Dearest Clementine (21 page)

A chill runs down my arms when he looks at me and sings the verse about wanting to slow down time because he doesn’t want to leave.

When I come in on the chorus again, he harmonizes, and our voices meld together. Hearing how right this sounds sends chills down my arms.

I’ve never sung with anyone other than my roommates when we’re driving somewhere, but he makes this easy. I can’t keep his eye contact, though—it’s too intense—and I look away, but I sense him watching me, along with all the kids on the floor.

The instant we’re done, the room erupts in applause. I look at him and smile. “Not bad, Mr. Murphy.”

He grins back, that sexy-as-hell smile that is so incredibly delicious it makes my heart race. I’m trying hard to keep my breathing in check because being with him has me worked up. I don’t know why. I’ve never been into musicians. Never saw the appeal. I always thought they were too mercurial. Too undependable. Too capricious. But Gavin isn’t any of those things. He’s a steady, even force who’s loyal and good and, dear fucking God, hot.

Still foggy from the rush of that performance, the only thing that stands out right now is that I really, really want to kiss him. Now.

He’s about to say something when one of the kids shouts at us. “Why doesn’t she sing in your band?”

Gavin laughs and shakes his head. “Clementine has far too much class to sing with us.”

“Shut up.” I shove him playfully. He grabs my arm and pulls me into a hug, making me giggle.

“Dude, your girlfriend is hot,” one of the guys says from the back of the room.

I stiffen, not sure how to respond. We’ve been playing pretend these last few weeks, and the realization that my emotions might be just the side effect of some fictional flirting dawns on me. What if this is all about Samantha and Aiden, and Gavin’s just playing the dutiful book boyfriend? Maybe he doesn’t feel the same way.

I start to open my mouth, but Harper walks up, interrupting me.

“That sounded great, guys! I’d love to stay and hear more, but I gotta run,” she says, waving her phone as though she got an important message. “See you back home, Clem. Bye, Gavin!”

As she leaves, Gavin pulls me closer to him, and when his lips touch my ear, he whispers, “I’ve missed you.” And suddenly, I don’t care that I’m scared by how much I want to be around him, by what he makes me feel, by the things I want to do to him. All I can do is shiver.

Because I’ve never missed anyone more.

* * *

My chest aches, swelling and stretching with the emotion of the lyrics we sang. When he pulls me into the hall, I want to press my lips to his and run my hands along his fabulously hard body. My heart starts to beat faster as we get closer to his room.

So when Gavin stops in front of the elevators, I’m confused.

“Do you want to grab some coffee with me, and I can walk you home?” he asks softly as he presses the button.

Trying not to look disappointed, I agree. Did I do something wrong?

Gavin is unusually quiet as we head down to the corner coffee shop. He orders a black coffee, and I get a medium latte. We make small talk, but it’s uncomfortable and forced, a hundred-and-eighty-degree difference from the intimate moment we shared while singing.

Shit, maybe what happened with Jax weirded him out. Maybe he overheard all of that and thinks I am a big head case.

He stops in front of the steps of my brownstone.

“I’m going to head back,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. “Are you okay? Did my singing suck?” I joke.

He looks confused, and then he gets that crinkle in his forehead. “No. God, no. I only…” He stares at me a long minute and sighs. “Can I be honest with you?”

This can’t be good.
My head speeds ahead to all the possibilities. He doesn’t like me. He
is
dating Angry Red. He wasn’t lying when he said he just wanted to be friends.
Fucking hell.

I brace myself for the worst. He clears his throat as he watches a car drive by.

“I don’t trust myself to be alone with you.” What? He’s turned to the side, so all I see is his stoic profile. “I’m seriously fucking attracted to you, and I know you need to take things slowly, and I don’t want to screw this up, whatever this is, so that’s why I’m walking you home and stopping on your front steps. Because I want to be a gentleman.”

My heart goes into some kind of arrhythmia. Gavin saying that makes me want him so much more. I take the cup of coffee out of his hands and put it on the steps next to mine. Turning to him, I push up on my toes so I can reach up and wrap my arms around his neck. With my body pressed up against his, I look up as a range of emotions cross his handsome face—surprise, confusion, desire—and when we’re nearly nose to nose, I pause.

“That’s the hottest thing anyone has ever told me,” I whisper before I touch my lips to his. It’s a sweet, soft kiss even though part of me wants to strip naked for this man. But he’s right. I need to take this slow, so I break from him after a minute and smile. Handing back his drink, I wink.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. For our date,” I say, and I walk inside.

-
17 -

Nothing seems right. Jeans are too casual, but I don’t have anything dressy, and I want to look good tonight. Lately, the only things Gavin has seen me in are sweats and t-shirts, and if he’s used to dating supermodel clones, I need to bring my A-game. I eventually relent and slink into Jenna’s room to ask her for an outfit.

I end up borrowing a simple black sheath wrap-around dress that’s a little low-cut in the front, but it fits well. I even break out the Victoria’s Secret underwear my roommates got me for my birthday.

After a hot shower where I do all the requisite grooming, my eyes fall on the fishbowl of condoms. Desire starts to pool in my stomach, and I have to tell myself that sleeping with Gavin on our first official date is not the smartest decision. Of course, I’m hoping we do
something
because after what he told me last night, I’m dying to touch him. I guess there’s nothing like saying “no” to build desire.

Slipping on a lacy black push-up bra, I have to admit that Victoria and her Secret have it right. Extra boobage is so worth the cost. Once I’m pushed up in all the right places, I roll on a pair of thigh-high tights and slip into my chunky black heels that are hibernating in the back of my closet.

