Chapter 22
William rings the doorbell at 4:00 p.m. on the dot, and I limp over to buzz him in. Butterflies cavort in my stomach—half in excitement that something is going to happen and half in fear that nothing will.
I open the door and wait in the doorway. As he comes up the stairs, he looks even better in person than I’ve remembered. And he smells of outside air and suntan lotion. He’s wearing another V-neck, showing the indent of his collarbone and smooth skin, along with jeans and hiking boots.
I step back. We’re detectives together. Sherlock Holmes and Watson. Poirot and Miss Marple. Yes, I should think of us as Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. That should douse these feelings.
“Ready?” he asks, with a huge grin on his face. “Do you think you can get down the steps by yourself?”
“I think so. Staying off of it for five days has really worked.”
He glances at my art scattered around the room; two canvases are leaning against our brick wall. My most recent one is drying on one easel while a half-completed one sits on the other easel. My sketchbook with my drawing of William is safely hidden, although one of my paintings, W with SP 8, has his profile in abstract. But I doubt he can recognize himself.
I hobble down the stairs with my cane. As long as I step gingerly, it works.
He offers me his arm for our walk down the street. Between his arm and the cane, I feel like I’m eighty-five years old. My cane has a snake head, so it’s not even a feminine cane, but it’s appropriate for a pipe-smoking Sherlock Holmes. A deerstalker hat would complete the outfit. Instead, I wear a yellow spring dress with tiny, pink flowers to counter the effect of my limping, cane-sustained forward motion.
“That’s quite a cane,” William says dryly.
“More than you know. It’s got one of those secret weapon tips with a fake sword. Uncle Tony used it in a play.”
I gesture to his hiking boots. “You do know that Cherry Hill is not really a hill?”
He smiles. He sweeps back his hair from his forehead and puts on his baseball cap. I love the way he pushes back his hair.
The spring air feels warm against my body. Everybody in New York City seems to be celebrating, wearing shorts and T-shirts. People linger, chatting, on the sidewalks. The cafés are packed. As we pass, the murmur of conversations buzzes around us.
We walk to Cherry Hill and find a place near one of the cherry trees with a view of Central Park Lake. We check for any stray dog poop, and then I lay out my picnic blanket on the partially grassy and partially dirt turf. Over on the walkway, couples are snapping pictures in a spot where all the cherry trees converge to create a canopy. Another couple smiles at us as they set up their picnic blanket nearby. They offer to take a picture of us if we take a picture of them. We agree. First, we take photos of them, and then it’s our turn. William and I stand under a canopy of cherry blossoms. He puts his arm around me, pulling me closer, and that contact makes me glance at him, just as he glances at me. My stomach flips.
I sit cross-legged on the blanket as William sprawls out. He reaches over his backpack and takes out two bento boxes. Kara-age, onigiri, and tamagoyaki each have their own compartment. We both unwrap our chopsticks, and I break mine apart.
“Uncle Takashi said you love onigiri and shabu-shabu.”
“I do.” He did research. A very good sign. But Takashi must have warned him to stay away from me. I look around, half expecting to see Uncle Tony and Takashi hiding in the bushes, ready to jump out to make sure I don’t get my she-devil pitchfork into William’s heart.
He hands me a thermos of miso soup. A man who cooks and prepares picnics—I’m in awe. I should take cooking lessons. My infatuation is getting dangerous if it is inspiring me to become all domestic.
“This is amazing,” I say.
As he sits cross-legged, his knee touches mine. Neither of us moves away.
I savor my rolled omelet. “Tessa and I played Clue this week, and I think we’ve been too focused on motive. That’s the hardest to figure out. It’s Professor Plum in the kitchen with the knife. If we focus on access to the room and who got it out, then we know it’s Vinnie, Lena, or Miju. Those were the people in the kitchen, and that room is next to the office.” We only have two more weeks until the Vertex Art Exhibit.
“Or someone working with them. But you’re right; they’re still involved.”
“We need evidence to give Officer Johnson something to hang a warrant on,” I say. “I called Miju, and I’m seeing them next Thursday night late. Do you want to come?”
“Sure.” He stretches out. “I needed this. This was a tough workweek. I’m glad to be done.”
“Thanks for taking me on a picnic to celebrate,” I say.
He glances at me, and I can’t read his expression.
He closes his eyes. I watch the families and couples boating around Central Park Lake. I turn back to William to suggest we go for a boat ride. He’s fallen asleep. Hmm … the uncles didn’t need to worry.
