Truly, Madly, Deeply by Alexandria Bellefleur

Author:Alexandria Bellefleur
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2024-04-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

“—and it was a great book, don’t get me wrong, but now I can’t step foot in an Ikea without being consumed by the thought that some seriously shady shit probably goes down after dark, you know? Closed big-box stores are, like, the mother of all liminal spaces. At the very least, unauthorized employee sleepovers must be happening. I mean, all those beds? And honestly? Why haven’t they turned Ikea into a hostel? Or housing for those who need it? The beds just sit empty night after night and—”

Colin’s fingers circled her wrist, grip gentle but firm. “Truly?”

She stopped walking, only a few steps shy of the vine-covered gate that kept her building mostly obscured from the street. She held her breath, pulse racing beneath his fingers. “Hm?”

“I’m not making you nervous, am I?”

Nervous? Her? Ha.

Yes.

The thumb resting over her pulse smoothed over her skin and she shivered, gulping quietly. “Why would I be nervous?”

“Maybe because you haven’t stopped talking since we started walking?” The corner of his mouth curled up. “Not that I didn’t find your take on the secret evil goings-on inside Ikea fascinating.”

“Well, I’m not.” Her heart sped and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he could feel it, thumb pressed to her pulse like a human lie detector. “I’m fine. I’m—I’m peachy.”

“You’re peachy,” he said, hand finally dropping to his side. It took an inordinate amount of self-control to not reach out and grab his hand, smack his open palm against her wrist like a slap band, and tell him not to let go. “So, you’re not avoiding talking about what you said back at the bar?”

Her shoulders sagged. Was she that obvious? Or was Colin just that skilled at reading her?

She rubbed her wrist, her fingers a poor substitute for his. “We can talk about it. If you want. I’m just—” Terrified because this didn’t feel like much of a baby step anymore. But she didn’t want to take one step forward only to take two back. She wrapped her fingers between the rusted iron bars of the gate and pulled. “I don’t know where to start.”

Colin followed her into the dimly lit courtyard where weeds sprouted between cracks in the pavement and sweet-smelling clematis climbed the trellis outside her window. Her apartment complex was small—a single-story building comprised of six units, each with its own separate entrance off the shared courtyard, like town houses. A rarity on a street dominated by buildings five, six stories tall.

“We could get straight to the part where you confessed to wanting to work up a non-platonic sweat with me.”

She fumbled her keys.

“Or we could talk about flowers.”

The weak amber bulb above her door flickered as she shoved her key in the lock and turned, facing Colin. “I like amaryllis and camellias. Cornflowers and dahlias. Dogwood and edelweiss. Hawthorn and lily of the valley are nice, too.”

“You’re killing me,” Colin croaked. “You know that?”

She slumped back against her door. “I’m killing you?” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until starbursts appeared behind her lids.

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