Page 11 of The Sinner’s Desire (The Sinner’s Touch #1)
“Just because he called me by the name I like,” I mutter to myself, then aloud I say, “Michelle, my mom’s cousin—the one I lived with in Paris—acted like the head nun of a convent. That’s why I didn’t go out.” We’re so close I can feel his body heat, even without him touching me.
“What do you mean?”
“You know Nora, right? Well, Michelle is the opposite. It’s not just that she isn’t vain like my mom—she seems to hate life.
Everything’s a sin. Everything’s inappropriate.
I went from a girls’ boarding school to a woman who might as well have worn a habit.
Sounds like the start of a bad joke, but it’s just my life. ”
I keep regretting how open I’m being—but the words just tumble out. Not many people ever ask what I want in life, or whether I’m happy. So maybe I’ll just blame the loneliness for making me be friendly to someone who, frankly, doesn’t deserve my friendliness.
I think back to my mom’s cousin. Calling her “strict” is being generous.
I overheard her talking to Nora on the phone the night before I left Paris. She said I was making a mistake by moving out and would end up “a libertine like all the girls these days.” She couldn’t be more wrong.
It’s not sexual freedom I’m after. What I really want .
. . is to live. To wake up late on a Sunday and eat breakfast at noon if I feel like it, instead of being forced to go to 7 a.m. mass.
To have a home studio and get up in the middle of the night when creativity hits me—without someone telling me to turn off the light.
Creativity isn’t linear. Ideas show up when they want, and if you don’t act on them right away, they vanish.
“You didn’t go out in Paris?”
“Not at night. On the rare occasions I tried, I had to listen to a whole lecture first. I don’t start arguments, but I won’t walk away from one when I have a point to make. And those conversations always stressed me out.”
“Did you miss going out?”
“How would I know? I’ve never experienced it,” I say—then quickly think of what happened with Bastien. If that was a taste of what “fun” looks like for people my age . . . count me out.
“Is that why you came to Boston, Lilly?”
“Not really. Back at school, I’d hear my classmates talk about their vacations, their boyfriends, stuff like that.
But once I finally got out of the convent school, I didn’t like what I saw.
Even if Michelle had let me go out without starting World War III every time, I don’t think I would’ve had much fun. Maybe I just don’t fit in.”
Talking to Amos feels . . . natural. Which doesn’t make any sense after the way we started today.
Maybe it’s because he treats me like an equal—not all overprotective like Ethan always does. He’s actually listening to every word I say, and that makes something warm blossom in my chest.
Don’t do this, Lilly Ross. Don’t fall into that trap again. Remember—he thinks you’re a burden.
I turn toward the window, done talking. Best to stick to my original plan: be invisible.
The streets are still busy, and every so often, he has to stop the car in traffic. And unless I’m imagining it . . . I think he turns to look at me when we pause.
It’s just a feeling—since I keep my eyes glued to the scenery outside—but my body heats up like I’ve got a fever, and I know those gorgeous eyes are on me.
“There’s nothing wrong with not fitting in,” he says, startling me.
“What?” I look at him now. His face is serious.
“You said you don’t fit in. In a world where people are too lazy to think for themselves, going against the grain means you’re not average.
This whole idea that the majority is always right?
It’s just an excuse to avoid standing out.
Thinking is hard. Analyzing everything without letting the media or social networks dictate your beliefs?
Even harder. Saying yes to everything is the fastest way to live a mediocre life. ”
I’m stunned. He’s spoken more in the last few sentences than he has the entire time we’ve known each other.
“I don’t go with the flow, if that’s what you’re implying,” I reply. “If I did, I’d be the most popular girl in the world. I’ve got all the right ingredients: young, rich, attractive. And yet . . .”
I let the sentence die.
What I wanted to say was And yet . . . I’m lonely . But I’m not about to share that. Not with someone who doesn’t even like me.
“And yet what?”
“Nothing. If you don’t mind, I’m going to nap until we get home.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I lean my head against the door and close my eyes, even though I know there’s no chance I’ll fall asleep with him sitting right beside me.