"Stop that," I said through a groan. I reached for him, wrapping my fingers around his forearm. "You have no idea what you're doing right now."
I glanced around Hanover Street, expecting to find someone staring at this obscene display of tongue prowess. Perhaps a mother covering her child's eyes or a police officer writing up a ticket for public indecency. The only thing I found was pistachio gelato melting onto my hand.
"No idea?" he repeated with a grin. "That's what you think?"
My eyes widened. This man. Mercy, this man. "Then you're doing this on purpose?"
He speared his tongue into the gelato, scooping up a creamy bit. It was filthy. We'd spent the past two hours together, wandering around the North End and talking about everything and nothing until we decided on dessert.
But now I understood. The jig was up.
To Rob, this was the audition. Not the time we spent talking about our families—my brothers, his sister—our work, our long paths from kids not knowing what to do with ourselves and doddling in and out of college and crummy jobs to mostly successful adults, our enjoyment of campy disaster movies like Volcano and Deep Impact and 2012, our hope the world wasn't driving itself off a cliff and our corresponding inability to watch as we careened toward the edge.
All of that? The warm-up. The gelato was the performance.
He reached for my gelato, freeing it from my hands and setting it on the bench beside him. Then he reached for my hand—the one with melted pistachio dotting the fleshy space between my thumb and forefinger—and brought it to his mouth. Licked. Sucked. Suuuuuucked.
"What—what are you doing?" I stammered. He swept his tongue over my skin, and the fabric formerly known as my panties was gone. Just gone with the wind. "We're on the street. This is a street, Rob. With people. There are people around and you're—you're—what are you even doing?"
"Just a preview, love," he murmured as his teeth scraped over my hand.
I hadn't considered going back to Rob's place when he invited me out for a walk tonight but that was the trouble with these boys. They kept turning simple, innocent moments into situations where my underwear, my inhibitions, and my intentions flew out the window.
Not that I'd taken off my underwear for either of the men in my life right now but I'd thought about it. Oh, yes. I'd thought. Thinking. Lots of thinking. That was exactly it.
But I could barely think of anything aside from the way he teased my hand. Whoa, that was weird. Right? Never had a man sucked on my hand.
"We're not in the right place for a preview, Rob," I said, a gasp slipping through my words.
He laughed, shaking his head as his teeth pressed against my skin again. Damn, that was good. I couldn't explain why but it was good. "That's hardly a problem," he replied. "Grab my phone. Back left pocket."
I didn't move. I couldn't move. Not with his lips on my hand and the promise of something more lingering in the air.
Rob pressed the remains of the waffle cone to my free hand after a minute. "Hold this," he ordered.
Once I had my fingers around his cone—fuck, this was such strange foreplay—he pulled his mobile from his pocket. I watched while he keyed in the code right in front of me. He didn't angle the phone away or make any attempt to conceal the numbers. Then he shot me a see what I did there? smile. He wanted me to know. This man, the one who melted down at the notion of anything more serious than working off some nasty breakup energy, was offering access to his digital life.
What was happening right now?
"Since we're not in the proper place for this, I'm gonna call my car service," he said. "All right?"
"You have a car service?" I asked, focusing on all the right things. "Not Uber or Lyft but a legit on-demand driver?"
Rob jerked a shoulder up but offered no other response. He wasn't flashy when it came to money. I liked that about him. More than that, I liked the maturity and sense of self backing it up. Just as he'd known who he was when he first approached me with his performance statistics, he made no attempt to argue his worth. He knew it and he let it speak for itself. That was enough.
"That's convenient," I murmured.
"It is," he replied. "I don't use it too often but when I have somewhere I'd like to be or someone I'd like to be with, they get me there in a hurry. I appreciate that."
Nodding, I asked, "If you call this car service, what happens then?"
"Whatever you want." He shifted, moving his lips from my hand to the crook of my neck. Yeah, like I needed this to get more intimate. "No expectations. We can go back to my place and avoid the news if you want. Watch a movie or just sit outside with some wine. I'm embarrassed to say there's a real shortage of living things on my terrace." When I frowned up at him in confusion, he continued. "I thought it was better to tell you about it now than conceal the fact."
