Chapter 18 #2
My mother’s eyes dropped to it, then lifted back to me with altogether too much amusement.
“You going to answer that, or just grin at it again?”
I picked up the phone.
Micah: You gonna be home in twenty?
Me: No. I’m just about to leave my parents’ house. I’ll be home in about thirty.
His answer came back quick.
Micah: For some reason it feels like you said you’ll be a few hours. What have you put on me, girl?
That got me smiling all over again.
I looked up and found my mother already watching my face.
“I like him,” she said.
“You don’t know him.”
“I know your face.”
I stood before she could say anything else that would have me revealing all my secrets, kissed her cheek, and grabbed my purse.
At the door she called after me, “And Talia?”
I turned.
“If it keeps going well, let it change you some.”
Her words still sat with me when I pulled onto my street, where Micah was already waiting.
His black SUV sat at the curb like it had just come from the car wash. The paint was polished to a deep shine. The rims caught the sunlight. Windows down. Sunglasses on. One arm resting along the door like he had all the time in the world.
When he saw me pull in, his mouth shifted.
Not a full smile yet.
Just that first look. The one that always came before words. Like he had to gather himself for a second once he saw me.
He got out before I was fully up the walk.
He came toward me easy, took my bag from my shoulder without asking, and leaned in to kiss me so sweetly, I wanted it to turn into more before we had even said hello properly.
“You made good time,” he said when he pulled away.
“So did you.”
His eyes moved over my face once, then lower, taking me in with that same quiet attention that never felt scattered.
“I was motivated.”
I laughed softly. “That sounds cocky.”
“No,” he said, opening his hand for mine as we started toward my door. “That sounds like I wanted to see you.”
I had on fitted jeans, a cream knit top, gold hoops, and my white Common Projects because it was Saturday and I liked looking expensive without having to explain it. My hair was laid close and glossy, and I had on enough perfume to make the air remember me when I left.
I looked at him then and took my time with it.
Black T-shirt under an open overshirt the color of worn charcoal.
Dark jeans. Fresh fade. Diamond stud in his left ear.
Skin warm in the sun. The build of him always got me a little.
Broad shoulders. Thick chest. Arms with real weight to them.
Not gym vanity. Man strength. His cologne, low and dark and clean, moved toward me on the breeze.
Saturday looked good on him.
He opened my door and waited until I got in before going around to his side.
As he pulled away from the curb, he glanced over once. “You good?”
I smiled at the road in front of us. “I’m actually real good.”
He nodded like that mattered to him.
And I knew by now that it did.
The day unfolded easy after that.
Coffee first. The Strip after. The city full of people who had decided Saturday belonged to errands they could drag out into pleasure if they dressed them right. We walked with our cups in hand while vendors called out prices and music leaked from storefronts before disappearing two doors later.
He held the bag while I judged peaches like they had lied to me personally in another life.
Bought my flowers before I could say no.
Stood there looking entirely too satisfied with himself when the vendor handed them over.
Later, we ended up in a bookstore where he found me in the music section, and somehow we spent fifteen full minutes arguing about cover design and old R&B albums like there was prize money involved.
That was the thing about him.
Even when we weren’t kissing, touching, or somewhere halfway to naked, I still liked being with him.
Liked him.
That part had come too naturally to ignore.
Lunch turned into shared fries and him looking at me over his glass in that steady, watchful way that always made me feel like I was being learned in real time.
We ended up by the water in the late afternoon with the city stretched open and forgiving in front of us, and when he stood between my knees and told me I made Saturdays better, the line went deeper than sweet.
Because it was honest.
Because I had spent the whole morning with my mother admitting I wanted more.
By the time evening started leaning in and we headed back toward my place, the day had taken on that golden, full feeling some days got when they turned out better than you had let yourself expect.
On the drive, I looked over at him with one hand resting lightly on his thigh and realized I did not feel guarded.
So much of what we shared felt rarer than chemistry.
It was effortless.
Peaceful.
And still alive with enough heat to remind me that ease did not mean absence of want.
He parked outside my townhouse and cut the engine.
Neither of us moved right away.
I looked at him.
He looked back.
That same quiet current was there, the one that had started between us weeks ago and kept deepening instead of burning out.
“You staying?” I asked.
He smiled without looking surprised.
“My bag is already packed.”
“See,” I said, shaking my head once he came around and opened the door, “that’s exactly the kind of grown behavior that gets a man in trouble.”
Inside, I kicked off my shoes by the door and watched him set his things down like he already knew how to move in my house without disturbing the shape of it.
That did something to me too.
Him there.
His bag by my console.
The whole quiet ordinariness of it.
He turned just as I stepped into him.
The kiss came easy.
Slow first. Then warmer. His mouth fitting mine with that same blend of patience and appetite that had ruined me for lesser men in a very short amount of time. His hand slid around my waist. Mine settled at the back of his neck. The whole house seemed to go softer around the edges.
When we broke apart, I stayed close enough to feel his breath.
“You were right,” I said quietly.
“About what?”
“Daylight.”
His mouth curved. “Looks good on us?”
I nodded.
It damn sure did.
And standing there in my foyer with his bag on the floor and the whole rest of Saturday behind us, I knew with a clarity that felt almost holy that whatever this had become, I no longer wanted to protect myself from it more than I wanted to live in it.
So when I took his hand and led him upstairs, there was no hesitation in me.
Only relief. Only want. Only the soft, undeniable truth that somewhere in the last few weeks, Micah Sutton had stopped feeling like a beautiful interruption and started feeling like part of my actual life.
And I was in love with him.