Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2) (22 page)

I mount the step and press the buzzer one more time.
 

He doesn’t answer.

He must really not be home.

I draw a trembling breath, closing my eyes against the sting of tears. I was really hoping he’d be here. I need—I don’t know what I need.

Need to see him, I guess. Right now it’s the only thing keeping my head above the water, the hope that he’ll answer the door.

Only he doesn’t.

My feet feel heavy and cold as stone as I turn away. The force of my disappointment knocks the breath from my lungs. I’d be more worried about the emotions he’s making me feel—their strength, their lingering impression on the tender parts inside my chest—if I wasn’t overwhelmed by the knowledge that
I don’t have a home anymore.

I walk away, blinking back the tears, the snow. It’s starting to stick, covering the sidewalk in a thin film of slush.

“Maddie?”

My pulse trips to a stop. A familiar warm tingle moves up my spine. I know that voice.

“Maddie, is that you?”

He’s home.

Halle-frickin-
lleuja,
he’s home.

I look over my shoulder. Our gazes collide. He’s standing on the stoop in sweats and a pair of furry-looking slippers, his hipster wave wet, like he just got out of the shower.

I can’t breathe.

His handsome-hotness gets me
every
.damn.time.

“Were you ringing for me? Sorry, I was having a quick bath.”

His breath puffs out in wispy clouds of white.

And his eyes—their amber color is piercing, even as they soften with kindness. The kindness that completely, utterly slays me.

“Maddie,” he says, his eyebrows coming together. “Are you all right?”

His kindness, his loveliness, make the pain that arrows through me that much more poignant. My face crumples.

And then he’s moving from the warmth of his building into the swirling snow, stepping down onto the sidewalk. He stands in front of me, his shoulders blocking out the world as he wraps a palm around the nape of my neck and pulls me into his chest. His broad, invitingly warm, well-muscled chest.

My first thought is thank God, thank God he is here. Thank God I have him.

My second thought is ohmigod ohmigod I am going to pass out he smells so delicious.

My tears dampen his shirt and fall onto the sidewalk between us. For a minute I let him hold me like this; it’s nice, sharing my weight with him; it’s nice not having to bear it on my own for once.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, Javier, for coming like this, especially after the other night. I just—I had nowhere else to go, and I—”

“It’s all right,” he says. “As long as you don’t mind seeing me in my pajamas.”

I look down. “Those
are
nice slippers.”

“I prefer to call them foot pussies, thank you very much.”

“Foot pussies?” I sniff. “Is that a British thing?”

“Nope. I don’t know whose thing it is, to be honest. My roommate at university introduced me to the term and it stuck. So there you have it. Foot pussies.”

“I think that’s just an excuse to say the
p
word.”

“It is.” He grins. “And you wouldn’t make fun of them if you knew how cozy they were,” he says, wiggling his toes.

I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not hating me.”

He looks down at me for a long moment.

“I could never hate you,” he says quietly.

Javier guides me into the crook of his arm, keeping his hand in place on the nape of my neck. His thumb glides against the sensitive skin there. A wash of heat moves through me, settling between my legs.

Already.

Not two minutes together, and already he’s turning me on.

Warrior breath.
Remember your warrior breath.

“C’mon,” he says, curling his body around mine, holding me close. “Let’s get you inside. It’s really starting to come down, isn’t it?”

***

Javier’s bachelor pad is as swank and effortlessly cool as I (vaguely) remember it being. It’s big, really big by Madrileño
standards, loft-like with high-beamed ceilings. A few of the walls are exposed brick, a masculine counterpoint to the huge, Victorian-style windows.

The first floor is completely open, a mod kitchen flowing into a huge living room area. An ogre-sized leather couch beckons in front of a rough-hewn fireplace; his guitar rests against the wall beside the mantel, as if he’s just been practicing. The walls are hung with all sorts of art—modern, classical landscapes, portraits—that I can’t wait to check out. I imagine the space gets quite cozy, despite its size, when the lights are turned down and a fire is lit.

A super artsy staircase—iron, from what I can tell, very industrial looking—leads to a second floor, where his bedroom is.

His bedroom
.

Must.not.think.about.his.bedroom.

What we did there. How good what we did was.

“May I?” he asks, tucking his fingers into the collar of my coat.

For half a second I close my eyes and revel in the feeling of his hands on me, the brush of his fingertips against my collarbones. His touch is exactly as I remember it: confident, careful. Kind.

Javier hangs up my coat, then makes his way into the kitchen. I stand at the island, watching him as he produces a corkscrew from a long, narrow drawer. Closing the drawer with his hip, he grabs a bottle of wine and two long-stemmed glasses and sets them on the counter in front of me. He pulls the cork from the bottle with a small, satisfying
pop
, and then he fills
my glass with red wine so dark it almost looks blue in the low light.

He pours himself a glass and puts down the bottle. He sidles over to the other end of the island, facing me, and after he sets down his glass he grasps the edges of the countertop in either of his hands.

“Talk to me Goose,” he says.

***

A bottle and a half later, we’re sitting on Javier’s beast of a couch facing each other, a pile of rumpled tissues between us. The morning fades to afternoon. A cozy fire burns in the fireplace. I needed the wine more than I thought I did; the tears kept coming, and we kept drinking. The mellow buzz from the wine calms the scattershot panic of my thoughts, my pulse. I don’t know if it’s the wine, or Javier, or the lazy heat from the fire, but I find myself relaxing in a way I haven’t in a really, really long time.

