Javier looks up.

“What’s up with you? You look all red.”

“Do I? Must be the heat from the lights,” I mumble.

“Do you need a break or something?”

“No, no! Keep going.”

A break is all I need right now. I want this to end as soon as possible, because now, in this shirt that smells like Aiden, my achy thighs are not the only problem. The bigger problem is that I’m pretty sure this is what people mean by “really wet”. And the silky knickers will probably show it. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003. Lithium, 6.94… Oh, blast, it’s not working. Right. 173 times 432 is—umm—74,736.

“That’s it. I’m calling a break,” Javier says with finality, shaking his head. Good thing, too, because Mrs. Davis comes in, bringing snacks and drinks. I attack the ice with the desperation of an Eskimo in the Sahara Desert. After bread, salami and cheese, Javier puts me back to work.

I take my seat again, my eyes drifting to the clock on the wall. Instantly, every ounce of desire that was ravaging my body minutes ago vanishes. Thirty days. It’s excruciating enough to split them between Reagan, Javier and the Solises. How can I give even a single day to Aiden? And what happens if I do? Already, he feels fundamental somehow. If I let him in, will I be able to let him go?

“Okay, that’s it for today,” Javier announces, breaking my thoughts. I stumble up and stretch my legs, clutching my sheet to my chest as Javier stows his brushes away.

“Are you going to leave everything here?”

“Yeah. I have a few more sessions left before I go back to Feign. But I’ll sketch you first so you don’t waste your time with this.”

When he is finished organizing his supplies, Benson offers to take Javier home.

“Isa?” Javier looks at me. “Are you coming?”

I guess I knew he would ask. “I think I’m hanging out with Aiden tonight.”

A shadow of worry blurs Javier’s eyes.

“But I will see you tomorrow. And plenty after that, too, until—” I can’t finish my sentence because my throat constricts. And also because Benson is here.

Javier watches me for a long moment—searching my face like a map. I don’t know what he sees there, but his lips press slightly, his chin puckering.

“We need you too, sweetheart,” he says, and with a last nod, he darts out of the room, Benson behind him.

A choking gasp bursts from my mouth, but I gnash my teeth together. I run down the hall straight to Aiden’s bedroom, fighting the fire in my throat. My clothes are at the foot of the bed where I left them. I barge into the restroom, lock the door and put them on. On a whim I decide to keep my new knickers. Who knows what will happen tonight? Truthfully, I may be assuming things because Aiden has not asked me to stay. Either way, I’ll have a souvenir.

The idea of a night here unfolds before me like the American flag at the immigration office. I sit on the edge of the marble bathtub that looks like it could hold six people. The image makes me nauseous. How many women have been in this tub, sitting here as I am, perhaps feeling the same despair over Aiden Hale as I do? Can I be another number? Can I be something more? Even when the clock is ticking?

Instinctively, I grasp my dad’s watch and in that grip, two answers emerge from the chaos:

One, Aiden Hale is dark, maybe even dangerous. His warnings—the flickering lights, the thousand-yard stare, the physical distance, the anger, the violence that radiates from him at certain moments—are living proof of that hypothesis. The right thing to do is to leave him and spend every minute I have with Javier and Reagan.

Two, I can’t do that.

Chapter Eighteen

Timeless

I march out of Aiden’s bedroom, down to the living room. I have my eyes on my red flats, planning my next words, when I almost collide with him in the kitchen. He looks warm, giddy even. The anger seems to have vanished. This is the look that confuses me above all others. The sheer joy amid bleakness and isolation. Arrested as I am by him, I can’t help the grin that splits my face in two.

“You weren’t trying to sneak out, were you?”

“No, I was coming to find you actually. Probably a good thing I didn’t get far. Chances are I would get lost.”

He laughs. “Then I think it’s time for a tour. I didn’t have a chance to show you around earlier.”

“Maybe we can fit in a lesson on art interpretation too. You know, things like ambiguous pointing toes?”

He laughs again. “I may have to examine those pointing toes.”

The toes in question curl at the prospect. For a moment, I wonder whether I should press the art lecture but my eyes fly to the clock on the wall. Sixteen hours and fifteen minutes of embargo left.

His index finger comes under my chin. “No clocks today,” he whispers and wraps his hands around my waist, bending his seraphic face to mine.

The kiss is gentle and slow. His tongue traces my lips, once, twice, three times, four. He does not rush. My mouth parts in response and only then, his tongue comes in. His hands clutch my waist tightly. Suddenly the slow pace is not enough for me. I take his lower lip between my teeth and bite it like I have wanted to do since the flood in the painting room. He moans and fists his hand in my hair, arching my head all the way back.

He lowers his lips to the base of my throat. “This is the first part of you I saw in your painting,” he whispers. “I wanted nothing else but to kiss it.”

His lips flutter over my skin. I’m on fire. That warm pulse between my legs throbs until the rest of me is vibrating, inside out.

He pulls back and takes my hand. “Let’s finish that tour.”

He strides to the clock on the wall and flips off the switch. Then, he unplugs the microwave, the stove, the sound system. All the clocks. We stroll through the rooms, and wherever he sees a clock, he turns it off and kisses me. Hard kiss, soft kiss, long, short, bites, nibbles, blows, until the only thing that keeps me from slumping to the hardwood floor is his primal hold around my waist.

In the end, we enter his library. It rivals Reed’s Rare Books Collection. Mahogany floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, holding hundreds, perhaps thousands, of books. A hand-carved chessboard is set out in the corner. If I were not burning and the clock were not ticking, I’d sit here all night. He smiles at the awe that must show on my face.

“What are men to books and libraries,” he chuckles, modifying Elizabeth Bennett’s quote from Pride and Prejudice. So bloody clever!

“In vain they struggle. It will not do.” I spoil Mr. Darcy’s words.

He laughs and pulls me tightly to him. “In vain, indeed,” he says, kissing me in front of Austen and all.

On our way out of the library, I notice a calligraphy quill with a long, black-and-white feather on a shelf. A beautiful Amherst.

He notices my gaze. “A gift from my mother. She seems to think this is a manly pen. She bought one for me and one for my father when they were in Europe.” He rolls his eyes, but there is a tender ache there when he talks about his mother.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, thinking of my mum’s quill on my dresser. Like a last warning to step away from more loss. I push the thought aside and pick up the quill. It quivers like me. I caress his cheek with it, pausing at his scar. He takes it from me and runs it over my lips, my jawline, my neck and my collarbones. My breathing becomes shallow.

Feather in hand, he leads me out of the library and down the hall, finally to his bedroom. He unplugs his alarm and takes off his Audemars, pulls out the crown and shoves it in his dresser. His eyes are liquid fire. He saunters toward me with single-minded focus.

Every muscle in my body is coiled and tensed. The bottom of my belly is clenching with a dark, addictive ache. I am ready. I want this. He caresses my face, looking at me questioningly for permission. I can only nod and reach for my dad’s watch. I have not taken it off in four years but tonight is past-free. My hand shakes as I undo the clasp. Aiden wraps his hand around mine. I thought it would feel like my skin was being flayed but with Aiden’s touch, my wrist feels lighter.