A Fine Mess (Over the Top) by Kelly Siskind Page B

then grabs her jacket. “I’ll meet you outside. I need some air.”
    Then she’s gone, with my heart, her disappointment etched in her tight features.
    Oz gathers the items as I try to figure out how to make this right. We need to get back to our normal: harmless flirting, easy conversation. Light and fun. Find the place where we can hang out like before, none of this bullshit in the way. If she’s working tomorrow, I’ll go by with the sample sweaters I brought. Since meeting Lily, I can’t finish a design without seeing her in it. I’ve flown to Toronto often to fit her. My muse. My inspiration. That can’t change. It won’t.
    If our friendship gets weirder, if I’ve screwed things up with that kiss, it’ll leave me one option. I’ve never told a soul about my mother. Not Nico. Not Kolton. Not even Finn. My mother’s instructions were clear: no one is to know. But I’ve messed with Lily’s head too much, pushing her away and drawing her in like a marionette. Like I’m a total fucking asshole. She’ll need to understand. One last-ditch effort to get us back on track, and if I fail, confession it is. Twenty-two years is too long to keep a secret anyway.

Lily
    My head is so filled with Sawyer I almost rear-end a car on the way to work. The brush of his stubble. His breath on my lips. The weight of his hands on my body. He should come with a warning label:
    Extreme fixation probable. Avoid operating a moving vehicle.
    I’ve experienced want before, the heat that develops from anticipation. But I’ve never known this. Yesterday, as soon as Sawyer leaned down to kiss me, my brain short-circuited. No touch was needed. He was a beam of light and I was caught in his energy, bowing to the pressure of desire. Desire that sent heat coursing through my body. His lips were soft yet firm, his slight scruff scraping my chin, but it was his tongue that worked magic—dancing with mine in a sensual twirl. He didn’t demand me, but he didn’t ask, either.
    He took. I gave. We forgot ourselves.
    Then we remembered.
    I stare at the drafting board in front of me, a half-finished sketch of a purse begging to be reworked. Shakey Graves strums from my iPod, and I lose focus, the buckle I’ve redrawn several times blurring on the page. My mind wanders to yesterday’s agonizing car ride back to Sawyer’s hotel, each minute of silence horrible. Weirder than weird. The DJ on the radio laughed about some joke, heightening the dead air between us.
    When I parked, Sawyer paused with his hand on the door. “Are you working at the shop tomorrow?”
    I nodded, but my voice was still stuck at the antique store.
    “I’ll be by in the afternoon. I have some samples to show you.”
    I mumbled, “Sure,” as I stared at the steering wheel.
    Then he left.
    I’ve been glancing at the clock since noon, trying to decide precisely when after noon falls. Is it twelve on the nose? One minute past? An hour later? I force my gaze to the opposite wall. Shay designed it as a massive bookcase, the white cubbies filled with magazines, books, and binders. The table in the middle of the space is strewn with illustrations, leaving room at the back for a mannequin dress form and a rack of samples. Framed articles line the remaining walls, the stories of success both a celebration and motivation to excel. Sawyer beams in one, his smile lighting up the shot.
    The opposite of yesterday’s frown.
    The second the store owner mentioned infidelity, Sawyer’s face hardened, and my stomach curdled. I know he wants me. That kiss was all the proof I needed. My body ached all night, remembering, like my skin was on fire. The brush of my sheets, the whisper of my nightgown against my skin—each graze scorched like a branding iron. And the feeling hasn’t lessened.
    The wall clock teases me, each tick a moment closer to Sawyer’s arrival, his presence likely to suck the air from the room. For the fourth time, I erase the asymmetrical buckle on the purse I’m