“No problem.”
I gesture for her to walk up the stairs ahead of me, which I’m hoping she’ll consider to be gentlemanly. But obviously I just want to enjoy the view of her perfect ass in those jean shorts.
Jesus.
By the time we get to the second floor, I have to keep my eyes glued to the stairs and run Brooklyn zip codes through my head so I don’t have a pants tent by the time we get to her apartment.
When we get inside her apartment, I smell incense. She doesn’t seem like the incense-lighting type, but I guess everyone in Brooklyn is that type.
She takes the grocery bag to the kitchen, opens a window in the living room, and leans against the window ledge instead of coming back over to where I’m standing by the hole in the drywall. I still can’t believe I did that.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Actually, I forgot to get a drop cloth. Do you have an old towel or something I can spread on the floor so I don’t mess it up?”
“I have a drop cloth, actually. For my art projects.”
“You an artist?”
“No. I’m a first-grade teacher. I just fool around with paint sometimes and take my paintings to show the class. So they can feel better about their own work.” She giggles.
I want to ask her so many questions about being a first-grade teacher, but I also don’t want to know too much or I’ll just want to know more and more. I’ll just want more and more.
She places the drop cloth on the floor under the wall that I’ll be working on, while I set out the stuff I brought. I can tell she’s uncomfortable because I didn’t ask her more about her job, but we’re both going to have to live with that.
Her toes look so cute in those flip-flops. They’re the prettiest little toes. I don’t have a toe thing, but those are some dainty fucking toes. Light pink polish, clean and flawless. Shit. I’m staring at her toes. I can’t stop.
She wiggles them, shifts her weight from one foot to another and back again. “Um.” She bites her lower lip and sticks her hands into the front pockets of her jean shorts.
Now I’m going to stare at her thumbs like an idiot. They’re such pretty thumbs. What is wrong with me?
“Yeah, I’ll get to work.”
“I was going to ask if I could get you anything to drink. Coffee, water, lemonade?”
“I’m good, thanks.” But I definitely should not have come back. “I should get to it. I’ve got an appointment later.”
“Yes. Of course. Don’t let me keep you. I’ll just, uhh… I’ll get out of your way. I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me. I mean. I’ll be reading a book. In my bedroom. Since it’s the only other room besides this one. And the kitchen. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you want. Or, you know, the bathroom’s right there.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
She practically skips into her bedroom while I start to cut a square of drywall patch to size. I realize that I won’t have time to go home to change before my next meeting, and I don’t want to get dust or drywall compound on my shirt. I take my shirt off and place it on the back of an armchair, looking over to the door to the bedroom, wondering if the right thing to do is to announce that I’m taking my shirt off. So it doesn’t freak her out when she sees me. But it’s not like she hasn’t seen me with my shirt off. It’s not like her face didn’t light up like a Christmas tree when she pulled my shirt off last night and ran her hands all over my torso.
Fuck.
When I stick my fingers inside the hole in the wall to check around for electrical cords before going at it with a drywall saw, I can’t help but think about where my fingers were last night. Inside her. I have to tell myself out loud, under my breath, to just be cool, for fuck’s sake.
Screwing the drywall patch to a piece of wooden board behind it should not be torture, but it is. Just thinking about the word “screw.” What am I—twelve?
I can hear her yawning and shifting positions on her bed, and even though I know she’s reading a book, I can’t not picture her reading a book naked.
“Fuck.” I mutter a little too loud.
“You okay?” she calls out.
She probably thinks I banged up my finger or something. No, I’m not okay—I can’t think about anything but you and your fucking stunning naked body. “Yeah, I just dropped something. Sorry.”
I wait to see if she comes in, but she doesn’t. She is very good at giving me space. Maybe a little too good. Why isn’t she hovering? Why isn’t she all over me? Did I not give her as good a time as I thought I did…?
Nah. I definitely did.
Almost half an hour has passed by the time I’m spreading a piece of mesh over the drywall compound. The silence has been alternately anxiety-fueling and comforting. I like that she doesn’t need my attention. It’s cool. And the opposite of what I’m used to.
What’s her game? I’ve never known a girl like her. Sadie’s a bit younger, but she had game. She had us all wrapped around her finger, but she was manipulative, and I knew it. I figured she had to be a good person because she was good with Charlie. Is it possible that last night I slept with the only girl in New York who has no game?
Anyone would say that if I’m still comparing her to Sadie, then it is way too soon to get involved with her, and they’d be right.
I stand up and clear my throat. I don’t have anything to wipe my hands on except her drop cloth, and I don’t want to mess it up.
Shit, I forgot to buy paint.
I clear my throat again and call out to her. “Hey, you don’t have any of the paint to match this, do you?”
“What’s that?”
She pops her head out through the bedroom door, and her eyes get so big when she sees me here with my shirt off, and then she blushes and looks away. It’s so fucking cute.
“Sorry, I had to take my shirt off. So I don’t mess it up.” I’m grinning. I shouldn’t be grinning. I’m not here to flirt with her.
