Free Sheer Luck by Kelly Moran

night, and I was
pretty certain I’d sell my soul if it meant not letting her go.
    She must’ve sensed my restlessness, because
she murmured quiet phrases in French and stroked my chest. Touches
meant to tame the feral. After awhile, my heart stopped cracking my
ribs and her motions slowed.
    Setting her chin on my pec, she smiled at
me. “I’m not going to be able to walk at work.”
    I laughed, damn her, and ran my hand down
her hair. “I’ll make us something quick to eat. Fuel.” I kissed her
forehead and got up to step into a pair of jeans. She moved to her
back, sheet twisted around her legs, perky breasts thrust forward
with her arms over her head. I sighed, leaned over the bed, and
kissed her again. “You’re beautiful, mo grá. ”
    I was halfway to the door when she asked,
“What does that phrase mean?”
    Shaking my head, I smiled and left the room.
I started a pot of coffee while she showered. The eggs were almost
done when she emerged, fully dressed in a pencil skirt, blue blouse
and...reading glasses.
    I groaned and pushed her plate across the
counter toward her. “Librarian. Fantasy.”
    She smiled knowingly and sat on a barstool
facing the counter. We ate in silence, and she left for work after
kissing my cheek goodbye.
    I must’ve stood a good twenty minutes in a
numb state before I kicked myself into gear. Since this was our
last night, I figured I’d make dinner. I wasn’t great in the
kitchen, but I knew a few dishes. I tried to keep myself busy, but
the day dragged.
    Six days and I’d become addicted. Not just
with the physical aspect of us, but everything. The way she
absently played with my hair. The calming presence she brought to
my life. How she appreciated food and art. Her maternal instincts,
even though she was shown none growing up. The witty comebacks and
brilliant mind. She wasn’t afraid to learn new things, but she
steeped herself in tradition.
    The beef roast was finished cooking by the
time she strolled in after work. She paused a beat to take in the
set table, the flowers in a vase, and the candles. Yeah, I’d turned
into a sap. What did I care? It was our last night.
    She eyed me as I drew closer. “It smells
good in here.”
    I kissed her until her fingers clutched my
tee and she had difficulty standing. “Dinner’s done. Have a seat.
I’ll bring it out.”
    She hummed and made her way to the
table.
    We ate, the conversation flowing like the
wine I’d bought. She laughed at my holiday stories and I grinned at
her tales from work. Every second that passed made me miss her
already. I had my family, a good group of friends, but there was no
one like her in my life. Around her, I didn’t need a filter. It
made me wonder, again, who was her support system.
    Pushing the plates aside, I reached across
the table and linked our fingers. “How often do you get to see your
sister?”
    Her lips parted, but her gaze dropped to our
hands. The grief I often caught in her eyes returned, and my
stomach clenched before she even started to speak. “She died last
year.”
    I said nothing—what was there to say?--and
absorbed her loss like it was my own. She was alone. Utterly alone
in this world. Perhaps she had a myriad of friends and, no doubt
friends could fill a void, but it wasn’t the same. My throat
closed, my chest aching for her. A woman like her should be
surrounded by love. If I were in the position to do something about
that, I’d give her a litter of kids and sic my family on her until
she could only pray for silence.
    Her lips pressed together as if trying not
to say more, but when our gazes collided, tenderness warmed all the
ice in that blue. “We kept in touch growing up, but her foster
families weren’t as kind as mine. When she aged out of the system,
she lived on the streets, got involved with drugs. I think she was
just chasing that euphoric feeling they first gave her.” She
cleared her throat. “She was in and out of rehab a few times, but
it never stuck.