringing back forbidden fantasies. Two bodies that slipped and slid, gasps and moans. Dark hair, blonde strands, long legs, and arms that caged.

I shot him a glance, but he focused on the door.

Our hands didn’t fit together like two mutual friends’. There was no sideways clasp. Our fingers glided between one another’s, a slow stroke which ended with the flat of our palms wedged like a sandwich, not a sliver of space between them.

I was blinded as we stepped into the low-lit restaurant, the same red lanterns I remembered hanging over my head. The walls dark with patterned wallpaper.