"Thankfully, I know someone who can fix that," I said, laughing.
Did I want to go home with Rob? To this point, I hadn't been in a confined space with either of the men on my dance card. I wasn't counting the time spent at Ben's renovation house. That was mostly work and the occasional moment pressed against the wall while he kissed me, and it wasn't as though we had any soft surfaces around for it to go much further. Maybe I was splitting hairs or drawing wobbly lines but that was the beautiful part of making the rules. If I was content with my decisions, that was the only thing that mattered.
And I was content with Rob in confined spaces.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go to your place."
Rob lived in a new building in the South End, all concrete and exposed ductwork and huge, yawning windows. The furniture was reliably manly—a leather sectional, a big-ass television, no curtains. Somehow this wide-open space felt cozy. It probably had something to do with the vintage rug on the floor, the books packed into a set of shelves, the pile of throw pillows discarded under the coffee table.
A wall of floor-to-ceiling glass doors offered a panoramic view of the city, just like the long, skinny photos sold at Quincy Market. But better because the real thing was always better. Those edgeless doors also showed off a terrace with a serious lack of green.
"You weren't joking about the shortage of living things out there," I said, tipping my chin toward the terrace. It was gray. Just…gray. Whoever designed the masculine-but-comfortable interior flaked out on the exterior.
"What's your recommendation?" Rob asked. He was on the other side of the room, plugging in his phone.
"If you want my recommendation, you need to call my office and make an appointment," I said, mostly joking. "My assistant will walk you through my consultation fees. I'll warn you right now, they're high."
"Worth every penny," he replied.
"This really is sad," I said, sweeping my gaze to each end of the terrace. It was at least thirty feet long, probably ten feet deep. Completely barren. A concrete wasteland. "You have the right exposure for some big containers filled with perennials. Grassy, maybe flowering. Lavender if you can handle the bees. Just something to keep the local pollinators busy. Maybe a Japanese maple or a flowering cherry. Then again, you have space for both. This isn't the right setup for rainwater catchment but we can work out a smart irrigation system, no problem."
His hands landed on my hips. I liked the feel of him there. Strong, capable, certain. I liked him. I didn't need his hands or his tongue to confirm it.
I smiled up at him. "But only if you want more than sad, empty concrete."
"I moved in not too long ago." He blinked away the teasing fun of this moment, replacing it with a solemn frown. It lasted no longer than an eyeblink but I saw every cold, bloodless memory of his exes blow through him. Inside that eyeblink, I felt the sinking devastation of finding yourself a fool. They'd lived together. They were going to be engaged, married. And now I was here and his terrace was a wasteland because none of that existed anymore. He blinked again, forced a laugh, gestured to the living space. "I'm not home enough to take care of anything."
I pointed at
his white dress shirt. The man knew how to wear a shirt, I'd give him that. Especially when the collar was open and his cuffs were rolled to his elbows. Mmmmmm. My god. Rolled-up sleeves got me every time. Almost as good as the tie smoothing.
"You pay someone to wash and press these shirts," I said, my hand on his chest because I could. "You probably pay someone to clean this place too. You can pay someone to look after a few potted plants."
"Correct on all counts," he said. "I'll call your office tomorrow."
"You do that," I quipped, laughing. "Let's grab some wine and—" I looked around, not knowing how I wanted to direct these activities. "And, um—"
"Let's just start with wine," he said, tipping his head toward the kitchen.
When I nodded, he hooked his arm around my waist and led me across the open room. His kitchen island gleamed with stainless steel and white marble—and a small mountain of mail. "What is this all about?" I asked.
Rob was busy squatting in front of the wine fridge, two bottles tucked between his chest and arm as he inspected the label on another. "I just don't get to it. Everything I need is online so I'm not missing anything."
