Chapter 13
13
IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE
I stare at the PH button that was pressed to access Amelia’s home with confused speculation before asking, “which country?”
“Country?” Amelia responds back, as perplexed with my question as I am to her living arrangements.
“Which country are you next in line to the throne for?” I deadpan.
“None,” she laughs at my inquiry. “My father, I guess…you can say he did ok for himself.” I think she’s trying to show a modicum of humility since I don’t believe for a second that someone that just did ok could afford the penthouse of this building, for someone else no less. “He was adamant that I lived somewhere he felt was safe enough for his only daughter if I were going to live alone in the city. He really liked Randy, you met him two weeks ago,” the elevator dings to alert us we’ve arrived on the correct floor, “I think if it weren’t for Randy, my father would still think this place wasn’t good enough as hard as that is to believe,” she rolls her eyes at what I assume is her reluctance to accept her father’s overprotectiveness.
The elevator’s wide door slides to the right and opens directly into Amelia’s home. She leads the way in as I follow behind her. Walking across the marble floor, I notice how it seamlessly matches the same stone that blanketed the lobby and lift.
She places her keys on a clear acrylic entryway table decorated with various white vases and rustic cream pampas grass on one side, a small wooden bowl to house her belongings next to that, and a slender clear glass lamp on the other end accompanied by a gold frame with a picture inside of it of her and an older couple I suspect are her parents.
Why does he look so familiar?
Amelia guides me further into her home and has me place the grocery bags I’ve been carrying on her expansive white kitchen island. Amelia rummages through her freezer for the bottle of tequila she said her friend, Sam, always had stashed in here for when she visits. I peer around to appreciate the subtle touches of her place that makes this place feel more like a home than mine ever does.
The living room is twice the size of mine but it doesn’t feel too open and cold like most penthouses. Typically, someone that would live in a place this big would have so much useless space and have it decorated as if it were ready for a feature in Architectural Digest at any given time, but not Amelia.
There’s a long cream, fabric upholstered couch that takes up half the length of the living room, surrounded on one side by a large chaise lounge decorated with neutral throw pillows and a dusty blue oversized blanket draped over the end. On the other side of the sofa sits two matching oversized chairs which could probably be considered a loveseat by anyone’s standard but instead of two cushions each there was jus t one large one with a throw pillow the same color as the blanket on the chaise.
The center of the room is occupied by a sizable square wooden table with sharp corners, the look softened by the feminine vase and stemmed flowers in the corner, a candle that looks like she actually burns it instead of using it purely for decor, and a book flipped over like she was saving the page she was on but didn’t have a bookmark handy.
I walk over to the couch and pick up another picture frame, where the entryway had an older couple, this one has two other women similar in age to Amelia. While they are beautiful, I only notice the way she looks in this shot. A candid photo. One where she’s leaning forward like she couldn’t steady her balance so she has one arm gripping a blonde’s shoulder to keep herself upright and her free hand attempting to cover her wide-open laugh but the camera shuttered quicker than her hand could move to cover her mouth.
Her two friends share the same eye squinting bellow and I find myself curious as to what and who could make Amelia, the usual controlled and reserved woman, into this person that looks like she isn’t weighed down by the stress of having to be perfect.
Almost like she read my mind, she explains from the kitchen. “The blonde is Samantha, or as you know her, Miss Cupid,” giggling at her own subtle joke referencing all the blind dates her friend keeps attempting at, “and the brunette is my other best friend, Lauren.”
Amelia places the bottle of Casamigos Tequila next to the bag of groceries and begins to assemble her margarita workstation; a cutting board, limes, a plate of rock salt, and a blender. As she’s cutting the limes she continues explaining the photo. “That was the night I broke up with Liam, my ex I told you about. Sa m and Lauren didn’t think I needed to mope about losing something that wasn’t worth keeping so they came over here, dragged me out of bed, and forced me to get absolutely hammered at Crave Nightclub down the street.”
“It looked like a great night,” a statement that doesn’t need to be made with how apparent her mood was captured in the photo.
“Actually, I was so depressed when we left the club, I imagine I might’ve been the worst company that night, but even more importantly, I was starving , so we took a petty cab,” waving her paring knife in the air like it was a magic wand, “so expensive by the way, ten out of ten would not recommend,” realizing she left her original story for a tangent she veers back, “anyway, so we took a petty cab to the diner and Valerie just so happened to be working the night shift. I’ve always loved that woman but I think I was ready to marry her that night. She shooed a group of lingering young teens from their booth so we could sit down. She had coffee, tea, water, and ginger-ale at our table for me within minutes of sitting down. Not even ten minutes later, that godsend of a woman brought out my favorite chicken Caesar Salad and the largest, greasiest, saltiest, basket of french fries I’ve ever seen in my life.
I was feeling so full and happy that I begged Valerie to take a photo of the three of us. I didn’t consider how drunk I was until we stood up for the photo and I almost fell over grabbing Sam and almost taking her down with me. Valerie snapped the photo and then another when all three of us were standing up, but I loved this one way more so I printed it out.”