I pull out my sketch pad. I want to sketch those cheekbones and that disheveled hair hiding his forehead, those full lips. His neck and his Adam’s apple. Those broad shoulders. Yeah, there’s no way I could fall asleep. I sigh. I love when my pencil lines suddenly reveal the image and it all comes together. Next up is one of him with his eyes open, when he gives me that assessing look from the side, and one when he’s smiling, his eyes all warm. I turn the page to draw another sketch. The first one is for me, but I’d like to give him one as a gift for the picnic. I may not be able to cook, but I can draw for my food. I sketch another picture of him sleeping.
I look up to find his eyes open.
“Are you drawing me?”
“Yes.”
He sits up. “Let me see.” He leans over to look at it.
“You can’t see it until it’s done.” I pull my pad to my chest.
He slides over. “Not even a peek?”
“Not even a peek. Get back over there so I can finish.” I wave him back.
“Isn’t it better if I’m closer?” he asks, smiling, sliding even closer, his face peering into mine.
Any closer and we’d be doing a nose kiss. My pulse races. I swallow.
“No. I can’t concentrate if you’re this close.”
He chuckles. “Are you almost done?”
“Yes. But go lie back down and close your eyes.”
He lies down but puts his hands behind his head. “How much longer?”
“Five minutes.”
He opens one eye slightly. “Are you sure that’s enough time?”
“I was nearly done.”
He closes his eyes again.
I finish the sketch. “Okay, you can look.”
He moves to sit next to me and traces the lines of the picture with a finger. “That’s really good. But I think you made me more attractive than I am.” His shoulder butts against mine.
I harrumph. “You think you look attractive? You have a lot of ego.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t. But you do. This is a really good-looking guy.” He turns to face me, and he smiles.
“I do find you attractive.”
His eyebrow arches.
“But I’ve been warned off.” I put my hand on his chest to stop him from coming closer.
His open shirts and those barely revealed pectoral muscles have been like a siren call to me. Even if I can’t have him, I want that one moment to touch him—when I’m not distracted by foot pain. His heartbeat pounds under my palm. The smell of freshly cut grass wafts over.
“You were also warned off?” he asks.
“Uncle Tony said I shouldn’t date you because it would be too messy. You know, that I’m too much of a risk for you. But my intentions are honorable.”
“I’d rather they were dishonorable,” he says.
I smile back. “That can be arranged.”
His gaze intensifies, and he lowers his head to kiss me. His lips are firm against mine, and he caresses my cheek. His hand slides into my hair around my ear, leaving quivers of scorching yearning. My arms circle around to hold him. I fall back onto the blanket, and he follows, his chest to mine, as his arms hold me. I run my hand through his soft hair. I am conscious of nothing but him, his kiss, his mouth exploring mine, nibbling at my lip, his body hard against my body.
We break apart, breathing hard. He rolls us over so that we are side by side.
“I’m thinking we’re about to cross the PG line and we should head back to your place,” he says.
I kiss him on the lips. “I hope you don’t think I’m easy.”
“I think you’re complicated.”
“Too complicated?” I ask.
He pulls me closer to hug me.
“Not too complicated,” he whispers as he kisses me again.
William is still sleeping. I rest on my side and admire him. I am definitely enjoying exploring all the hidden sides of William. And his playful and affectionate side did not disappoint last night.
He opens his eyes and smiles. He reaches out to pull me closer to him. I snuggle into his warmth.
“Mmm … this is nice,” he says.
I look up at him, and he tenderly smooths back my hair from my face.
His phone beeps. He checks it and says, “That’s my dog walker. She just walked Sora and Pochi again this morning.” He looks around the room. “You have a lot of guitars.” Three guitars rest in my five-guitar stand in the corner.
“I only have five,” I say. A light breeze comes in from the open window with the smell of wet leaves.
“Only five.”
“I love guitars,” I say. “They each make different sounds. That’s my first guitar, and that’s my high school graduation present. I bought that third one with my summer savings.” William traces the curve of my shoulder, a light, feathery touch that sends tingles down my spine, making it hard to concentrate. “The other two are with the band. They were also graduation gifts.”
He is now tracing my collarbone. His fingers caress my skin, soft brushes igniting shivers of desire.
“I can make eggs for breakfast,” I say. “I actually make very good eggs. But that’s because I also sometimes make eggs for dinner. It’s quick and filling—”
William kisses me. “Do you want breakfast now?” He is tracing wider and wider lazy circles around my collarbone, going lower and lower. I catch my breath, craving more.
“Maybe not right now,” I say, my hands massaging the muscles of his back.