The implication is so beautiful. And so problematic.
‘What’s the trick?’
‘Oh. This. Is it not working?’
He breathes in deeply. I feel his chest move and smile.
‘Kind of.’ He yawns. ‘How could you have ever hated your hair?’ He murmurs. ‘I have dreams about it.’
‘My hair?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Your hair. Your body. Your smile.’ He yawns again. ‘Your eyes. Your body.’
‘You said that one already.’
‘It’s worth an extra credit.’
I smile. My fingers, still held by his, stroke his chest beneath them. I touch him rhythmically, enjoying the feel of his body, the way it is so vibrant and alive, warm and smooth.
I shift a little, burrowing against him.
‘Thanks for staying tonight.’
I don’t respond. I don’t plan to stay. It would be really, really stupid. But I’m tired, and he is asleep before I can think of the words. I don’t want to risk waking him up. And besides...
There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
I can say it to myself. There’s no harm in that, is there?
* * *
I am falling asleep. Ally is against me, our breath-sounds matching. We are our own music: a song of our bodies’ making. I stroke her in time to the lyric-less song and it is perfect. A slice of time that belongs with the stars for its beauty.
But the stars are so far away. Beautiful, yes, but distant—and I don’t want to make that comparison with Ally.
Nor do I want to think about how good she is at this. How right it feels.
I don’t want to wonder about who else she has held so close, breathing in sync with him, helping him to fall asleep as she is me.
IT IS LATE when I stir, and Ethan is no longer in bed. I blink, a little disorientated, a lot satisfied, and stretch my arms over my head, smothering a yawn. Then I am still. I listen. I hear music.
I push the duvet back and step out of bed, padding into the lounge. He has his back to me, sitting in the wing-back armchair, looking out of the window at Manhattan. It occurs to me that no one out there has any idea that Ethan trending-on-Twitter Ash is right here, high above them like some beautiful, sexy sky-angel.
I know the song he’s playing. It’s not his. I think it’s Bob Dylan’s. I listen, trying to catch the words, but he’s humming them quietly, as though he’s not even aware he’s singing.
Is this what it’s like for him? Does the need to make music simply overtake him? Beyond his control, his realisation, his intention?
Much like the way I am moving towards him, which is also beyond my intention. I have sometimes felt that there is a sort of magnetism between us. I don’t really go in for all that woo-woo universal energy stuff. Or, I didn’t, at least.
‘Hey. Sleeping Beauty’s up.’
He smiles at me at the exact moment the sun beams from behind a cloud and his face glows gold. He places the guitar down as he stands and moves towards me.
He’s wearing his favourite jeans—and now, let’s face it, my favourite jeans—low on his hips. His feet are bare. So is his chest.
And suddenly my breath is lost. My throat is dry.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me to him. ‘How’d you sleep?’
‘I think I passed out.’ I smile up at him. ‘That is one comfy bed.’
‘You should stay over more,’ he says with a grin.
It’s just a throwaway comment, yet prickles of danger flush my spine. I ignore the suggestion.
‘Coffee?’
‘Yeah.’ He nods towards the machine. ‘You don’t like the idea?’
‘Of coffee?’ I wilfully misunderstand. ‘Of course I do. I live for the stuff.’
‘Of staying over.’
I meet his eyes and I know my expression holds a warning. ‘Ethan...’
His phone rings, interrupting whatever the hell I had been going to say.
He shoots me a look that speaks volumes. This isn’t over.
I gnaw at my lip, half watching as he moves across the room and lifts his phone off the coffee table, where he left it the night before. Something crosses his face—an emotion I don’t comprehend—and then he drops the phone again.
‘Dodging someone?’
His eyes meet mine. He’s distracted. ‘No.’
I remember the message he sent the night before. Or whatever it was he did. Was it to a friend? Or another woman? Or Sienna?
Something like alarm bells sound in my mind. I have to silence them. Not care. Because it’s not what we are. And he’s not Jeremy.
‘You were saying?’
I push a pod into thecoffee machine and wait for the light to show that it’s ready to wor.
‘I had fun last night. But I think it’s really important to remember—’
‘That we’re just fucking,’ he interrupts. Tersely.
I am irrationally emotional in the face of his obvious annoyance. ‘Well, yeah. I wasn’t going to put it quite so crudely. I just mean that we should remember what we’re doing here.’
‘Right. The rules.’ He nods.
He is keeping a grip on his temper but I know him better than that. I know he is tense and cross.
‘And what are they again?’
I force a light smile. ‘Fun! No-strings!’
‘Right. And we can’t do that if you stay over with me?’
‘You’re the one who said no sleepovers.’
He laughs—a harsh sound of disbelief—then drags his fingers through his hair. Of all the tools in his arsenal, this and this alone
