Extraits

Je ne me soucie pas de la façon dont je m'y prends, ni de savoir si je fais les choses bien. Je dois forcément les faire bien si nous ressentons tous les deux cette explosion si intense.

Ma main reste posée sur son torse, sur ce cœur dont le battement s'accélère sous mes doigts, comme si ce baiser pouvait durer une éternité, jusqu'à ce que mes larmes sèchent, jusqu'à ce que mes lèvres me fassent mal et jusqu'à ce que je connaisse par cœur la saveur divine de la bouche d'Ashton.

– Mais je ne suis pas en train de te conseiller de faire une vidéo pour Marc Dorcel, Livie.

Il affirme cela de ce ton doux et autoritaire qu’il utilise quand il veut mettre habilement la pression.

– Qu’est-ce que j’en sais ? Il y a trois mois, vous m’avez suggéré de parler à un orang-outan.

Incroyable mais vrai.

– Trois mois, déjà ? Comment va ce bon vieux Jimmy ?

Je me tais, inspire profondément pour ne pas exploser et dire des choses que je regretterais.

– Non, ce n’est pas le moment, Docteur Stayner.

Vraiment pas. Le soleil brille, il fait chaud et je traîne ma valise rose, un cactus dans les bras, à travers un cadre très pittoresque, en direction de mon dortoir, tout comme des centaines d’autres étudiants et leurs parents nerveux. C’est la rentrée et je suis à

deux doigts de vomir, conséquence d’un trajet mouvementé en avion. Je ne suis vraiment pas disposée à répondre à un nouvel appel « tactique d’agent infiltré » du Docteur Stayner.

Et pourtant, me voici pendue au téléphone avec lui.

– C’est sûr, ce n’est probablement pas le moment. Tu aurais pu modifier la date de ton entretien avec moi, sachant que tu allais être dans l’avion pour le New Jersey ce matin. Mais tu ne l’as pas fait, souligne calmement Stayner.

J’examine les alentours pour m’assurer que personne ne peut entendre cette conversation, mes épaules se voûtent quand je lui lance, en susurrant :

– Je n’ai rien à modifier du tout puisque je ne fais pas une thérapie.

Bon, ce n’est pas tout à fait vrai. Dès le lendemain de cette agréable soirée de juin au cours de laquelle ma sœur m’a tendu une embuscade, armée d’une part de cheesecake, le docteur Stayner m’a appelée. Fidèle à lui-même, ses premiers mots n’ont pas été « Bonjour » ou « Ça me fait plaisir de te parler ». Il s’est contenté de dire : « On me dit que tu es une vraie bombe à retardement. »

P.150

Je sais que je ne devrais pas lui poser cette question, mais je le fais quand même.

- Pourquoi m'as-tu écrit ce mot ?

Il détourne le regard pendant un instant et je vois sa mâchoire se contracter. Lorsque nos yeux se rencontrent à nouveau, je perçois la résignation.

- Parce que tu n'es pas une fille d'un soir, l'Irlandaise.

Il se penche pour déposer un baiser sur ma joue et chuchote :

- Tu es la fille que je veux pour la vie.

Ses mains se détachent de mon corps, et il se retourne calmement vers la table pour attraper sa veste.

Puis il s'approche de la porte et s'en va.

“Tell me why you call me Irish.”

“Sure but, first things first.” His eyebrow arches pointedly.

“God you’re stubborn!” I release a heavy sigh. Given that I’m lying naked with the man, I figure I’ll humor him to get the truth. Pursing my lips to keep the grin from showing, I mutter, “Fine. I may want you.”

“May?” He grins at me. “You walked up and practically ripped my toga off as you pulled me down, shouting, ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish!’”

On the opposite side of the street—the route we were just on—I spot a lone figure jogging. Another insane person out in this weather. My eyes flicker back and forth between the road and the silhouette as I continue. Soon, it’s close enough that I can identify a male. Even closer, I see dark, shaggy hair.

It’s Ashton.

