Chapter 2 #2
We're seated in a corner, two-top. A small vase with a single red rose between us. White tablecloth. Wine glasses. A basket of warm bread. The works.
She's nervous at first, unfolding and refolding her napkin, apologizing for the card, again.
"Em, stop apologizing."
"Sorry. I mean, okay."
"I liked it."
She grabs a piece of bread and tears it in half. "You did?” She cocks her head sideways and looks quizzically at me with a slight squint. “Really?” Like an endearing puppy.
"Yeah. Writing that takes a lot of guts."
"Or a lot of alcohol." She takes a bite and moans, the sound going straight to my cock. Shit. "Um, so, you were in the military, right? I've seen you in uniform a couple times."
I nod. "Army Ranger. Twelve years."
"Wow. That's ... a long time. Did you just get out?"
"Four months ago. I'm taking a break before starting with a security firm."
"That's good. The break, I mean. You've earned it, I'm sure."
I shrug and don't elaborate on the dark parts. My therapist actually suggested the break because I was showing signs of burnout. But Emily doesn't need to know that right now.
These are not things you say on a first date … at least not if you’re aiming for a repeat.
"What about you? The flower shop. ‘Not Dead Yet’, right? Name sounds a bit macabre."
Her face lights up, and she laughs. A full laugh. “You know where I work?"
I've walked by it. Multiple times. Deliberately. Trying desperately to get a glimpse of her. But again, not first date talk material. "The logo on your shirts. I kind of assumed, especially when I saw the shop."
"Oh, right. Yes, ‘Not Dead Yet’. Andrea, the owner, has quite a sense of humor.
I've been there two years now." She pauses and dips the bread.
"My parents think it's a waste of my potential.
They wanted me to be ... I don't know, something impressive.
Lawyer. Doctor. You know? But I love what I do, and I like the people I work with. "
"That's what matters."
She smiles softly. "Most people tell me I should go back to school."
"I'm not most people. Besides, life's too short to do something that doesn't make you happy."
"Is that your life motto?"
"No. I saw that sticker on Roberta's cane."
Emily lets out an unladylike snort, and I chuckle.
Her hand rests beside mine on the tablecloth, a few inches separating us. Throughout the meal, those inches shrink. My pinkie grazes hers at one point. She doesn't pull back, and neither do I.
But even that small contact fries my brain, and my body responds as though it's foreplay.
"Roberta thinks you're terrifying, you know. She crosses herself every time you walk by, even if it's to help her."
"Roberta needs better hobbies."
"Her dog hates you."
"That dog hates everyone, much like your cat."
"Excuse me, Alex, but Croissant just acts like every cat does."
"How do you even sleep beside that? I’d feel like I'd wake up with its claws buried in my cheeks."
She laughs again, and this time she touches my arm briefly. The contact burns through my shirt. "Croissant can be very sweet when he feels like it."
"The scratches on your arm say otherwise."
Emily smiles and traces the rim of her wine glass with a finger. "You know, for someone with a reputation for being terrifying, you're surprisingly ... not terrible at conversation."
"Low bar, but I'll take it. If Roberta finds me terrifying, imagine if I start cracking jokes at her."
"I'm serious. I expected grunts and glaring."
"Night's not over."
She grins. "See? You're pretty funny."
"Please don't tell anyone that. I happen to like my terrifying reputation. It keeps people away."
Halfway through dinner, she admits something that catches me completely off guard. "You know, I have a little confession. I time my morning coffee to see you running."
My face must have shown my surprise because a crimson flush begins to creep along her cheeks and chest.
"God, that sounds creepy when I say it out loud. I just mean ... I know your schedule. It's why I'm on the balcony at exactly 6:15. You always run by at 6:17."
"I extend my route to see you on the balcony.”
Her jaw drops. "Wait. You've been watching me, too?"
"Yeah."
"That's ... kind of creepy."
"You're not exactly in a position to complain, are you? And, you wrote me a letter, remember, detailing what you want me to do to you. We're definitely even, I’d say.”
She flattens both palms on her cheeks. "Oh my God, I can't believe I did that."
"I can't believe you thought I wouldn't respond."
"So, what if I chickened out? What if I'd taken the card back? What if I denied, feigned ignorance, I mean, just pretended I knew nothing about it?”