“No, it’s fine, yeah.” She stays in the doorway. “Did you say something about paint?”
“I need to paint this when it dries.”
“Oh, right. I don’t have the paint for this. I painted the bedroom when I moved in, but not this room. I could call my landlord to ask the color.”
“You know what—if it’s been a few years since it was painted, it won’t match exactly anyway. It’s opposite the window, so the sun would have…”
“Right, good point. I mean, I could just cover that spot with a painting. It’s no big deal.”
“No, I was thinking I could just paint the whole wall.” It’s just a three-foot-wide wall next to the front door. “I’d have to come back with the paint, though. Like tomorrow, maybe.”
“I mean…you really don’t have to. I appreciate you fixing it. So much. But just patching it up is fine.”
She doesn’t want me to come back. “Okay. Well, I gotta let the drywall compound dry, and then I’ll sand it. And then you can see how it looks and decide what you want.”
She nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
I hold my hands up and nod toward the bathroom. “I should wash my hands.”
“Oh, you know what, you should use the kitchen sink. Dishwashing liquid would be better for that.”
“Yeah? Okay.” I head into the kitchen. I can use her paper towels to dry off instead of messing up her hand towel. I turn on the faucet in the kitchen sink. The sink is empty and clean, and she’s got little colored glass bottles lining the window ledge above it, with single flower stems in them. Pretty and unaffected. Just like her.
I squirt the pearly white dishwashing liquid into my hands, and as soon as I smell it, I get hit with this feeling of nostalgia. So unexpected, it’s almost overwhelming. This delicate, feminine scent. I realize it’s the same kind of dish soap my mom used to use. Ivory soap. It’s been so long since I’ve smelled this. I think my dad must have purposefully started using something else because he couldn’t handle the memory of her every time he washed the dis
hes.
What does this mean? I’ve been in a lot of kitchens over the past fourteen years—maybe hundreds. As a Realtor, as a guy. How is it possible that this is the first time I’ve experienced this fragrance since I was fourteen? Or am I just open to noticing it now for some reason?
What the fuck is wrong with you, you giant pussy? Getting all teary-eyed over scented dish soap in some girl’s kitchen? Pull it together.
8
Nina
In the bright light of day, I now know that Vince’s eyes are hazel—green, brown, and gold—and he is even more agonizingly beautiful than he was last night. He looked more like a professional when he first came over today, in his button-down shirt and slim tailored black pants, but there’s still some kind of an edge. Maybe it was his sexy aviator sunglasses. Maybe it’s just his energy. He’s acting pretty detached, and the combination of that with his current state of handyman shirtlessness is almost unbearable.
I’m glad I decided to just be cool about everything. He has already turned what could have been the worst summer ever into the best, and I don’t want to ruin what we had with angst and questions. Like for instance: “Why did you run off all of a sudden last night?” “Do you have a kid?” “Why don’t you want my number?” “How many women does a guy have to have sex with to get to be that good at it?” “Did I satisfy your little revenge fantasy?” “Did any part of what you did to me actually have anything to do with me?”
But I don’t need to know these things at this point. Really. I don’t.
I’m just glad that he came back to fix the drywall. It says a lot about him. Although, I suppose the fact that he punched a wall also said a lot about him. I just couldn’t hear it last night over the thundering sound of my surging hormones and beating heart.
When he comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his abs, he has the strangest look on his face. I wait for him to ask me an important question, because it seems like that’s what he wants. But he doesn’t say anything. He picks up his shirt and puts it on without buttoning it up.
“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing toward my sofa. I take a seat on it, leaning against the far side and giving him plenty of room to sit away from me.
He does.
He sits on the edge of the cushion on the opposite side of the sofa, but he isn’t rigid. His knees are wide apart, and he leans forward to rest his elbows on them. He’s so casual and comfortable in his body. It’s one of the sexiest things about him, I think.
That and his mouth. And his hands and his butt and his hair and his voice and his eyes and the tattoos and muscles. And the way he smells. Okay, literally everything. Everything. Just everything.
I sigh as I look out the window. “It’s such a beautiful day.”
“Yeah, it is.” He doesn’t make me feel dumb for saying such a simple thing, and I appreciate that. That is one of the many things that makes him a good salesman, I’m sure.
He’s staring at my coffee table.
Oh no.
He’s staring at my notebook. I can’t believe I left it open.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, still looking down at the notebook.
“Uh-huh.”
“What exactly did you see in that principal guy? Russell, is it?”
Phew. A non-notebook-related question.
“Oh. Hah. Well, let’s see…”
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’m just curious.”
You want to know what Sadie sees in him. “Well, it makes more sense in the context of our school.”
His eyes widen. “Oh. Right. He’s the principal at the school you teach at.”
“Yes.”
“So… Wait, do you know Sadie?”
“Nope. The boy she looks after is a little older than my students… I know this because Russell chose to tell me about the student before telling me about this student’s nanny. And then revealing to me that he had fallen in love with her while ‘engaging in a sexual relationship with her.’ His words.”