"I find that extremely difficult to believe." I shook my head and started sorting. If the guy could tell me the exact specifications of his anatomy and suck my hand in the North End, I could organize his mail. It was fine.
Magazines in one pile, catalogs in another. Assorted junk in the empty fruit bowl. Bills off to the side. Anything that looked vaguely personal went on the opposite side. Rob watched while I did this, a smirk on his lips as he popped the wine, set glasses on the counter, filled them. Never stopped with the smirk.
"Anything good in there?" he asked, sliding a balloon-bodied glass toward me.
"It doesn't matter if it's good," I replied. "You have to go through this stuff. What if there's a birthday card in here from your grandmother or a reminder postcard from your dentist?"
"That would be miraculous since my grandmother's been dead for twelve years."
"But don't forget about the dentist."
Near the bottom of the pile, I found a thick white envelope. It nearly crossed the line from paper into fabric. Rob's name was scrawled across the center in elegant calligraphy. I flipped the envelope over, glancing at the return address as if it would mean something to me. It did not.
"Looks important," I said, handing it to Rob.
Brows furrowed, he tore into the envelope. He stared at the flat card for a long moment as he pulled a deep breath in through his nose and then pushed it out in a whole-body sigh.
"I'm guessing that's not your dentist," I said.
He shook his head, dropped the card and envelope. He flattened his hands on the countertop as he stared up at the ceiling.
I lifted the card and skimmed the ornate lettering.
* * *
PLEASE JOIN US TO CELEBRATE THE ENGAGEMENT OF MISTER EDWARD HUNZERT AND MISS MIRANDA LASALLES
* * *
I didn't recognize the names, but I didn't need those details to understand the situation. The bride was Rob's ex. He didn't need to tell me; the reaction told me everything I needed to know. And the groom, that was Rob's former best friend.
I continued reading, grabbing key details as I went. Ritz-Carlton. Next month. Black tie optional. Registered at Bloomingdale's.
Goddamn Bloomie's.
"We're going," I announced, still staring at the card. It was thicker than most paper plates. I could eat a sandwich off this invitation and then use the envelope as a napkin.
"We're fucking what?" he snapped, his gaze meeting mine for the first time since opening the envelope.
"We're going," I repeated. "You, me, black tie optional. We are going because A, fuck her. B, fuck him. And C, they can go fuck themselves."
Rob stared at me from the other side of the island for a long, long moment. The kind of moment that made me wonder whether I'd made a terribly wrong turn. I had a habit of doing that. Making the worst choice and convincing myself to go full steam ahead even though my belly shimmered with bubbles of doubt. You name the bad decision, I'd made it. But this didn't feel like one of those times.
This felt absolutely right.
Rob rounded the island and stepped into my space, crowding me until my back hit the hard marble edge. His hands went to my face, his fingers in my hair. He held me like that, his forehead pressed to mine and his gaze all over me. Then he kissed me. It started soft, brushing sweet, gentle kisses on my lips. But then it turned wild, starved. Biting, bruising, crushing. But good. All those things, good. So good.
He boosted me up onto the counter, stepped between my legs, locked my ankles around his waist, thrust against my center, groaned when his length rocked into my heat.
"You," he said against my lips, dragging his finger from my ear along the line of my jaw, down my neck, over the jut of my breastbone. "You are dangerous."
"Why's that?" I ran my fingers through his auburn hair while my thoughts pinged between wondering whether I could rip his shirt open and send the buttons flying like I'd always wanted, and whether I was in danger of knocking over the wine if I shifted back an inch.
"You keep making me do things I don't think I want," he said. "First it was dating you. Then it was sharing you with the firefighter. Now it's showing up at that engagement party. I didn't want any of this. Not a single thing. But here I am, eating ice cream and talking myself out of hating the other guy and—and seriously thinking about seeing Eddie and Miranda at their fucking engagement party. Because of you. Because you want it and I can't help but do everything you want. I don't know why, Magnolia. Why am I doing this? Tell me, please, love. Tell me how you're putting me back together because I need to know."
