Chapter 32. Micah #2
She chuckles. “Sounds like a country song. Would I know his music?”
“Ever heard of ‘Cherry Wine Bride’ or ‘You Melt My Boots Off’?”
“That’s your dad?” Her eyes widen. “You hear his songs everywhere. Even in those erectile disfunction commercials.”
“Yepper.” I sigh and pull her tiny fridge door open, peek inside. What am I doing? I slam the door shut. “Sorry.”
She lifts her hair off her neck, and the gesture dissuades me from making my joke about checking on her baby carrot supply. She has no idea how breathtaking she looks. I wet my lips, imagining tasting the delicate area between her head and shoulder, inhaling the scent of her skin.
“I know something about having famous parents.” She pivots and reaches into a small box. “Did you feel a lot of pressure growing up?”
I slide my hands into my pockets and grip my thighs, hoping to quell my attraction to her. “Oh, I can’t sing. So, no.”
“He must be amazing to see live,” she says, her back still to me.
“I wouldn’t know.”
She turns toward me. “I’m ready.”
I blink a few times, taking in the full effect—the blue sundress, and sandals, her shimmery-wet hair.
She threads a small gold hoop into her ear. “Too hot today for restrictive clothes.”
No complaints here. “You should wear that color more often.”
She smiles a little and points to my green T-shirt and tan twill shorts. “I’ve never seen you dressed so casual, except for at the gym.”
“A lot of firsts today.”
What an idiotic thing to say.
On the street, I resist the urge to take her hand, not wanting to confuse things again. I like getting to know her outside of work.
“You could loft the bed.” I look over at her.
Voices travel to us from the coffee bar across the street.
She side-eyes me.
“Dorm-room style. You already share a bathroom on your floor; it’s kinda like a college residence hall. Raising the bed frees up space underneath. You could maybe fit a table in there.”
“I don’t know how long I’m staying. I call that place the coffin.”
“That’s pleasant. How about petit palais instead?”
“Sure you’re not a copywriter?” Her eyes smile.
We pass a group of guys on Bleecker. Each grabs an eyeful of her.
She sticks a little tighter to my side on the busy sidewalk.
It starts to drizzle through the sunshine. We hasten our pace, moving around the slow walkers, and arrive at my door a couple of minutes later.
I wipe the rain from my forehead, glancing back. “Let’s try this again.”
She crosses her arms and twists up her lips.
I give her what I hope resembles a reassuring smile, push the door open, and step back so she can go in first.
She runs her fingertips along the wainscoting that connects the vestibule and foyer, then traces the wandering gray veins in the kitchen’s white quartz island. She walks toward the white cabinets, brushing her index finger over the square pewter knobs.
My mouth waters as I watch her every move. Reluctant to pull my eyes away, I lift a couple of towels from the hallway closet and pass her one.
She dries her arms and face, then wraps the towel around her shoulders before strolling into the living room.
Her eyes float around the space until they stop on the tall windows that open to the garden.
“I love the white walls against the gray hardwood and brick fireplace. So modern with all the black accents . . . lucky you.”
“My granddad owns the building.” I stop, realizing I’m tapping my foot.
I steal a glance at her, then bury my hands deep in my pockets.
“The families who live in the MacDougal and Sullivan Street historic district share the big garden. My dad used to run with the Garden Kids. He said they had their own set of rules and liked adventures, whatever that means.”
“Do you use all four floors, or did he break them into apartments?”
“I hang out on this floor and sleep on the third. The fourth floor has a terrace and solarium, but I’m not keen on heights.”
“Even growing up in Bushwick, I heard about the families who lived on Rainbow Row and their secret garden in between.” The corners of her eyes crinkle; her voice grows wistful.
“My high school friends and I used to sip lattes across the street at Caffé Dante and fantasize about this mythical place, wondering how rich you needed to be to live here.”
I shake my head. “My dad didn’t grow up wealthy. Granddad thinks working hard is the only virtue that matters . . . he didn’t go easy on him. My dad left home before finishing high school. Then my grandparents divorced. My grandmother passed away a few years ago.” God, I’m rambling.
She peers out the white, multipaned terrace door into the garden, the towel around her like a cape. “Who takes care of the area beyond your yard?”
“We’ve got people. We’ll venture out after the rain stops.”
She glances back over her shoulder. “You haven’t decorated either.”
“Like I said, I’m not here a lot.”
She turns to the center of the living room. “Who’s this guy?”
“A statue of great limitations.” I snicker. “Alexander the Great. A little joke of my dad’s.”
She tilts her head, taking in the sculpture. “I did a school project on him once—king of ancient Macedonia, known for his great military mind, right?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Is this an original?”
“A cheap replica—heavy too.” I grimace.
“Must have been a bear getting him in here.”
“A neighbor let in the delivery guys. Scared me to death. Thought I had an intruder.”
“Why do you think I can move it if you can’t?” She gestures to the figure draped in a sheet around his waist.
“I’ve seen you work out.” In the class I pretended I didn’t know you were in. “And save people in elevators and subways. Pretty tough.”
She laughs.
My heart skips a beat.
“Where did his right arm go?”
“Doesn’t need it, I guess.”
Her forehead creases. “What’s he holding in his left, a spear?”
“I think.”
“Okay, where do you want Old Righty?”
