Cross The Line

CHAPTER FOUR

The bow moves faster and faster, my fingers gliding over the strings with such intensity I can't think about anything except which note comes next. I play until Nate is pushed from my head, the melody of his touch replaced by crescendos and cadenzas. Until every word he spoke tonight — so intent, so electric — is forced from my memory.

The notes fly out, my fingers a blur of motion, and I close my eyes, wishing I could stop seeing him in my mind. The way he looked — all lithe grace and dark promise. And the way he looked at me — with anger, mostly, but those undeniable flashes of something foreign in his eyes couldn't have been entirely my imagination.

Conflict.

Pianissimo.

Restraint.

Mezzo piano.

Lust.

Forte.

I strike the last note, breathless and exhausted from my efforts. My hands shake as I place the instrument back in its case. It's the best I've played in ages, and I couldn't care less. All I can think of is Nate. Of the fact that no amount of musical distraction can push him from my thoughts. And undeniably, of the lust in his eyes when they flickered down to my mouth for a fractured instant.

I saw it there, in the depths of his gaze, before he buried it away beneath layers of icy indifference. Just a flash, just a split second of clarity, but I saw it and I know what it meant.

On some level — and I'm not sure how deep that level is — he feels it, too. The magnetic pull between us.

Finally he feels it, too. Even if he can't admit it.

Part of me wants to spin in dizzy circles around the room, screaming to the heavens.

YES! NATE ISN'T TOTALLY UNAFFECTED BY ME! ALL HOPE IS NOT LOST! I MAY FINALLY ACHIEVE ORGASM AND AVOID DYING AN OLD, CELIBATE NUN!

The rest of me wants to climb back in bed, yank my Egyptian cotton sheets up over my face, and never come out.

NO! IT'S TOO LATE! HE WAITED TOO LONG! AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF TORTURE, HE CAN'T JUST FLIP A SWITCH, THE BASTARD! NOT WHEN I'VE FINALLY DECIDED TO MOVE ON AND FORGET ABOUT HIM!

Sigh.

I walk slowly back to my room, feeling dazed and dejected. Boo is experiencing none of my split-personality disorder. He's snoozing soundly at the end of my bed, nestled in a mountain of throw pillows. When I grab him and cuddle him close to my chest, his eyes flicker open to shoot a resentful glare in my direction and he promptly squirms away with a toss of his tiny head.

Christ, even my dog doesn't want to sleep with me.

Maybe I should get a cat. Then my forever-alone status as a spinster will truly be complete.

I'd laugh if it weren't so goddamned sad.

* * *

"...So, he basically broke into my house. Then he yelled at me. How messed up is that?"

Even two full weeks later, the memory of that night still burns through me like wildfire — singing my nerve endings, quickening my breath, sending my heart into a pounding, painful rhythm inside my chest.

Striving for composure, I take a sip of my drink — a sinfully sweet tequila-based concoction the bartender at Lolita whipped up for me — and eye my best friend, Delilah "Lila" Sinclair, across the table. Strawberry-blonde head bowed, plush bottom lip trapped between her mega-white teeth, she's totally concentrated on the cellphone in her hands. Not even attempting to listen to me.