face. “I dropped something heavy on it.”
“Is it broken?”
“My toe or the—”
“Your toe.”
“Might be. Most of me feels broken.” He gestures to his body.
I see bruises but also flexing muscles, pebbling skin, and corded tendons. “Brume hasn’t been kind to you, huh?” My voice sounds so husky I pray he blames it on the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been riding since the piece showed up.
“It’s been . . . challenging, but not all bad.”
“What part wasn’t bad?”
For a long time, he’s quiet. So quiet I raise my gaze back to his.
“The cheese and chouchen last night were nice.” He tilts his head to the side, and a black corkscrew slides across his forehead. “So, am I delusional, or were you angry with me?”
Over the water needling the marble, I let out a long sigh. “I wasn’t angry with you.”
He frowns, clearly dubious.
I want to pin my earlier bout of jealousy on something else, someone else, but curiosity is a cruel, crafty thing. “You mentioned you saw a girl in the well. Who was she?”
His black eyebrows almost collide over his nose, and his stance changes: his shoulders roll back, and his arms tense, the tendons straining. He looks like the terracotta statue my mother made of a Greek god when she was studying at the university. Even though I’ve asked Papa for it, asked him to display it in our outsized foyer, he refuses to remove it from where it sits in the college’s art department.
“Why do you ask?” His words are quiet but tense.
“I guess I’m trying to get to know you, and since this person is obviously important to you, it made me curious.” And wildly jealous.
Logically, I leave that part out.
His eyes take on the same shade as the bottomless pit he miraculously climbed out of alive. “She’s someone I don’t know very well but whom I inexplicably feel strongly about.”
“Does she live in Marseille?”
“No.”
“Did you meet her in one of your foster homes?”
“No.”
For someone so glib, he’s not giving me much to go on. “You should tell her that you like her. Maybe she feels the same.” He narrows his eyes, and I shrug. “What do you have to lose?”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just watches me. “I’ll think about it.”
I tighten the towel.
Finally, he nods to the glassed-in shower stall. “Better get in before you run out of hot water. Nothing worse than freezing water.” He unbinds his arms from their firm knot. “Knock three times when you’re done, okay?”
The hard click of the door shutting resonates around me. I don’t think he’ll come back in, but I walk over and twist the lock. As I toss the towel and my undergarments off, my heart pounds as hard as the running water.
I’m attracted to Adrien. Not to Slate.
Adrien, who’s gentle and compassionate.
Who still cajoles me as though I were a little girl.
Unlike Slate, who seems to see me as a woman.
His comment about me being a teen librarian comes back to me, and I loofah my skin until it’s as red as my flushed face.
No one sees me as a grown-up.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll heed Alma’s mantra and wear sexy underwear. Before going to bed, I text her an apology and knock three times on Slate’s side of the bathroom.
25
Slate
The three knocks come. By the time I peel myself off the bed, the bathroom is empty and Cadence’s side of the Jack and Jill is closed. I’m both relieved and a little disappointed. Mostly relieved, though. I don’t want to lie to her. If she asks me one more time about the girl in the well, I might just cave. Which would surely be a bad idea. On par with sticking the De Morel heirloom on my finger.
I inhale the sweet, crisp steam that smells of Cadence. I was dead tired a second ago, and now all of me is awake. Damn soap.
After brushing my teeth with a gifted toothbrush, I flick off the lights and stare at the door opposite mine, tempted to knock. Or just to barge in and ask her point-blank why she cares so much whom I pictured in the well.
Wait. Could she be jealous?
I remember the googly eyes she made at Adrien back at the tavern and their hug earlier. Nah. I’m totally delusional. There’s no way Cadence is jealous. She’s hung up on Professor Prickhead.
If I’m totally honest with myself, Adrien isn’t all bad.
But I don’t like him on principle. On several principles.
Back in the bedroom, I slide under the