Or maybe it was just that he was speaking to her. She ought to resent him for it, for withholding the sound of his voice so long that it became a gift he could give her.
She had, before. She would again, she was sure. But at the moment, she was too busy wanting more of it.
As a child, she’d loved to hang upside down. To flip the world on its head and try to imagine inhabiting it that way, her feet in the sky and her hair dangling in space.
She felt like that now. Like she could slide her hands between the buttons of Sean’s shirt and walk on air. Like doing that would be both possible and impossible at the same time, and if she could figure out how, the feel of his skin on her palms would fill her with light.
“Talk to me,” she said.
The tip of his nose connected with her jaw as he lowered his head and inhaled deeply. He rubbed his raspy cheek against the slice of bare skin at the juncture of shoulder and neck.
He shook his head, slow and deliberate. His face, his hair, his skin against hers.
Saying no.
It took a moment for it to sink in, but when it did, she stiffened, and he drew away.
She was such an idiot.
She pulled her hand back and wiped it on her jeans, hating the pins-and-needles feeling. As if he’d stunned her, burned her with his heat.
Hating that she’d put herself in a position where he could deny her all over again, when she’d practically begged.
Sitting on the bed with Sean Owens, touching his thigh, inviting him close as if they were friends. As if they were lovers, for Christ’s sake, when they were nothing of the sort.
The creases in his forehead and his narrowed eyes told her he was as confused as she was, and sorry, too. Genuinely sorry. But the set of his mouth promised that nothing could change it.
His feet hit the floor as he leaned past her to retrieve his jacket. He stood up and backed away from the bed, watching her.
Intense. Dangerously intense,
the way he looked at her. The way her skin tingled under that look.
Not itched. Not prickled.
Tingled.
Goddamn it.
He shoved his feet into his shoes and crossed to the door, and all the while she got heavier on the bed. Leaden with failure and embarrassment, though she didn’t even know what she’d failed at, or why she should be embarrassed.
Had she done this to herself? Had he? Whose fault was it, even? Whose fault was this weighty desperation that wanted him to stay, even now, even though it would be just awful if he did?
“Dinner’s going to be here any minute,” she said.
But what she meant was, You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t just walk out of the room rather than tell me.
He would.
He did.
Chapter Six
Sean had to admit, Judah Pratt was pretty good live. The singer’s voice had mellowed since his early hits—pop garbage that still got way too much radio air time—and he played his steel-bodied National guitar like someone who’d spent a lot of time honing his craft.
“Why hasn’t he recorded this?” Sean asked Ginny, who leaned against the bar next to him, sipping a Coke and whooping enthusiastically whenever Judah spoke or finished a song.
“He says it’s not ready yet.”