“What a dick. Sorry. Go on.”
“No, it’s just…I mean, he’s a handsome man and he has this air of power…of sorts. He carries himself a certain way that sort of commands respect. And he’s the king around our school, so when he zeroed in on me as soon as I started there, it was… He can be very intense and persuasive when he wants something. And protective. I guess I needed that when I first moved here.”
He nods, tapping at his chin. “Hunh. Interesting.” I can see him trying to decide if he should keep asking me questions. And to my surprise, he does. “So your last name’s Parks? Nina Parks?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“It’s on the buzzer.”
“Right… What’s your last name?”
He pauses before saying, “Devlin.”
“Vince Devlin?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a good name.” Hot. That’s a hot name. “Irish?”
“My dad’s side, yeah. My mother’s side is French. Vincent was her father’s name.”
“Ah, oui?”
“You speak French?”
“Barely. Only when I’m nervous.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I count, to myself, in French. To calm myself down.”
“Does that work?”
“Sometimes. Do you? Speak French, I mean.”
“Not really. I did when I was younger, but it just makes me sad now.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, my mom died when I was fourteen.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” He’s too far away for me to reach out and touch his knee, but I hold his gaze for as long as he’ll let me. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.” He looks over at the drywall patch.
“Can I ask you something?”
He looks back at me. “Yeah.”
“Do you have a kid?”
He looks so startled that I’d ask that. “What…? Oh. No. I had to leave last night because of my little brother. My half brother, Charlie. He’s eight.”
“Ohhhh.”
“He goes to a private school.”
“Oh. I teach at a public school.” I would tell you which one if you’d ask, but this still isn’t a date, I guess.
“My dad had a date last night, and I forgot that the babysitter had to leave at ten.”
“Oh.”
“I just got too caught up in…you.” He rests his chin in his hand and smiles at me, and I die a small death for so many reasons. The smile, the thought of him with his little brother, the unbuttoned shirt…
“I have an appointment,” he says. “I should probably…”
“Yeah.”
I slowly reach for the notebook to close it, as surreptitiously as possible.
His eyes fall back on the notebook cover. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Yes.”
“You like Joni Mitchell?”
Oh crap, he did see it.
“Um. I was listening to her this morning.” And thinking about you. Why did I have to doodle hearts like a thirteen-year-old? Listening to her always makes me feel more bohemian and carefree, and I wrote out: You are in my blood like holy wine, you taste so bitter and so sweet, I could drink a case of you, darlin’, and I would still be on my feet, oh I would still be on my feet…
I can’t look at him, but I know he’s staring at me and smiling. “Do you like Joni Mitchell?” I ask.
“I heard her a lot when I was a kid. I like that song.”
Why do I feel like he’s read my diary? Not long ago, he was looking directly at my vulva, but this feels so much more intimate for some reason.
I cover my face with my hands. I feel my cheeks burning up. This is humiliating. “Where’s an Adios Motherclucker when you need one?”
I hear his little laugh and then feel him move closer to me, his fingers pulling mine from my face. I’m afraid to look at him right now. Because if I do, I might never want to stop.
&nbs
p; He pulls my chin toward him, and I look up into his gold-green eyes and forget about absolutely everything.
He kisses me so tenderly at first. It’s different from last night. He’s not seducing me. He’s letting me know that it’s okay to like him, I think.
As soon as I start kissing him back, he kisses me deeper, and I hear the guttural sound from his throat as I place my hand on his bare chest.
He pulls away. “I have to go,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I have a meeting I can’t be late for.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, I really don’t want to go, but I have to go.”
“I know, it’s okay.”
“It is so not okay.” He leans in to kiss me one more time before standing and buttoning up his shirt.
I get up to help him put the stuff back in the hardware store bag.
“I’m gonna come back and paint that, okay? It’s so unfinished, it’s gonna drive me nuts if we leave it like that.”
“Yeah, I agree. Finish it.”
He tucks in his shirt, pulls up on his belt. He kisses me again when he takes the bag and electric screwdriver kit from me. “Thank you. I’ll call you later—I mean I’ll come back. Tomorrow evening. No wait, that’s July Fourth. I can’t. Day after tomorrow, late morning. Is that okay?”
“Sure, yes.”
He kisses me one more time before disappearing out my front door. And just like that, I have something to look forward to, something to dread, and about a million butterflies in my stomach.
I still have a smile on my face when my parents call to check in. They’re probably a little bit frantic and wondering why they haven’t gotten even one email from me in a couple of days. I don’t even know how long I’ve just been sitting on my sofa, smiling. “Hi,” I say, answering my phone, feeling perfectly ready to tell them that I am no longer engaged to the nice principal they really wanted me to marry.
They are both exactly as upset as I expected they would be. Not so much because they believed that Russell would be a perfect husband for me but because I am now “all alone in New York.”
“I’m not alone. I have friends. I’m fine.”
“How can you be fine?” My mom’s voice is more high-pitched than usual. “You were engaged to him, sweetheart. You’re in shock.”
The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends Page 7