Chapter Thirteen #2
My heart pinches at the clear evidence that he’s nervous, too, and at his willingness to push through those nerves and lay it all out there like he did on brownie night.
No games. No dancing around words in a way that so often feels like playing chicken, with no one wanting to jump first. I’ve never been good at those games. I love that he’s not, either.
As Aggie lowers herself into a sitting position on my foot—and possibly on Everett’s, too, since we’re standing so close to each other with only a dog between us—I take his hand in mine.
“Congratulations,” I tell him. “You just nailed it.”
E VERETT TAKES ME to a cozy bistro, one that’s romantic with votive candles, warm fairy lights woven through the ivy that climbs several columns, and plenty of space between tables to allow for private conversations. It’s also not fussy or fancy, which makes it perfect.
Over dinner and a shared bottle of wine, we talk about anything and everything.
Holiday traditions. Favorite childhood Halloween costumes.
Dream travel plans. Abandoned hobbies. Worst movies we love anyway.
We also circle back to the familiar topics of work and school.
Everett mentions that an associate creative director position might be opening at his company soon, and the possibility has everyone in his office competing for accounts and trying to prove themselves to their boss.
I tell him about the impossible-to-impress professor I keep trying to impress anyway, and about three of my favorite classmates: the quiet one who wants to be a researcher rather than a clinician, the laid-back one who breezes through the work with enviable ease, and the frantic one who always rushes into class late, breathless and dropping things, but yet is mentally so organized, she’s the first to finish any test, and with perfect results.
We have our share of awkward silences. Everett plays with a curl over his left ear or rotates a spare fork too many times for me not to notice.
I twist the corners of my napkin in my lap.
It’s not like the first ride we took in his car.
We’re comfortable talking, teasing, laughing, bumping knees, and letting our feet slide against each other under the table, but after weeks of limited time together, the potential of what might happen after dinner hovers between us, electrifying the air and making us both twitchy with anticipation. We don’t need to say it. We both know.
When the waiter asks us about dessert, we swap a sly look and decline, as though another half an hour here would be torture for us both, but on the way home, we swing past Bakehaus, where Johann, the exuberant owner, gave us free goodies at last month’s Sunday market, and on another occasion after that, when he waved me in while I was passing by with Aggie, insisted on serenading us with several bars of an aria I didn’t recognize, and sent us home with more treats.
This time he greets us with open arms and a string of enthusiastic welcomes , stepping around the counter to embrace us as though we’re all old friends.
He’s a big guy with a big voice, dark, pin-straight hair he slicks back, a thick beard, and the kind of waxed mustache I usually associate with hipsters, impeccably groomed and perfectly proportioned for his large frame and dramatic personality.
“Dessert for tonight or breakfast for tomorrow?” he asks us.
My face goes hot, and I only manage a nervous stutter of a laugh.
“Both,” Everett supplies, lacing his fingers through mine and giving my hand a squeeze. “Whatever you recommend. Plus a bag of the dog treats. And we insist on paying this time.”
“ Pssh .” Johann flicks the suggestion away.
“After all the business you’ve sent my way?
I wouldn’t dream of it.” He steps closer and shields his mouth with a cupped hand.
“Just don’t start taking your business next door.
Madeleine and her silly croissants. They can’t hold a candle to my Franzbrotchen.
” He makes another dismissive noise, casting a narrow-eyed glare toward the brick wall that separates his bakery from Patisserie Amour, the adorable French bakery that’s all whimsical curlicues and frothy pastels against Bakehaus’s warm, solid earthiness.
If the rumors are true, Johann and Madeleine both took over from their parents, who had a fierce rivalry Johann and Madeleine have maintained with equal vigor for about twenty years now.
I’m dying to know the details, and to try out the other bakery, but Johann has been so good to us, I wouldn’t dream of betraying him.
Also, his baked goods are phenomenal and Aggie loves his oatmeal and pumpkin dog cookies. Coming here is hardly a sacrifice.
Everett slips a twenty into the tip jar before we head out with cheerful goodbyes and enough treats to feed us for a week.
He nudges my elbow with his, and I slip my hand through the space he creates for me.
I love these moments, these silent conversations where a gesture or a look communicates everything we need to say.
Come closer.
Like this?
Yes. Perfect.
Agreed.
As we turn the corner onto our block, with our building in view, my nerves go taut and my insecurities mount. The night has been so great, Everett and I know each other pretty well by now, and we’ve both been up front about liking each other, so why is this so hard?
My body language must be broadcasting my thoughts, or maybe I spoke them aloud again. Either way, Everett must sense my anxiety because he stops walking, pivots to face me, presses a kiss to the top of my head, looks me in the eye, and patiently waits for me to speak.
“I don’t want to be this nervous,” I say once I can manage it.
“What can I do to help?” His voice is warm, kind, like always, and I consider his question while drawing curlicues on his soft, cedar-scented sweater where his coat hangs open.
This would be so much easier if I didn’t like him so much, if I didn’t know with every pulse of my heart that I want more than one night.
I want a lot of nights. And a lot of days.
And maybe even years. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but I can picture it, and that’s a first for me.
It makes the stakes feel high. Yes, this is about sex. It’s also about so much more.
“Three things,” I say.
“Tell me,” he says. “If they’re in my power, consider them done.”
“One.” I hold up a finger. “Can we go to your place? To avoid interruptions?”
“Of course. Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
Right , I think. He’s getting to the point faster than I am.
“Okay. Two.” I hold up another finger. Swallow. Breathe. “Please take the lead. Not forever. But for tonight. I want this. Us. But I need some help getting out of my head.”
He nods, once, very businesslike. “Done. Number three?”
I don’t hold up a finger this time. I let my hand rest on his chest instead.
“Tell me it means something to you, too,” I say. “I need to hear the words. I’ve gotten this wrong before and I don’t want any guesswork about it. Or any surprises.”
He nods again, maintaining his formality but inching closer so his toes touch mine.
“This absolutely means something to me,” he says.
“I’m not a casual dater. I’m not sure I’m a casual anything.
I can’t predict where we’ll be months or years from now, but I knew when we first met, not for a drink after swiping right, but by going on a grand adventure to save a life, that whatever happened between us would be the kind of meaningful that stayed with me forever.
” As the words meaningful and forever embed themselves in my brain, the skin near his eyes crinkles in one of his not-actually-smiling smiles, like a secret he’s only sharing with me.
“You’re so nice to me,” I tell him, and to my surprise, he winces, taking a step back.
“Okay, wait,” he says as my hands slip from his chest and elbow. “My turn.”
“Right. Of course. Okay?” I brace myself, if chewing on my thumbnail counts as bracing.
“Number one,” he says. “For the rest of the night, don’t call me nice.”
I open my mouth to protest, to assure him nice is a compliment, but something flashes in his eyes that sparks my curiosity about what a not-so-nice Everett might be like, so I just nod.
“Number two,” he says. “My taking the lead doesn’t mean you don’t tell me what you want or if I’m doing something you don’t want. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay,” I say, sweating a little now. In a good way. “And number three?”
“Number three.” He closes the distance between us and leans down so his lips brush my ear, making me shiver.
“I know we have to get Aggie out, so I suggest we get moving and do that first, because once we get started, I won’t want to stop, and if you’re not naked in a bed within half an hour, I’m going to yank down your tights and take you against the nearest wall. ”
My breath catches in my throat as I go stone-still.
Did he just...
And am I suddenly...
I don’t say another word. I grab his hand, and together, we run home.