Chapter 24 #2
“Right. And the cutting board with the fifteen years of knife marks is because you occasionally slice an apple.”
He leans against the counter opposite me. His arms cross over his chest, and the movement pulls the fabric of his shirt across his shoulders in a way that is frankly distracting and he absolutely knows it. “I can make a decent risotto.”
“Of course you do.” I hoist myself onto his kitchen counter, my legs dangling, because I’m incapable of standing in a kitchen without finding a perch. “Let me guess. You follow the recipe exactly. No improvisation. Precise measurements. You probably time the stirring intervals.”
“It’s risotto, not jazz.”
I laugh. The sound bounces around his kitchen, and I realize it’s the first time this room has heard me laugh. The thought is strange and comforting and my stomach flips with it, a quick warm tug I wasn’t expecting.
He pushes off the counter and moves closer to me.
His body heat radiates toward me, his hip grazing my knee, his hand landing briefly on my thigh.
Casual. Certain. The heat of his palm feels electric through my sundress, and I am briefly and intensely aware of the fact that there is a bedroom somewhere in this brownstone and we are not currently in it.
“I’m taking you to dinner. One of my favorite places.” His expression has shifted, the dry composure loosened into a look I haven’t seen on him before. It takes me a second to place it.
He’s excited. But also a little nervous.
“Yeah?” I reach out to him, running my fingers through his hair. “What should I wear?”
“Anything.” His eyes travel over me and the temperature in the kitchen ticks up. “Everything looks good on you.”
“That is not helpful fashion advice.”
“It wasn’t meant to be fashion advice.” His gaze holds mine for a beat longer than necessary.
Then he slides his palm around to the back of my neck and draws me to him for a brief kiss.
The scent of him fills my awareness and the warmth radiating from his chest makes every nerve in my body lean toward him like a plant toward sunlight.
“Come on,” he says, his deep voice a low purr. “I’ll show you the rest of the place.”
The house tour ends, predictably, with us naked and tangled together in his bed. Not that I’m complaining. Nope. Not one iota. I’d been craving Alec all day and he leaves me wrung out and blissfully satisfied.
Afterward, we make our way into his shower to clean up for dinner.
His brownstone shower was designed for exactly one person.
Fitting two people into it requires a level of creative problem-solving that would impress an engineer, and we rise to the challenge with enthusiasm.
The tile is cold against my back until his body pins me against it.
Then I stop noticing the tile altogether.
His mouth finds the spot below my ear that makes my knees weak and his hands grip my hips hard enough to leave impressions I’ll feel tomorrow. By the time the hot water runs out I’ve confirmed that Alec’s thoroughness is not a location-dependent phenomenon.
Brooklyn Alec is every bit as devastating as Barbados Alec.
I’m standing in front of his bathroom mirror afterward, wrapped in one of his towels, feeling like someone who just got taken apart and carefully reassembled by a man with very focused hands.
Flushed skin. Damp hair. A satisfaction in my limbs that feels almost liquid, like my bones decided to take the evening off.
His bathroom. His toothbrush in the holder, blue.
His razor on the shelf. His towel on my body.
I pull my makeup bag from my overnight tote and set it on the counter next to his razor, and the image of my things beside his things in this small, private, one-person space hits me harder than any resort luxury ever could.
Honeymoon suites are designed for two. This bathroom wasn’t. And I’m in it.
I start getting ready. Put on my green dress from our dinner on the beach. Then mascara, a little bronzer, lip gloss. My hair is doing the thing it does when it air-dries in humidity, which is whatever it wants, and I’m negotiating with it using my fingers and willpower and losing on both fronts.
Ten days ago I was refilling coffee mugs at Red Rock Diner. I had a winning lottery ticket, a suitcase that never traveled farther than my parents’ house, and the audacity to book a luxury vacation because my gut said it was time to stop being careful.
Now I’m standing in a brownstone bathroom in Brooklyn Heights getting ready for dinner with a man who flew me to New York because he wasn’t ready to say goodbye. My heart is so full I can feel it in my throat.
I’ve spent most of my adult life monitoring how much I let myself want.
Keeping the hope at a manageable level so the drop wouldn’t kill me.
Smiling through the wanting so nobody, especially me, could accuse me of caring too much.
Jake taught me that. Not the lesson he meant to teach, but the one that stuck: don’t be the one who needs more than the other person is offering.
I’m done with that lesson.
I’m done rationing hope. Done keeping one eye on the exit.
I turn off the bathroom light. I can hear Alec moving somewhere in the brownstone, the quiet sounds of a man in his own home preparing for our evening together.
One last thing I need from my suitcase. The scarf he gave me. Every time I touch the turquoise silk I think of him, of us. Not only the week behind us. The part that hasn’t happened yet. More mornings with him. More of his hand finding mine like it already knows the way.
Just more of him.
I’m ready. For dinner, for New York, for whatever comes next.
For all of it.