Sure, my heart and lungs are sore from a good cry. My nose is raw from wiping it so many times; my eyes are probably so red and swollen I look like a possessed demon from the underworld. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know my problems and all their weight will be waiting for me the second I sober up and step out of this apartment.

But it hurts less right now, the fact that I don’t have a place to go home to, with Javier beside me. Listening like the champ he is. His presence makes me feel a little less lost; a little more centered.

It makes me feel
wanted
. Not in a sexual way. Just in a human way, I guess.

I look at him a long moment. I bring my glass to my lips, finish what’s left of my wine. Javier grabs the bottle, ducks his head as a way of asking if I’d like more. I hold out my glass.

All the while I never stop looking at him. How is it possible I find him more attractive than ever? More handsome-hot than I can handle?

“What?” he says at last.

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just wondering how you do it. How you
get
me. How you understand it all so well.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, pouring himself a generous glass. “Maybe because
you
get
me
so well.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I do?”

“Think about it,” he says. “You like my band. You like my music. You
love
my city. You appreciate me for who I am.”

I look down at my glass. “Even if I keep running out on you?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice soft. “Even then, I know you like me for me. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, meeting his eyes.

A shiver snakes up my spine.
 

“You’re cold,” he says. “Here, let me run upstairs and grab you some foot pussies.”

“How many pussies do you have?”

“Not that many, actually. I’m pretty selective when it comes to my pussies.”

“Quality over quantity,” I say.

“Something like that. Why don’t you get a bit closer to the fire? I’ve got a few songs I’ve been working on, and I’d love to play them for you.”

A fireside jam session with more wine, more Javier, and more foot pussies?

I mean. How am I supposed to say no to that?

Chapter 17

Maddie

A few hours later, and the wind is howling outside the windows. The storm has arrived, bringing with it white-out conditions. The snow comes down so fast and so hard it got dark in the middle of the afternoon.

Every once in a while the building groans; the lights flicker. It gets progressively colder inside Javier’s apartment, as the heat can’t keep up with the plummeting temperature outside.

Not that we mind, or even notice. We’re sitting on blankets in front of a roaring fire, warm with wine and laughter. I’m wrapped up in Javier’s sweater, a chunky knit that is as soft and cozy as it gets; a pair of foot pussies several sizes too big keeps my tootsies nice and toasty.

Javier cradles his guitar in his lap, the glossy wood shining in the fire’s mellow glow. We didn’t turn on the lights as the darkness fell around us, and now we’re stranded, deliciously so, in the small island of light and warmth put off by the fire. He’s kept it at a steady blaze, poking at it every so often, adding logs or crumpled up newspaper when the flames lag.
 

And he plays his songs for me. They’re love songs—slow jams, if you will—and I don’t think I can adequately describe how sexy Javier looks and sounds as he plays them. The songs themselves are lovely; when he apologizes for a “half-baked” chorus or a riff “that’s not quite there”, I tell him please, please, Javier, don’t stop playing, they’re so good.

“You’re so good, Javi,” I say.
 

“Thank you. I told you I’ve been writing a lot recently.”
 

He meets my eyes. In the light of the fire, his are the color of molten earth, fiery browns, the slightest hint of burnt orange.

You’re so beautiful
, I want to say.

“Do you take requests?” I say instead.

“I do,” he says. “What would you like to hear?”

“The classical stuff—the flamenco. The stuff you started with.”

He nods, sliding his fingers up the neck of his guitar. “You have good taste, Maddie. Even after all these years it’s still some of my favorite stuff to play.”

Javier begins with a song of swirling notes, plucking at the strings with such speed his fingers lose their shape and blur. The muscles in his forearms tighten, bulge, release, making me dizzy, making my lips swell with desire.

He doesn’t sing; he just plays, the sound of the guitar filling the space between us. Shadow and light flicker across his face, his skin smooth, his stubble catching the light and burning red.

He plays.

I want.

God he’s good.
 

And sexy.

So fucking sexy.

I am not going to make it out of here alive.
He’s killing me.

Javier is killing me with his forearms and his eyes and his gypsy tunes of love and longing.

When the song is over, he aims a smile at me that makes my heart seize inside my chest. “D’you like it? The flamenco.”

He reaches across me for my glass—his is empty—and his arm brushes against the tips of my breasts as I let him take it. He drinks.

Oh, Javier
.

My pulse beats inside my head, in my lips, behind my eyes.

I never go back for seconds. Never ever ever. Doing that—letting someone in—it’s dangerous. It will only hurt in the end when he finds out what a lonely, messed up loser I am. And I can’t stand the thought of him knowing me like that. I can’t stand the idea of him pushing me away. Of him acknowledging that I
am
a loser.

But I realize now that it’s too late. I don’t know when it happened, exactly, or why; but I’ve already let Javier in. He’s in my body, in my every breath. My desire for him fills me, swims inside my skin.

I let him in, even though I’ll never be his, and he’ll never be mine. He wants a forever girl, and I’m leaving for the states in a few weeks.

Which means when I
do
leave, it’s going to hurt.
 

But if it’s going to hurt anyway, why shouldn’t I go back for seconds? Why shouldn’t we enjoy one last night together?

One more night before I go back to Atlanta, and he goes back to Carmen.

I want him, ohmi
god
I have never wanted anything or anyone as much as I want him right now.