Chapter 8: The Roof

The roof of the bottling hall was flat tar and brick, ringed by a low wall.

Beyond it, the lights of downtown St. Paul glittered across the river.

A string of bulbs ran along one side and swung in the wind.

The band's accordion came up muffled through the floor.

Emmett closed the roof door behind us and stood with his back against it.

He didn't come toward me.

"That one wasn't for them," he said.

I wrapped my arms around myself, because the October air cut through the green dress.

"No," I said. "It wasn't."

"I want to hear you say what it was."

"Why?"

"Because I made a promise in a hallway. I said I wouldn't touch you unless you asked. And I'm going to keep it, even now."

My heart did something painful and good.

"You stood in the middle of the tap room with a hundred people watching," I said, "and let me kiss you."

"I would let you do that every day."

"That's not what I'm asking about."

"I know."

"I'm asking about the part after."

He didn't breathe.

"Emmett," I said, "come here."

He crossed the roof.

His hands came up and framed my face, with his thumbs resting under my cheekbones, and he stopped an inch away.

"Ask me," he said, rough.

"Kiss me. Properly. Now."

He did.

It was nothing like the tap room.

It was slow and deep and went on, and the cold went out of me.

I found the buttons of his shirt and undid the top three.

His skin was hot under my palms, and he made a low sound into my mouth that I felt in my knees.

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