I reached for his buttons. I was going to undo them one by one. No dramatic shows for me. Just step by step, sliding into the space he never wanted me—or anyone else—to occupy. Part of it felt wrong, as if I was forcing him to follow a path he didn't choose and would eventually resent.
But the other part…it was right. This was right. Rob and I, we were right. At least right now.
"I asked nicely," I replied. "I asked, and that was all it took." I reached for his belt buckle, unfastened. Drew his zipper down as his eyes went hazy. "You're welcome."
His fingers closed around my wrist, halting the zipper's descent. "If I"—he stopped himself, growled, swore under his breath—"if I want to wait, does that change everything?"
I brought my lips to his collarbone, kissed only enough to shake a shiver out of him. "Nothing at all," I replied. "And if you're not into this anymore—"
"Oh, I am fucking into this," he interrupted. "I am losing my mind with how much I'm into this. Into you." He leaned back a bit, separating me from the slope of his shoulder where he smelled like an herb garden. "But I was wrong. In the beginning, I was wrong about everything and I think—I know—I want to do this right, Magnolia. I want—"
"There was nothing wrong about the dick pic you sent me. That was all right." No, it wasn't possible for me to participate in a conversation without making it A. weird, B. sarcastic, C. filthy, or D. some ludicrous combination of weird, sarcastic, and filthy. Not possible.
His forehead crinkled, the corners of his eyes creased, and his lips parted. He didn't say anything. Instead, he studied me as if seeing me for the first time. I matched his gaze, and as the seconds slipped into minutes, it occurred to me this was the first time.
Somewhere between lunch at Flour and that engagement party invitation, we'd shed a layer or two of armor. My hair wasn't blown out and he wasn't hung up on that plan to get over his ex by getting under someone new and anonymous. And we weren't hiding our war wounds, weren't shining them up as if to say, "Look, I'm healed! I'm all right now!" because we didn't need to pretend anymore.
"Are you going to tell me what you're thinking or am I going to have to create my own explanation? I'll tell you this, my explanations are wacky. I fall off the cliffs of crazy real fast."
Rob l
aughed under his breath. "I'm just wondering if you're going to bring up that pic when we—" He ran his hand over his mouth, blinked, glanced away with wide eyes. "Sorry. Lost my train of thought for a second. I was just thinking how lucky I was that you didn't block me on the app."
That wasn't it. He'd meant to say something about us, about a future for us. I knew it. But I didn't intend to push him. Whatever he'd started to say would keep. If I was meant to hear it, the day would come when he'd tell me. Hopefully, when that day arrived, my belly wouldn't slosh as if it couldn't decide between butterflies and full-out seasickness at the mere suggestion of the future.
"I have to get home to my dog," I said.
Rob took a full step back, then another, leaving me in the lovely position of having my legs open at an obtuse angle and my dress rucked all the way up to my waist. Just lovely.
"Yeah." He bobbed his head. "Of course. You should—"
"Stop. Let me finish." I hopped off the island, twisted my hand around his open shirttail. "I have to get home to feed Gronk. He needs a good, long walk. There's also a late game tonight. The Sox are in Seattle." I gestured behind us, at the uncorked bottles. "And then there's all this wine. I wouldn't want it going to waste."
"Are you asking me to go home with you?"
I grinned at his freckled chest, the thick line of fuzz running down to his navel. "If that sort of thing interests you, yeah."
"It does," he replied.
"Would it interest you to spend the night with me?"
"Also, yes." He glanced away, barked out a laugh. "Was that all I had to do? Ask you to wait and then"—he snapped his fingers—"I get an invitation to your bed?"
"That might be an oversimplification of things," I replied. "And you should know you'll be sharing the bed with me and Gronk."
"I'm aware of the hierarchy in your life," he said. "No one ranks above that dog."
"Completely true, yes." I tapped my finger against his sternum. "But please don't interpret this as a request to stop talking about your dick. I don't know what I'd do without constant reminders about its specifications and skill set."
The Magnolia Chronicles Page 13