I scan the living room. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“Are you going to use him for anything . . . maybe a coat rack?” She wrinkles her nose.
“Come on, some call it fine art.”
“Fine art? You sound like the kids at my high school.”
“Is it true LaGuardia kids dance on cars like in the movie?”
“Oh yeah, all the time.” She pulls a face. “Show choir closes its spring concert with the music from Fame. The school’s gotten a lot of mileage out of it. They even sell Fame T-shirts.”
“Let me guess, theater major . . . dance?”
“Vocal.”
“Right—you sing better than Halsey, but more like St. Vincent.”
She frowns, her eyes distant. “I grew up around musicians. Was singing before I could talk.”
“Do you still sing?”
“Not anymore.” Her tone shifts. “How about next to that yellow-gold couch? He could be a conversation piece. You could decorate him for parties.”
I shake my head. “I never have people over.”
“Yeah right. I’m sure you invite the ladies in all the time.”
“Ahh, no.”
“Why? Look at you.” She contorts her face like I’m full of it.
“Look at you.” I ditch my towel on a nearby chair and step in front of her.
Her eyes meet mine, slow and cautious. The sounds of raindrops and my thumping chest fill my ears.
She doesn’t move.
I step closer, cementing my arms to my sides, resisting everything in my being that’s screaming for me to touch her.
She closes her eyes and sways her hips.
I suck in my breath and watch her, waiting for her to tell me I’m not imagining this pull between us. First that night in the Electric Room, then at the Fourth of July party, and now here. “What’s the song in your head?” I ask, my throat thick.
A serene smile crosses her face. She doesn’t answer.
I’m ready to surrender to her terms, whatever they may be.
Don’t screw this up, Micah.
The floor vibrates underneath our feet for several seconds.
She giggles. “How often does the subway come by?”
“Too many times a day to notice it anymore.” My gaze doesn’t waver from her face; an earthquake could hit right now and I wouldn’t flinch.
She moves closer.
My breathing stops.
She leans her head on my chest.
I draw in a sharp breath. My heart flips, kicking her in the forehead. After a split second of hesitation, I pull the towel around her tighter and then circle my arms over it, holding her like she could run away at any moment.
We don’t have to proceed any further. I can stop. We’ll have a nice dinner somewhere and be friends. This doesn’t have to mean what I want it to mean. She was shivering, after all.
A spicy vanilla scent passes through my nostrils, her fresh soapiness from the shower. I’ve gotten this dizzy feeling before, when she’s been near me at work. This time, I don’t have to pretend otherwise.
Every cell in my body crackles with electricity. With one shake of the head, an indication that she thinks this is a mistake, she could topple me over. With one blissful touch to show me she feels it too, she could do the same. Either way, I may never recuperate.
Her towel drops around her feet. Her fingers claw at the front of my damp T-shirt, gathering the fabric in her palms. Her knuckles sink into my abs.
I stop myself from drawing her in closer. “This was not my plan when I invited you over, I swear.”
She looks up and almost through me.
“You okay?” I search her eyes. Her exquisite face beckons my lips to trace it.
She bites her lip.
I pull her again into my arms, one layer closer less the towel. “You don’t have to help me move the statue if you don’t want to.” I clear the husky sound in my voice.
She giggles.
I hug her tighter; no doubt she can sense the heat below my hips. For a fleeting moment, I think about carrying her up to my bedroom . . . showing her what’s been building up inside of me since the first morning she ventured into my elevator.
Don’t even try it, you idiot.
My heart hammers inside my chest. If only I could peek inside her head, see where she stands. I want her to lead the way. My feelings for her have never been more obvious. If I’m overstepping, she’ll slap me or something, right?
We stand almost motionless, holding on to one another.
Time stills. The rain grazes the windows.
Her chin tips up toward mine.
I restrain my desire to drag my lips over it and down her neck and throat.
Something new creeps into her eyes. A sadness—she’s hurting.
“Tell me.” Let me kiss it away. Her parents, the guy in the photo, her face beaming next to his. Maybe he hurt her.
I couldn’t care less about them.
I only care about her.
I want to do everything to her. For her.
She coughs, looks like she’s trying to talk but can’t get the words out.
“Want some water?” I motion toward the kitchen.
She nods, but I don’t let go. Her eyes expand, drinking me in. She moistens her lips.
My hands shake; any second, I feel, she’ll bolt. She’s given me this look before, but not to this degree. The same look I fantasize about when I’m in the shower. My water bill and level of cleanliness have never been higher. She’s always broken the connection first, though, leaving me guessing.
She pulls my T-shirt toward her.
My lips drop onto hers like a fallen edifice, fated to be hers.
Her mouth pushes back on mine.
I respond, hungry for her. In this moment, she’s everything I want, everything I need.
Her hands slide underneath my T-shirt and her fingertips climb the sides of my ribcage to my chest.
Oh. My. God. I moan.
She presses into me harder, swallowing me up.
I’m good with whatever she wants. I want her too, so much.
She knows this, it’s like she has been reading me this whole time. I guess my face can’t keep a secret—not from her, at least.
And then . . . she jerks her head away.
“What?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
Her head swivels no. She releases a long exhale and a strained look rises in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper. A hollow ache pierces my chest. Let me back in. She’s going to leave. Please . . . please don’t.
She shivers.
I rub the sides of her arms. “Show me.”