“Lia.”
I ignored him, continuing to put the piles haphazardly away. My hands were shaking though, and I dropped a stack of pants, a tiny sobbing sound coming up my throat. I started bending to pick them up, but I felt Preston’s hands on my arms and then he had stepped right up to me and I felt the warmth of him at my back. “Lia,” he repeated.
The one word, spoken with so much intensity, lashed at my heart, causing the loneliness I’d felt inside most of my life—and certainly more so in the last couple of weeks—to come barreling at me as if it would knock me straight to the ground. Only his body, the solid wall of it, kept me from hitting the floor.
I leaned back against him, weak with the emotional impact, going limp as he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “I’m not . . . I’m not dirty. I made sure—”
“Stop,” he growled against my ear. “There’s nothing, nothing dirty about you.”
My racing heart steadied, and my ragged breathing calmed. He was holding me, and it felt so good. The need for human contact overwhelmed me and though I knew I should step away and compose myself, I couldn’t. Instead, I pressed backward, into his body and allowed myself to enjoy it. Just for a minute. Just a small sliver of joy. Just one memory of being in Preston’s arms.
After a minute or so, he turned me around and pulled me back into his chest, wrapping his arms around me again in a strong embrace. Oh, my heart sighed.
I gripped the material of his T-shirt at his back and turned my cheek into his shoulder, letting out a shuddery breath and then inhaling the comforting smell of him—soap and that same faint saltiness I associated with him, and only him. Preston.
He was murmuring my name and running his hands up and down my back. After a minute I pulled away slightly to look up at him, though I could have stayed that way forever. He was gazing down at me and his face was cast in the overly bright lighting of the Laundromat, the masculine lines of his bone structure made sharper by the harshness of the incandescent bulbs, the shadow of hair under the skin of his jaw made more obvious. There was something so manly about him right then and I stared, mesmerized. When had he lost the last vestiges of boyishness and become a man? Or was it me, overly aware of his masculinity pressed up against him like this?
I had a momentary flashback to the time we’d sat in the town square eating ice cream. I’d wondered then when he’d started losing the look of childhood. And now , I was staring at him again and he’d graduated into manhood.
Part of my love for Preston was like a slow-moving river that had gained breadth and speed over time. And another part came in short bursts of white-hot lightning, marking the very moments when the love in my heart had charged and intensified. And I knew this would be one of those flashes, one of those moments burned into my memory, and even possibly, the last one I’d ever get.
“Lia,” he said yet again and his voice was low and throaty.
My body stilled and the moment itself seemed to freeze as we both stared at each other, our chests rising and falling against the other’s. His eyes moved to my mouth again and I felt my lips part. For a breathless second I wondered if he might kiss me, wondered if those quick glances at my mouth meant he was considering it. But then his eyes snapped to mine and he moved back slightly. “I—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, dropping my arms. “I’ve gotten your shirt wet.” I pointed toward the wet mark near his shoulder where the tears I hadn’t even realized were falling had soaked through the fabric.
He glanced down distractedly, but didn’t comment. Didn’t seem to care. He watched me for a second.
I shifted on my feet, feeling embarrassed and emotional and drained, confused and fifteen, and like I desperately needed someone to answer all my questions about life and love and the aching throb in my heart that never seemed to go away.
“I’d like to take you up on that dance if you’re still offering.”
“What?”
“The dance. This is my favorite song.”
I blinked, pulling myself back to reality, to the bright Laundromat with music piping softly through the speakers.
I paused and then looked down, biting my lip and laughing softly. “Your favorite song is ‘Stuck on You’ by Lionel Richie?”
He nodded. “I’m a big fan of the eighties.” His expression remained serious but his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
Something fluttery moved between my ribs and I couldn’t help smiling back, though he hadn’t exactly given me a smile. I took a deep breath, my shoulders relaxing as I gazed into his earnest eyes. “I’d love to.”
We both stepped toward each other at the same moment and laughed when we collided gently, and whatever tension had been there seemed to ease.
He wrapped his arms around me and we began to dance slowly under the bright lights. He tightened his grip around my waist and spun me when the chorus came on. Surprised, I laughed and gripped him tighter, joyful delight expanding my chest. He sung softly in my ear about a midnight train and a feeling down deep in his soul, and I could feel the smile on his lips against my cheek and it filled me with dreamy happiness.
We moved together again, and my heart was beating triple time at the closeness of our bodies, the awareness of every part of him pressed directly against me, and the giddiness of discovering this new playful side of Preston, one I’d only ever glimpsed.
We swayed and something about moving as one that way felt so incredibly intimate. I’d never danced before and now I understood why it might lead to . . . more.