My long hair, which I usually pull up into some kind of ponytail or messy bun, is in need of something drastic, so I blow-dry it straight. I slide on the dress, and it’s a beautiful stretchy fabric. For makeup, I play up my assets and emphasize my blue eyes, dabbing them with smoky eyeliner before I smack on some pale pink lip gloss.

“Whoa, Mamma!” Ryan shouts as I walk out of my bedroom. I’m not expecting to see him in my living room, but at this point, I really should get used to the idea that he’s a permanent fixture, like a lamp or a poorly trained puppy. “Gavin is one lucky man. Do you know how many of my friends have wanted to go out with you?”

“Shut up, Ryan.” I grin, embarrassed.

“It’s totally true. They’ve always looked at me like I was crazy when I told them you didn’t date. At least now I can say you have a boyfriend.”

I start to explain that Gavin and I haven’t defined what we are, but I’m interrupted when Jenna and Harper come out of a bedroom and start crooning that I look great. When Gavin knocks a few minutes later, nerves shoot through me, and I feel like an awkward teenager, unsure of what I should do with my hands or arms.

Jenna opens the door, and Gavin gives her a quick hug, but when he walks in and his eyes meet mine, his smile drops. For a second, I wonder if something’s wrong, that maybe he doesn’t like how I’m dressed, but then that sexy grin spreads on his face and makes me melt.

“Damn, baby, you look hot.”

I let out a relieved laugh before I realize that I’m blushing like a total lunatic. Gavin Murphy has reduced me to a giggling fool.

He looks breathtaking in dark pants, a pin-striped button-up and a dark jacket. Gavin kisses me sweetly on the lips, and I’m grateful his arm goes around my waist because being close to him has me feeling like I’m made out of paper and might blow away. He smells like fresh laundry and a hint of cologne, and for just a second I nuzzle up against him.

Of course, it only takes that brief show of affection to get our friends catcalling. Gavin laughs while I blush more, but when Ryan starts humping the couch, I give him the finger and drag my guy out of my apartment.

We head for dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant in the North End, and after we get seated at a quiet table in the corner, he reaches across the table for my hand and laces his fingers through mine.

“You look gorgeous in that dress. The whole restaurant was staring at you when we walked in.” His eyes are piercing, making the fleet of butterflies in my stomach crash into each other.

“That’s not true.” I look away so he can’t see my cheeks flush.

“So you have a hard time taking compliments, huh?” He laughs at me, and I keep my head turned because I know he’s going to press this issue. “If I told you that I’ve wanted to ask you out since freshman year, would that also mortify you?”

My mouth falls open, and I turn to look at him. “Really?”

“It’s possible.” The corner of his mouth turns up into a crooked grin. He watches a couple cross the room, and he chuckles. “Ever since you told Professor Nevil that you disagreed with his interpretation of
Pride and Prejudice
. He was ranting about Elizabeth being a hypocrite because although she hates her mother’s obsession with marrying off the girls, Lizzy marries Mr. Darcy at the end.”

He laughs and runs his free hand across his jaw. “You told him that wasn’t the point of the novel. You said it was groundbreaking because Lizzy broke social norms to be with someone who outclassed her, that their love helped them overcome what would have shattered an ordinary relationship.”

“I said that?” I look at him skeptically. The conversation sounds familiar, but that fall was a blur.

He nods. “Jane Austen has never turned me on quite as much as it did that day.”

I laugh, tempted to roll my eyes at him. “She’s my favorite author. Well, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

“
This Side of Paradise
, right?”

Smiling because he remembers that I love this book, I realize how much I enjoy talking to him about literature. “I know the end of that story pisses people off, that the main character went through that whole ordeal, and in the end, he only knows himself—the result is simply self-awareness—but I think there’s something to be said for going through hell and coming out the other side understanding your limitations.”

I’m tempted to tell him about my stories—the ones that are half-written, the ones I haven’t been brave enough to publish—and what inspired them, but the thought of him reading my work still makes me queasy.

When dinner arrives, I accidentally knock over my purse, and a Sharpie rolls out. I’ve been using it to sign books to make good on that promise to my boss to get him some autographed copies of my novel. Gavin sees it and amusement lights his eyes.

“I once got in a lot of trouble with one of those,” he says, motioning toward my pen. “When I was seven, I went to summer camp, and one day I got a brilliant idea for a prank, so I waited until the kids in my cabin went to sleep and then drew on everyone.”

I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh. His chiseled features look so handsome as he recalls this memory, the soft lighting creating dark planes of shadow under his cheekbones.

He smirks as I take a sip of wine. “It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if I hadn’t accidentally used a
permanent
marker on their faces.”

“Oh my God!” I nearly choke, and a few drops of wine dribble out my mouth, leaving dots of wetness on the white tablecloth. “Sorry, this is very ladylike.” I wipe away the evidence and cover my face with my napkin, horrified that I’ve basically drooled all over the table.

“It’s okay. I tend to find most things you do adorable.”

My mouth opens slightly at his compliment, but he doesn’t give me a chance to say anything. “Now that I’ve shared my embarrassing story, I want one from you.”

He twirls a fettuccine noodle around his fork and waits for my answer.

“Hmm.” Opting for something safe, I decide to go with a story from middle school. “When I was in seventh grade, I made the mistake of falling asleep early at an overnight birthday party, and when I woke up, one of the girls had frozen my bra in a plastic cup. Her older brother thought it was hysterical. He stood there laughing at me, holding out the frozen bra-cicle for everyone to see.”

He laughs, but I hold out my hand. “That may not sound like a big deal, but when you’re twelve, and you’re just getting boobs, it’s horrifying.” As I’m explaining, I motion toward my chest, which of course attracts his gaze, making me totally self-conscious, but his eyes make it back up to my face a split second later, a hint of a grin on his lips.