Amelia smiles at the memory as I place the frame back on the table. I walk towards the kitchen to sit on one of the six counter height acrylic stools lining the outer perimeter of the island. She turns to fill the blender with ice before pouring an unmeasured amount of tequila and a too small amount of mix in. Eyeing at the recipe for disaster, I clear my throat hoping it will make her realize that her ratios are a tad skewed. Ignoring me completely, she puts the glass jug onto the blender base, shrugs her shoulders at my assessment of her work, and turns it on in defiance.
When the machine stops, she coats the rims of two glass looking plastic cups with the lime wedges before dipping them into the rock salt, and pours the blended mixture in until it almost touches the salt. She starts to hand me my drink but pulls it back to open a drawer to her left, grabs a straw and a long toothpick topped with an umbrella. She makes quick work of the decorations and finally hands me my cup.
“This might be the manliest drink I’ve ever had.” I sip the cocktail, “and the strongest.” My lips press into a hard line. This drink is a margarita sans any mix blended with some ice.
“Trust me, just get this one down, you won’t have such a hard time with the next. Come on,” grabbing her drink and the remaining amount of margarita mixture in the blender, she has me follow her around the couch towards the wall of windows covered by light colored curtains.
Tucking the glass jug under one arm to free her hand and grabbing a controller mounted on the wall, she clicks a button so that one layer after another glides open.
First the light blocking curtain, then the delicate chiffon fabric, then lastly the glass panels, one by one, tuck themselves into each other until they are hidden into pockets built into the wall when not in use to reveal a large terrace overlooking the entire city outfitted with a skinny infinity pool next to a sto ne hot tub and lounge chairs at every corner. Everything in shades of white and blue; a Grecian escape that would make Athena herself envious.
Amelia places the glass on top of a table farthest away from the water and under the protective shade of a pergola to keep it from melting too fast before she instructs me to make myself at hom e.
She excuses herself so that she can change into her bathing suit and grab a few towels. When Amelia walks inside, I take a seat under the pergola taking in the sight. This was a home that was the complete opposite of what I had expected. There are, of course, touches of her and her warmth scattered around to remind me that she did in fact live here, but the sheer grandeur of the entire unit isn’t what I expected.
Amelia walks back onto the terrace and I’m grateful my drink is in a plastic cup versus glass because I almost drop the drink onto the concrete at the sight of her. Her bikini isn’t overly scandalous, not the typical one made of lace and unseemly cutouts you see twenty-six-year olds wearing these days to gain the attention of the opposite sex, but a simple forest green triangle top and matching bottoms that are tied at her hips. Not meant to be anything but a basic suit, but it still does very little to hide her full breasts, delicately contoured stomach, curvy hips, and toned runner legs.
I force my brain to remove any inappropriate thoughts of her, as hard as that may be, and strip off my t-shirt and flip flops and join her at the edge of the pool looking out towards the city with our legs dangling in the water. I just need to keep my eyes straight and not look in her direction.
“You do know that it actually tastes stronger if you let it melt first.” Ame lia says, noticing the iceberg floating on top of the two inches of melted liquid in my cup.
Glancing over at hers and seeing the same thing, she dares me to chug the liquid at the same time she does. I reluctantly agree with an exaggerated expression of misery.
On three, we both take long pulls of our straws until the liquid is gone and only slushy texture hits our tongues. Both holding back a gag.
“Why are you gagging? Didn’t you drink whisky the first night I met you? How do you have an aversion to alcohol when I saw you down a glass of brown water the night we met?” She asks incredulously.
“My whisky of choice is smooth. This concoction you threw together,” lifting the drink up to examine it, “is asking for a hangover before the day is even over.”
“Fair enough. Sam and Lauren are usually in charge of making these. I kind of just eyeballed it.” She shrugs and titters at her own inexperience at bartending and apparently my total trust in her to make the drinks.
I could listen to the sound of her laughter all day. Even the older man at the convenience store earlier seemed to shine at the sound of Amelia’s angelic laugh. Then remembering the night I walked her home and how her doorman also seemed to take a liking to her. People seem to be drawn to her and I’m no exception to that gravitational pull. Amelia is a siren and her laughter is her song. A song I’d gladly crash into the rocks to hear over and over again.
I’m lost in thought when she asks a question that I don’t catch since she’s waving her hands in front of my face to gather my attention. “Yoo-hoo, earth to Riley.”
Shaking my head to rid the thoughts of her. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said , I feel like we still don’t know much about each other. So I propose a bet.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the look on her face. Mischievous, but like hell I wouldn’t see where she was going with this. “A bet?”
“First to chug their drink and finish. Gets to ask any question.” She looks up at me with her brown eyes. They have specks of honey in them with the light shining on her face. I would admit to just about anything she asked if she would continue looking at me this way.
Looking down at my watch, noting that it was only three forty-five in the afternoon but shrug anyway. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” I lift my drink to clink hers. “Deal.”