4
Just go. Go, go, go, go, go.
It was the word that went through my mind the moment his finger touched my skin. Like a rabbit cornered by the fox, my reaction to Xavier’s gaze had been visceral. Fight or flight.
So I fled.
Now, after snatching my coat from the attendant and sprinting across half the Upper West Side, I was genuinely lost. In New York City. Despite being born here and growing up here and literally only leaving maybe once or twice in my entire life.
If he was a shark, I was a guppy, drawn into his clutches like I was an idiot virgin all over again.
Frankie, you fool.
He didn’t want anything from me but sex. Just like he had before. And look where that had gotten me.
I stopped beneath a streetlamp, on yet another block where May Welland might have lived. Good God, was there anything other than brownstones and perfect cast iron gates on the Upper West Side? The warmth of wealth glowed beyond gently curtained windows. Refined and elegant. A world I’d only really visited on class field trips and in books. So far from my real life of a crumbling Brooklyn row house and the peeling paint of my grandparents’ home in the Bronx. Places where I belonged.
Dammit, where was the nearest subway stop? And the cabs, did they run uptown or downtown on Amsterdam? Which direction was Broadway from this corner? Why couldn’t I remember anything about this place?
“Francesca!”
My name echoed behind me, the voice deep and foreboding, hinting at the inevitable brewing storm.
My own personal tempest.
I heard his large footsteps pounding the pavement before I finally opened my eyes and looked up.
And there he was. Xavier.
“Ces,” Xavier said as he came to a stop in front of me. “You ran out. Why?”
It was barely a question. A demand, really.
I gulped. Somehow, he was even more gorgeous out here, looming over me like a vampire, a bloodthirsty creature of the night. Our Austen novel had disappeared. Now I was in Bram Stoker’s fever dream.
“I—I just have to go,” I mumbled. “I can’t do this. I forgot, I have to be somewhere else tonight.”
Before I could leave, my hand was seized, and I was spun back around. Another thing just like before: that faint electricity, sizzling at a single touch.
I yanked my hand. He did not release it.
“What are you doing?” I demanded. “Let go.”
“No.” One of Xavier’s black brow cocked in challenge. “You’re lying, Ces. You think I can’t tell?”
I pulled and pulled, but his grip was steel. “What? No, I’m not. I have to—”
“Go. Yeah, I know. But you’re clenching your other fist like you want to punch me in the nose. I bet your nails left marks on your palm too.”
At last I relaxed, but only because I realized he was right. My right hand was locked in his steel grip, but the other was, in fact, bunched so tightly that when I opened it, angry moon-shaped indentations lined my palm.
“Fine. I’m lying.” I flexed my left hand. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”
Xavier looked me up and down, like he was measuring my flight risk. At last, he released me. “I told you, Francesca. I remember everything about you. Every. Single. Thing.”
Another shiver traveled down my spine. Was that fear or anticipation? I couldn’t tell. So I looked away, flexing my fingers to get the blood flowing again.
“So, why did you run?” he pressed. “Was it me? Did I scare you off?”