Chapter 11
ELEVEN
KNOX
I arrange the last cushion, stepping back to survey my handiwork.
Plush velvet and silk pillows stolen from neighboring apartments transform the dusty cinema room into something almost decadent. The room smells of stale popcorn and abandoned dreams, but with the candles I’ve placed strategically around the space, it almost feels like a real date setting.
Something normal in a world that’s forgotten what normal even means.
The projector doesn’t work anymore, but movie dates are shit anyway.
Now I just have to convince a certain woman to follow me into a dark room. After last night, I’m not sure if she’ll even look me in the eye, let alone trust me enough for this.
Last night.
It plays on repeat. Her soft skin under my fingers, the little gasps she couldn’t control, the way she melted against me. And then the argument.
I run my hand over my jaw, feeling the stubble I carefully trimmed with the razor.
Why am I doing this?
The same reason I can’t keep away from her, or act like I didn’t know Liv and Walsh. At first, I thought we might be in danger when Paris told me she spotted people, but then it was them, probably looking for me. And the selfish asshole I am, I didn’t say anything because I want Paris for myself.
With her, the apocalypse feels less like the end and more like a beginning.
Even if it’s just for one more night.
The climb back to the penthouse leaves me barely winded, my body finally recovering from the fall.
Paris slices strawberries at the kitchen counter when I enter, her hair falling in a curtain around her face, hiding her expression, but the tension in her shoulders tells me everything I need to know.
She’s still thinking about last night. About my hands on her body. About the offer I made. And about me…
I meant what I said.
I’m not leaving without her.
“Hey.” I keep my voice neutral, casual, like I haven’t been planning this all day.
She looks up, knife pausing mid-slice. “Hey. I was making a snack. Want some?”
“Maybe later.” I step closer, hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Her eyebrow arches. “What kind of something?”
“A surprise.” I hold out my hand. “Do you trust me?”
Her eyes flick to my outstretched palm, then back to my face, lowering the knife onto the counter. “Depends.” She wipes her hands on a dish towel. “Does this surprise involve more embarrassment?”
“You want to find out?”
She regards me for a few torturous seconds before slipping her hand into mine, fingers cool and slightly sticky with strawberry juice. “Lead the way.”
We descend the stairs in silence, her hand still in mine. Maybe I’m being a complete idiot. But maybe it makes her smile. And if that’s the case, I’ll gladly be the idiot.
On the seventh floor, I pause, turning to face her. “Close your eyes.”
“Seriously?”
“Humor me.”
She sighs dramatically but complies, lashes fanning against her cheeks. I move behind her, placing my hands over her already-closed eyes. Her body stiffens before relaxing back against my chest.
“No peeking,” I murmur against her ear, guiding her forward. “Three more steps.”
The cinema doors swing open with a gentle nudge from my foot. I maneuver her into position, centered before my creation, and take a breath.
“Okay,” I say. “Open.”
I drop my hands from her eyes, watching her face as she blinks in the candlelight. Her lips part. Eyes widen. A small, surprised sound escapes her throat. Good signs.
“You made all this?” She takes a tentative step forward, fingers trailing over a velvet cushion. “When did you—how did you even—”
“Found it yesterday while you were in your room. Figured we could pretend the world hasn’t gone to shit a little bit.”
She turns in a slow circle, taking in the candles, the cushions, the vintage movie posters still hanging on the walls. “That’s—” When she faces me again, her eyes shimmer in the flickering light. “Thank you.”
“Come on.” I guide her to the cushion nest. “There’s more.”
She settles into the pillows, tucking her legs beneath her as I produce the popcorn with a flourish.
“No movie,” I say. “But I figured we could still have our first date.”
Her fingers pluck a kernel from the bowl, examining it with childlike wonder. “Where did you find this?”
“Trick or treating. Found a stash in 4B.”
She pops it into her mouth, eyes widening as she chews. “Oh my god. It’s stale and perfect.”
“Glad you like it.”
“So,” she burrows deeper into the pillows, “is this your way of apologizing?”
I settle beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. Not yet. “What part would I be apologizing for exactly?”
“You know damn well which part.”
“The part where you came so hard you shook? Or the part where we fought after?”
“Asshole.” She throws a kernel at me.
I catch and pop it in my mouth. “Just clarifying.”
“Both. Neither.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “What are we doing?”
“Eating popcorn and having our first date. You in?”
She tosses her hair back. “I’m in. But just so we’re clear—this isn’t a pity date because you’re leaving tomorrow, right?”
