His aunt had also sent enough grocery supplies to feed a small army. He was standing next to the alcove bed now, trying to decide whether to awaken Sylvie for lunch, or just to let her sleep.
“Sylvie,” he said softly.
She had been sleeping on her stomach, her arms wrapped around the pillow, like a lover. At the sound of his voice, she rolled over onto her back, threw her arms over her head, made a sexy snuffling sound, and continued to sleep.
Luc would have liked to think that the internal lurch he felt then was in his groin area and due to the love potion, which seemed to affect him in waves, like a time-release pill. He ran a fleeting hand over himself, and sure enough the evidence was there—half-hard and ready for the wake-up call. But, no, it wasn’t that region of his anatomy that he was worried about. He suspected that it was his heart at risk here, and not just from a stupid jelly bean. There was some serious emotional stuff going on inside him. But he refused to think about that now.
He shifted from foot to foot, contemplating whether to make another effort to wake Sylvie with a louder voice, or whether to slide into the bed with her and rouse her another way. Rouse being the key word. No, no, no, he wasn’t really considering the latter.
Sylvie was wearing an old gray Tulane T-shirt of his, and it had become twisted around her upper body, molding to her breasts and abdomen. The cotton sheet, likewise, was tangled around her hips and legs.
Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and upper lip. She must be roasting in this noontime high humidity, but obviously exhaustion took precedence over discomfort for her today, at least subconsciously. He should let her sleep till she was completely rested.
Still, Luc lingered. He couldn’t keep himself from staring at Sylvie as she slept. Her black hair provided a sharp and appealing contrast to the clear creaminess of her complexion, especially with the slumberous blush that gave a hint of color to her cheeks. Her lashes were full and thick, black as coal, like his own. Her nose was straight, with a slight upturn in the middle. He denied himself the pleasure of looking at her lips, which he knew from memory were full and naturally rose-colored… and kissable. Oh, yes, very kissable. He still couldn’t believe how responsive she’d been when they’d almost made love last night. Responsive, hell! She’d been hot. Best not to think about that. Instead, he moved his gaze to her chin, which was strong and stubborn, like Sylvie.
In truth, Sylvie’s appearance was pleasing enough, but she wasn’t beautiful. Not really. So why was he so attracted to her?
Because she’s Sylvie.
With that disconcerting admission, Luc eased himself down to sit on the edge of the bed. He knew exactly when this “thing” for Sylvie had begun. They’d been elementary school students together at Our Lady of the Bayou School, and Luc had been suffering horribly from feelings of self-loathing, prompted and perpetuated by his father’s constant criticism.
Sylvie had always seemed out of his reach, even then, and perhaps he’d felt that, if he could gain the affection of a girl like Sylvie, then maybe he wasn’t as worthless as everyone told him he was. Truth be told, he’d done things he was ashamed of since then… a sort of living down to people’s expectations. And of course, there was that one reprehensible act ten years ago… no, he wouldn’t dwell on that now. But one thing had to be admitted… in many ways, he was unworthy of a good woman.
Of course, Sylvie had never reciprocated his clumsy attempts at friendship. He knew now that she must have been chronically shy, and that his attentions had probably aggravated her fears, but back then all he’d wanted was a kind word from the girl on whom he’d had a crush. Of course, later he’d wanted other things—things that would shock a shy girl like Sylvie—but from the beginning Sylvie had been to his childish mind all that he was not… good and respectable and loved.