"I would've come to you eventually."
"Really?"
"Been working up to it for months. You just made it easier."
Her eyes meet mine, something new in them. Something wondering.
As we share tiramisu for dessert, Emily licks her spoon, and my brain blanks for a solid ten seconds, especially in light of what she wrote in that note. I'm already so hard to the point of pain, and this is just dinner.
By the time we leave, the night has grown colder, and I have never been so fucking aroused in my entire life.
My hand brushes hers once, twice. The third time, she hooks her pinkie around mine. It's not quite holding hands, but it's something. See, I'm a grown man in my thirties, but something as small as this makes something take flight in my stomach.
Great. Just great.
We're back at our apartment floor half an hour later, and Emily is back to being a nervous wreck. "D-do you want to come in? For a drink or ... I have wine. Or coffee. Or I could make tea. I don't actually have tea, but I could—"
"Emily."
She looks up. "Yeah?"
"I'd like that. You don't have to make excuses. Just invite me in."
She nods, unlocks her door, and we step inside.
Her apartment is exactly what I expected. Warm. Soft lighting from lamps and strings of small lights. Smells like peppermint and coffee. Cozy, lived-in, everything Emily.
A tabby cat appears, and I swear it glares at me. In all my life, no one has dared to glare at me like that. No one. Yet this Garfield wanna-be somehow found the audacity.
"That's Croissant," Emily says. "He doesn't usually like strangers."
The cat sniffs my shoes, seems unimpressed, and walks away with his tail high.
"Wine?" she asks, already moving to the kitchenette.
"Sure."
We sit on her couch, a careful distance between us. The cramped space in her apartment feels charged now, tension so thick I can taste it. No restaurant noise or other people. Just her and me— because the cat doesn't count.
She swirls her wine. "I can't believe you actually wanted to have dinner with me."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Have you seen you? And then, you know, me."
My eyebrows furrow. "What about you? What’s wrong with you? Out with it. What is it, kleptomaniac? Closet serial killer? How many closets have you killed?”
“Stop it! I’m just ... ordinary and honestly not much to look at. You're..." She waves her hand from my head to my shoes.
"Emily, I don't know how you see yourself, but you're far from ordinary."
"You don't have to say that."
"I don't say things I don't mean, Emily. What do you mean you're not much to look at? I've been looking at your for months, and I very much like what I see."
"Okayyy." She looks at me over her wine glass. "The card. I'm still embarrassed about it."
"Don't be."
"But it was so ... explicit. And crazy. And I meant parts of it, but not like, the illegal public parts. Just the ... other parts. I've thought about you. A lot. Maybe too much."
I set my glass down and lean forward, close enough that I can count the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. "How much?"
She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. "Enough that I probably shouldn't say."
"Tell me anyway."
Emily's breath hitches, and she sets her glass down on the table, too. "I meant the part about your hands. And your mouth. And I know I wrote all that stuff about the elevator and being up against the wall, and that probably sounds insane, but I just—"
With my pulse pounding in my temples, I reach out and cup her jaw in my palm. She gasps and goes quiet.
"Emily, if I kiss you right now, are you going to regret it in the morning?"
"No."
"Are you sober enough?"
"Yes."
"Tell me to stop if you change your mind."
I give her three seconds. One. Two. Three. She doesn't move or speak. Just looks at me with those blue eyes, wanting, mirroring my own desire.
Fuck it.
My hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, pulling her closer to me. The second our mouths touch, my control fractures.
I've imagined kissing her like this, but all those fantasies—even the filthiest ones—don't come close to reality.
Nothing ever will.
Her hands come up to my chest, and her fists tangle in my shirt.
A small sound escapes her throat—a whimper that destroys what's left of my restraint.
I deepen the kiss, drawing her closer, coaxing her lips to open.
The moment she does, I plunge my tongue inside her warm mouth and entangle it with hers.
Emily's fingers thread into my hair, nails scraping my scalp, as I groan into her mouth.
The kiss turns hungry, rough, and demanding. All those months of watching, wanting, compressed into this moment. I pull her closer still and angle her head for better access. The kiss turns almost frantic.
We eventually break for air in what feels like hours later, foreheads pressed together, both breathing hard. Her eyes are still closed, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life.