Prologue #2
“It’s not tequila,” he says as he hands one to me.
“That is a good thing. I’m much more of a beer girl, anyway.”
As I crack the tab, I hear a loud scream from the other end of the dock. We both turn in time to see Beefy Tourist scoop Zoe onto his shoulder and carry her toward the stairs.
“Is she okay?” Reeve asks, and I like that he looks ready to take on a stranger who easily has fifty pounds on him.
But before I can tell him she’s just fine, Zoe slaps the guy on the ass with a “Let’s go, big boy,” then lifts her head long enough to give me a wink and a “Don’t wait up” before dropping her head back down.
“I’m guessing that’s Zoe?” Reeve looks at me with that same expression most people have after encountering Zoe for the first time.
“The one and only.”
He leans back in his seat. “You two been friends long?”
I nod at that understatement. “Since first grade.”
“You’re both from West Lake?”
I take a sip of beer. “Born and, for the most part, raised.”
Reeve shifts his weight in his chair so that he’s facing me. “For the most part?”
I hesitate, trying to figure out the best way to answer. “My mom and I moved away a few times but always managed to end up back here. The women in my family tend not to stray too far.”
Reeve nods along. “What about you? Ever think of straying?”
I think about his comment. A month ago I would have immediately answered with a wholehearted never, but then I remember the application half filled out on my computer.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I lie. “What about you? You’re obviously from Toronto.” I nudge his leather deck shoe with my sneaker.
He stretches out his leg and tries to look offended, but it lasts only a moment before he grins.
“Born and, for the most part, raised. I just finished grad school at Queens.”
“Finance?” I guess, sensing the pattern.
He shakes his head. “Fine arts management, actually.”
I don’t expect that answer. It throws me off so much that I wait for him to grin and follow up with the punch line.
But he doesn’t.
“I’m back in Toronto now, though,” he continues.
“I’m trying to get a job in a gallery, but there aren’t a whole lot of entry-level openings at the moment.
I’m probably going to volunteer at the film festival in the fall—hopefully that will help me get my foot in the door there, or I’ll have to take an unpaid internship or two. ”
“Wow…” The word slips out as I realize how inaccurately I had him pegged.
He, however, shrugs it off.
“Yeah, my dad gave me that same look when I told him my plan, but I figure a few months on a tight budget will be worth it. I can’t imagine myself being happy if I’m not doing something I love every day.”
I know exactly how he feels. It’s the same reason I spent every weekend last summer in MCAT prep courses, the same reason I took a night class to retake Statistics his fingers twist the hem of my shirt to tug me closer. “I have no intention of being that at all.”
—
I awaken a few hours later on a twin-sized bottom bunk.
My naked body is engulfed in his big spoon.
The Ninja Turtles on the bedsheets seem to smirk at me, having witnessed how he touched and explored every inch of my body and how I let go, giving in to the need to be wanted so badly.
I gently lift his hand from my hip and wiggle out, using the light from the window to find my clothes puddled on the floor—grateful I’m not expected at the cafe this morning until eight.
He stirs as I slip my tank top over my head. “You’re leaving?” He sleepily brushes a lock from his forehead, watching me dress.
“I have to head to work.”
He sits up, realizing only at the last minute that he’s on a bottom bunk, ducking just in time to avoid smacking his head. “When are you done?”
“Four,” I answer, then remember I have the interview for the job at the Sunnyvale Retirement Home tonight. “Actually, six.”
He nods, and for a moment, I worry that I read this all wrong and he just wants me gone. But then he leans over and picks up his phone from under the bed.
“I’ll call you later.” He holds it out to me. “I’m heading back to Southampton this afternoon, but it’s not too far….” He doesn’t finish his thought.
Maybe because I’m already taking his phone and hastily plugging in my number, panicking a little that I won’t have time for a shower before my shift and will have to show up for my interview later still looking like I spent the night being ravaged.
I toss his phone back to him. He looks down at the screen and smiles.
“I’ll call you,” he says again.
“Sure,” I say, trying not to show just how much I want him to.
I close the door behind me.
As much as it is not in my nature, I find myself wondering if last night might have been the start of something really good.
I hate how wrong I am.