With evenly paced steps, sleek movements, and a stony face, Ashton runs like a well-trained athlete. One in a drenched white T-shirt that clings to every ridge of his chest. And I can’t peel my eyes off of him. My heart is already pounding from the run but now I feel an adrenaline rush coursing through my body, giving me a boost of energy. I feel like I could run ten miles today, like I could leap over cars, like I could—

My hands just barely stop my face from smashing against the sidewalk.

I guess I made enough noise in my fall to alert Reagan, because she screams my name and rushes back. “Are you all right?”

I wince as I pull myself up, a sharp pain shooting through my ankle, a sting in my palm. “Yeah, I’m—” My words end in a hiss as another pain jolts me. “I must have tripped over that ridge in the sidewalk.”

She walks over to inspect the concrete and frowns. “You mean this small, imperceptible hairline crack?”

With a curse under my breath, I mutter, “I warned you.”

“You did. Now what are we going to do?” Biting her bottom lip in, she slides her phone out of her hoodie pocket. “I’ll see if Grant is around. Maybe he can pick us up.”

“That was impressive, Irish!” Ashton calls out between breaths as he crosses the street toward us. Reagan looks up at him in surprise—as if she hadn’t noticed him running this way. I watch as her eyes drop slightly and widen. Exactly. How on earth could you not have noticed that running down the street, Reagan! She fixes me with a knowing stare, telling me that her dirty little sex-in-the-library mind has connected the dots that led to my tumble. “Hi, Ashton,” she offers with a playful lilt, still looking at me.

He gives her a quick nod before crouching down on one knee. While he inspects my ankle, I listen to his ragged pants and swallow the sudden pooling saliva in my mouth. How is there pooling saliva in my mouth? A minute ago I was parched! The pressure from his fingers, though gentle, makes me flinch, bringing me back to reality.

“Can you stand?” he asks, those gorgeous brown eyes full of concern.

“I don’t know,” I mumble, and struggle to get to my feet. His hands are at my waist in an instant to help me. It’s immediately obvious that I’m not going to be jogging or even walking home. “I think it’s sprained.” I’ve sprained my ankle enough times to know the feeling.

“I’m calling Grant,” Reagan announces, holding up her phone.

Suddenly I’m off the ground, cradled in Ashton’s strong arms, and he’s walking down the street, his hands somehow searing my skin through my clothes. “I’m not standing out here in the rain, waiting for Cleaver to show up,” Ashton throws back.

“Can you believe this?” Kacey’s chin settles on my shoulder from behind as we stare out onto the ocean together, our matching plum-colored silk bridesmaid dresses fluttering in the light breeze. “I still remember them going on their first date. Storm was petrified. And now here they are, getting married and having a baby.”

With a shooter in my hand, I close my eyes and let my body just feel the throbbing beat of the music. Let loose, have fun. That’s what Stayner always tells me. Tipping my head back, I squish the bottom of the Dixie cup and bring it to my lips, sliding my tongue out to accept the wiggly mess into my mouth. I feel like a pro.

Except for one amateur mistake—I should never have closed my eyes.

If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have looked like an easy drunk chick. And I would have seen him coming.

The tangy orange flavor has just touched my taste buds when a strong arm hooks around my waist from the front and pulls me away from the safety of my wall. My eyes fly open wide as my back presses against someone’s chest, one muscular arm snaking around my body. In the next heartbeat—not mine, because mine has stopped beating altogether—a hand seizes both my chin and the Dixie cup against my lips and tilts my head back so it’s facing up and at an angle. I catch a whiff of musky cologne a split second before a guy leans over and his tongue slips against mine, twirling around and coaxing it a little before drawing the Jell-O away. It all happens so fast that I have no chance to think or react or put my tongue back in my mouth. Or bite the intruding tongue off.

It’s all over in a second, leaving me shooterless, breathless, and gripping the wall for support as my knees shake.

"Parfois tu sembles aussi habile qu'un flamant rose à une patte pris dans des sable mouvants."