My heartbeat begins to speed as I look into his eyes. Because I know that look, the type of fierce intensity. It’s how Sebastian would stare at me when we came up for air: as if I’m the only other person in the world.
I take a quick breath. In a split second, it’s as if I’m outside myself, racing to make a decision. I know that moments like this pass, and that if I don’t act now, it will be over and he’ll leave and nothing will happen between us. But if I make a move . . .
I take a step forward. In a fleeting thought, I wonder if perhaps those random party hookups were just practice for this, so that when it really mattered, my body would know what to do, even if my mind was still paralyzed. And then I close the last few inches between us and stop thinking.
His lips are cool and soft, and as I bring my hand up to his face, I can feel the slight scratch of stubble against my palm. For one panic-filled moment I stop, waiting for some reaction, but then he pulls me tightly against him and I melt into the kiss.
We fall backward onto the sofa: hands tangling in hair, legs twisting together, and tongues searching, hard and hot and, god, so delicious. I lose track of time, of everything — my mind shuts down.
Finally, I pull away, gasping for air. I’m lying beneath him, Ryan’s body pressing me into the cushions with a weight that’s strangely satisfying. “Oh, wow,” I say before I can stop myself. I blush, but Ryan only laughs, propping himself on one elbow and carefully pushing my hair off my face.
“Yeah, that’s about right.” He looks down at me with a warmth that goes straight to my stomach. “I didn’t know if . . .”
“Nor did I,” I agree, still breathless. I lift my face and kiss him again, softly, almost to check that this is real.
It is.
“You didn’t say —” The words die on my lips as I hear a rattle of keys outside the door. Ryan and I freeze. “Oh god, Morgan,” I gasp, but the footsteps move on and then the hallway is silent again.
I collapse backward, my heart racing in double-quick time. That was far too close. “You’ve got to go.” I begin to pull myself out from under him. “She could come back. We can’t. . .”
Ryan sits up slowly and pulls his shirt back on. He glances over to me. “But you’re OK with this. . . .”
“Yes!” I lean in and kiss him again, savoring the feel of his skin on mine. “I just don’t know how I’m going to tell Morgan.” I pause. “Or even if I need to tell her at all.” Something tells me I don’t want to spend the rest of the time sleeping in a confined space with a girl bent on revenge.
“OK.” Ryan gives me a melting grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, in the editing room?”
I nod, shooting another anxious look at the door. “Tomorrow.”
I’m in such a hurry to get him out of the building before we’re discovered that it’s only when I’m alone again with nothing but a handful of ticket stubs and a diner menu to show for our day that I realize just what I’ve done. I kissed Ryan. Morgan’s Ryan.
And I don’t regret it at all.
23
The day of the big board meeting finally arrives, and I’m nervous as hell. Even a quick call with Em running through her ten-point public-speaking guide didn’t make me feel any better. See, Carrie and Uma decided it would make our case stronger if it looked like we had a “coalition of the willing,” whatever that is, so they roped me into presenting a section of our case: talking about all the international schools that offer women’s services as a given, and how Oxford doesn’t want to look backward or sexist. I get that they want to bring up every possible reason to keep the center open, but I really doubt all the potential foreign students out there will be flipping through their prospectuses thinking, “Harvard, the Sorbonne, Oxford — no wait, they don’t have a women’s health center. I’ll go to MIT instead!”
Either way, I’m part of the team, so that means come noon on Thursday, I’m hanging out in the cold stone hallway outside the meeting room with the rest of our group. I made sure to dress super-smart today, in a crisp blouse and tweedy style of skirt that could be right out of a Hitchcock movie, but that still doesn’t stop me from feeling totally out of place. I figured I’d shaken my outsider instinct by now, but something about the importance of the meeting is bringing it all back again.
These girls are depending on me.
“Have we got the backup disc?” Carrie is fussing with our stack of materials. “What about a spare cable, in case the projector plays up?”
“Check and check,” DeeDee answers, a small smile on her face, like she’s happy to see Carrie getting so worked up. I’m not. I’ve never seen her anything but casual and confident, and if our fearless leader is having some kind of panic attack, then that so doesn’t bode well for the rest of us.
“You’ve been quiet, Natasha.” Louise nudges me. “You’re going to be OK with your part?”
“I think so.” I’m clutching my notes tightly, hoping my sweaty palms won’t smudge the writing.
“You know, you look rather pale.” She studies me. “Don’t you think, Uma?”
“I’m OK,” I protest, but now the rest of the group is staring. “Well, maybe I’m kind of nervous,” I admit. “I’m not great with public speaking. Being the center of attention and all.”
It’s crazy. I’m happy dancing on tables and parading around in my panties for charity runway shows, but put me in front of a panel of stern professors, and I’m reduced to jelly.
“You’ll be amazing.” Louise gives me a supportive hug. “Don’t worry.” I nod slowly, just as an older woman sticks her head out the door and beckons to us.
“We’re ready to begin now.”
“All right.” To my relief, Carrie gets her game face on: totally focused and in control. “Let’s go. Remember, the women of Oxford are relying on us.”
Way to pile the pressure on.
We file into the long room and take a row of seats near the front. There’s a long table facing us at the head of the room, which I guess is for the board members to rule over us from, but to my surprise, the rest of the room is quickly filling up too — students and adults packing the rows of folding chairs and looking expectantly at the front.
At where I’m going to be standing.
Oh boy.