She still doesn’t understand. “Not pity. And I told you I’m either leaving with you or not at all.”
“Okay.” Her gaze lingers on my face. “What happens next, exactly?”
I reach under a pillow, producing a small book I found on her shelves. “Five Hundred Questions for Couples.”
She snorts, nearly choking on a piece of popcorn. “Are you serious right now?”
“What?” I flip through the pages. “Too cheesy?”
“No, it’s…” She shakes her head, laughing. “You’re full of surprises.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Hit me.”
I flip to a random page. “Alright. Easy one. I even know the answer. Your favorite color is blue.”
“Trick question. My favorite color is yellow.”
“Your nails are blue. Your bathroom’s blue. That weird statue thing shaped like a cat? Blue.”
Her lips twitch. “Maybe I like multiple colors.”
“Maybe you’re being difficult on purpose.”
“Pot, kettle.” She pops another kernel in her mouth, eyes never leaving mine. “What’s yours? Black?”
“Green with a speck of gold.” I meet her eyes meaningfully. “Specifically, the color of certain people’s eyes.”
The blush that spreads across her cheeks is worth the corniness.
She clears her throat. “That was cheesy. Your turn. What’s the worst job you ever had?”
“Dishwasher at a seafood restaurant.” I stretch my arm across the cushions behind her. “Smelled like dead fish for months. Couldn’t get it out of my hair.”
“Is that why you keep it so short?”
My fingers touch the buzzed sides reflexively. “Tactical.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” She tilts her head. “I think you like looking dangerous.”
“That a problem?”
“Not at all.” Her voice drops lower. “Quite the opposite.”
Fuck. The way she looks at me right now—half challenge, half invitation—makes me want to forget the whole date thing and take her right here on this pile of pillows.
“Next question.” I flip a page before I do something stupid. “What’s your biggest regret… from before?”
Her playfulness vanishes. “I never learned to drive. Sounds stupid now, but I was always chauffeured everywhere. Thought I had all the time in the world to figure it out.”
“I could teach you.”
“How?” Her eyes light up.
“We’ll find something. Hot-wire a car.” I nudge her shoulder with mine. “And you don’t even have to be scared of scratching it.”
“What’s your biggest regret?”
I stare at the popcorn in my hand, suddenly not hungry.
“My mom.” The kernels dig into my palm as I squeeze them too tight.
“She got sick when I was young. Cancer. The kind that eats through your savings before it eats through your body. The reason I took that dishwasher job. It was before… I went to the Marines.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I had money for tattoos and a used motorcycle.” My laugh comes out hollow. “But not enough to save my mother’s life.”
She reaches for my hand, her fingers sliding between mine. “What was she like?”
People usually skip to platitudes after the cancer part.
“Tough. Smart. Made the world’s worst lasagna but wouldn’t admit it.” Something warm unfurls in my chest at the memory. “Had this laugh that made strangers turn around in restaurants. Dad and I used to time how long it took her to make friends in waiting rooms.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She would’ve liked you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She had a thing for people who didn’t take my shit.” I brush a strand of hair from her face. “Glitter probably would’ve sealed the deal.”
Paris’s smile feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Mine would’ve hated you.”
“That so?”
“Bad boys weren’t her style.” She squeezes my hand. “For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be proud of who you became.”
I want to believe her. Want to think my mom would see something worth saving in the man I am now.
“Next question.” She reaches for the book, but I hold it away. “Hey!”
“I’ll ask the questions.” I could watch her pout all day. “What’s one thing you never thought you’d do, but did anyway?”
“Besides taking a broken stranger up twelve flights of stairs?” She snags a handful of popcorn. “Or letting him feel me up last night?”
“Besides those.” Only thinking about having her moan beneath me is dangerous in this setting.
She contemplates, head tilted. “I ate dog food once.”
“You?”
“It was gourmet stuff from 5C. Their Yorkie ate better than most humans. And I was curious.”
“And?”
“Tasted like the saddest meatloaf ever made. Your turn.”
I run my thumb over her knuckles, watching her pupils dilate slightly. “I cried during Titanic.”
“Bullshit.”
“Hand to God. Thought the old couple lying in bed together while the water came in was—” I clear my throat. “Whatever. It was sad.”
She jabs at my chest. “You’re a romantic under all that concrete, aren’t you?”
“Don’t tell anyone.” I flip to another page. “Greatest fear?”
Her smile falters. “That’s not an easy one.”
“We can skip—”