made a halo around his head, but he was no angel. His next words confirmed it. “I have an idea,” he murmured, pinching my earlobe lightly between his front teeth. “But Vic’s out of luck.” His tongue trailed from my ear down my throat.
“Mmm,” I purred as my arms snaked around his waist, my fingers playing lightly over the muscles of his back as they bunched and rolled beneath my hands. “I might need a snack, too.”
“That can be arranged.” He hooked his right hand beneath my knee and wrapped my leg around his waist. His hand skimmed slowly up the length of my thigh to cup my rear beneath my shorts. He squeezed, and my breath hitched. He slid his hand beneath the hem of my shirt, and my pulse leapt. He ground his hips into me, and…
My phone rang, Pink singing “U + Ur Hand” from across the room.
Exhaling in frustration, I planted one hand against his chest and tried to push him up, but he only growled and refused to move. “Let it ring,” he moaned. Which I found ironic, considering the title of the song.
I let my head fall back against the rumpled covers and sighed, enjoying the feel of his weight pressing me into the bed. “What if it’s important?”
“What could be more important than this?” His hand trailed up my stomach, and I squirmed beneath him. But the song played on, and I wasn’t one of those people who can just let the phone ring. I’m too curious. And yes, I know what curiosity did to the cat.
“I have to get it, Marc,” I said, stroking the hair at the base of his skull. “It’ll only take a second.”
“Fine.” But he refused to move, so I squirmed out from under him, which gave me some very interesting ideas for later….
Smiling to myself over the naughty images in my head, I grabbed my cell phone from my desktop, glancing at the number on the display.
My smile withered instantly, leaving my expression hollow. It was the same number I’d seen a day and a half ago.
When Andrew called.
“What’s wrong?” Marc asked.
“Nothing.” My thumb hovered over the yes button as I tried to calm my pounding heart. If he heard it racing, he’d know I’d lied. Then I’d have to explain, and he’d know it wasn’t the first time. I hated lying to him. I really did. But if I told him an ex-boyfriend was bothering me, he’d insist on fixing the problem for me. And not only would that offend my pride—I was hardly your typical damsel in distress—it would probably involve an unpleasant road trip, an overdose of testosterone, and a major cleanup effort, which would only make things worse for everyone involved. Most of all, Marc himself. So really, I was lying to him for his own good.
Or so I told myself as my mouth opened, intent on digging me even deeper into my proverbial hole.
“It’s Sammi,” I said, cringing inside even as the lie came out smoothly. “Why don’t you go make a salad to go with the pizza? I’ll be right there, okay?”
Marc frowned. “Fine. But we’re not done here,” he said, gesturing toward the bed with an unmistakable spark of mischief in his eye. I nodded, and he left to make me a salad. Sometimes he was too sweet for his own good. And for mine.
I closed the door behind him and pressed the yes button, cutting Pink’s song short before the phone could switch over to my voice mail. But I didn’t speak, in part because I knew that since I could still hear Marc’s footsteps, he could hear anything I said. But the other reason, of at least equal importance, was that I had no clue what to say.
“Have you been thinking about me?” Andrew said into the empty static over the line.
Shit. Until he spoke, I’d clung to the sliver of hope that I’d been wrong. That it wasn’t his phone number on my screen. But that hope was now as real as the Easter Bunny. “I know you’re there, Faythe. I can hear you breathing, so answer the fucking question.”
I opened my mouth, yet I had no idea what I was going to say until the first word slipped from my lips.
Eight
“Yes.”
Frustrated with my own answer, I let my head fall to thump against the door, then held my breath until I was sure Marc wouldn’t turn back to investigate the sound. He didn’t. Instead, from across the house came the barely there sound of the magnetic seal breaking as he opened the refrigerator door.
“Really?” Andrew sounded suspicious, almost as surprised by my answer as I was. But it was the truth; I had been thinking about him. In fact, I’d had trouble blocking him from my thoughts. I felt guilty about the way I’d left things between us, and about how ugly the whole situation would get soon if he didn’t stop calling.
I sighed silently. Why did I feel compelled to be honest with Andrew, but not with Marc? Did I owe Marc any less than I owed Andrew?
No. The truth was that I owed them both an explanation. I’d left each of them—albeit five years apart—without saying goodbye. But Marc was like me. He was strong, and stubborn, and…one of us. Resilient. Andrew was human, and thus fragile in a way I could never really understand, and Marc could no longer remember. Honesty was the least I owed Andrew—up to a point.
“Yes, really,” I said at last. I snatched the remote from my desktop and aimed it at my stereo. Music blared to life from the speakers mounted in the corners of the room. The All-American Rejects, “Dirty Little Secret.” Frenetic, taunting tempo and all.
Figures.
Counting on the music to cover my voice, I turned my attention back to Andrew and exhaled slowly in anticipation of a very awkward conversation. “I was thinking that I should have tried harder to get in touch with you in June.”
“How right you are. Fortunately, you’re going to have the opportunity to make that up to me. Soon.”
What? My pulse spiked. No. He was coming to see me.
Andrew couldn’t come to the ranch. There was no possible way for a meeting between him and Marc to go well. Or even a meeting between him and my father, who also assumed my human indiscretion to be a thing of the past.
“What does that mean?” I asked, my voice soft with horror I couldn’t quite disguise, but he only laughed. “Andrew, how do you want me to make it up to you? You want to talk? We can talk. Let me explain what happened.” One version of it, anyway…
He snorted. He actually snorted into my ear. “Oh, let me guess. It’s not me, it’s you. I just don’t fit into your life anymore, right?” The bitterness in his voice stung.
“It’s not like that.” But it was. It was exactly like that—in no way he could possibly understand.
“Oh? What is it, then? Your parents? You’re scared to introduce me to your parents?” I started to answer, but he spoke over my protest. “They don’t even know about me, do they? You never told them.” His accusation was sharp and pointed. But this time he was wrong.
“Of course I did.” My words came out rushed; I was eager for something legitimate to deny. “They know.” Did
