A Little Too Much

by Lisa Desrochers

  “Fine,” I say, marching back past him and the museum, toward the subway.

  I DROP HIS cockroach down the front of his button-down as we’re sitting on the train back to Manhattan, and catch a glimpse of his abs when he opens his jacket and shakes his shirt to let it drop out.

  And . . . wow.

  Brett has a great body, which he works at constantly. When he’s not at rehearsal or a performance, he’s at the gym. I wonder if Alessandro is a gym rat too.

  We ride the L to Eighth Avenue and climb the stairs to the street. But we’re not halfway up the stairs when I feel something fall into my cleavage from my shoulder. I press my hand between my boobs to keep it from falling farther down my shirt and fish his cockroach out of my bra.

  He stops and watches with a grin plastered to his face. “Well, that worked out better than I could have hoped.”

  “Very mature.” I pinch the bug between my thumb and finger and shake it in his face. “When you least expect it . . .” I shove it in my pocket and run up the last few stairs. But then I don’t know where I’m going, so I have to wait.

  Alessandro knows this, of course, and emerges from the pit a few seconds later with a smirk. “By all means, after you,” he says, sweeping his hand toward Eighth.

  I glare and turn back for the subway. “You know what? I changed my mind.”

  He has a handful of my jacket sleeve before I reach the stairs and spins me to face him, grasping both my upper arms.

  My heart thumps hard as he catches me in his smoldering gaze. I can feel the heat of his body, even through all our layers of winter wear, and I shudder with the sudden mind-flash of how it would feel to be this close without all those layers. His lips part, as if he’s feeling the same rush I am, and I decide right in this heartbeat that if he kisses me, I’m going to kiss him back. I picture our lips meeting—imagine how his would feel as they moved on mine, how they would taste. His eyes flare as he dips his head, his lips pausing just inches from mine. I stop breathing again, caught between wanting to close those last few inches, and wanting to bolt.

  But I can’t bolt.

  Chapter Ten

  I TIP MY face up and gaze into his eyes, bright in the dark night. But just as a tiny moan escapes my throat, he steps back, breaking the spell.

  “Tell me about your boyfriend,” he says. “How long have you been together?”

  It takes me longer than it should to get my head together. “Boyfriend,” I say a little breathlessly. “Um . . . a year.”

  Alessandro’s expression clears and he lets go of my arms. “Do you love him?”

  A laugh explodes out of my chest.

  His eyebrows arch. “I didn’t know I was making a joke.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t do love.”

  He tips his head in a way I’m starting to recognize as him questioning me.

  “You think I’m lying?”

  He stares down at me for a long moment, his eyes storming as he wages some internal war. “I didn’t say that,” he finally says.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts up the sidewalk. “Nothing.”

  We walk along Eighth until it ends on Hudson, then make the turn onto Perry, the whole time never coming within three feet of each other. Alessandro fishes in his pocket as we take the corner and comes out with a key, which he sticks in the first door past the restaurant on the corner. “Home sweet home,” he says, moving aside for me to pass.

  I slide by him, careful not to brush against him, and move to the elevator. He presses the call button and just as the door opens, an old woman with curly white hair steps through the front door.

  We load in and Alessandro holds the elevator for her. “Mrs. Burke. How are you this evening?”

  She punches three. “Wonderful, Alessandro. And who is this lovely young lady?” she asks turning to me.

  Alessandro smiles at her as he hits five. “This is Hilary McIntyre. Hilary, Mrs. Burke.”

  Mrs. Burke leans toward me and whispers, “He’s a good boy.” The door opens on three and she winks at me and steps out.

  I stare at her with wide eyes as the elevator door closes. There’s no way Alessandro didn’t hear that. Does she think we’re on a date? Does he? Do I?

  A minute later, the door opens on five. We spill out into a four-by-four landing with three doors. I’m too mortified to look at Alessandro as he sticks his key into the door toward the front of the building, marked 51, but the second I walk in, I’m totally coveting his apartment.

  It’s small, but they didn’t wreck its character with a big remodel like so many other old apartments. It’s still got old-school radiators and the pipes are exposed in places. There are gouges in the hardwood floor and nicks in the white wooden door and window frames. There are even a few places where the crown moldings on the high ceilings are missing.

  I love it.

  In the middle of the room, next to a big blue chair, is a black leather sofa, and off to the right is the kitchen, with a black granite countertop separating it from the living room. On the left is the only door in the place, probably to the bathroom, since his double bed and a clunky antique dresser are in an alcove just past it, next to the window.

  “This place is—”

  “—so cool,” he finishes for me with a smile. “I do rather like it.”

  “Just for that, I take it back.” But really I don’t. I start around the room, inspecting his prints. Most of them look an awful lot like some of the stuff we saw at the Met last week, so I guess he really likes that stuff.

  “Can I offer you something to drink? Water? Wine?”

  “What are you opening?” I turn back and look at him, where he’s moved behind the kitchen counter. He presses his iPhone into a small round speaker, and the music that starts isn’t what I expected. I was thinking some classical piano piece, or maybe something operatic, but it’s rock: Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open.”

  There’s a flash of a memory—Alessandro tuning the radio in the rec room from the hip-hop station Trish left it on to something rockish.

  “I was thinking about a chardonnay because I need something white to cook with,” he answers, lifting a bottle off the counter, “but I’m open to suggestions.”

  I stroll toward the kitchen. “That sounds good.”

  He uncorks the bottle, then waves the neck under his nose and sniffs at the end, nodding appreciatively.

  “I forgot you like Creed,” I say with a nod at the speakers.

  He glances that way as he pulls down two glasses. “Always have.”

  “Thought you might have outgrown grunge,” I say with a smirk.

  “Post-grunge,” he corrects, arching an eyebrow at me as he pours the wine. “My tastes are eclectic.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  “I’m glad I amuse you,” he says with a secret smile, and something kicks in my chest.

  “You do.” I move to the window because I suddenly feel in need of more distance between us. On the street below, I spy Mrs. Burke, picking up her pug’s poop with a baggy over her hand. A young couple with a baby in a stroller stops to talk to her. They all seem so friendly.

  I haven’t known my neighbors since I was thirteen.

  I feel something touch the back of my arm and I jump, swatting at the rubber bug I imagine there.

  But it’s just Alessandro’s fingers. “Sorry. Your wine,” he says holding the glass out to me.

  I sip it and it’s really good. “This is a great spot. Do you like it here?”

  “I do,” he says, stepping up next to me in the window. “My family lived near here. I was hoping to find something in the neighborhood.”

  I turn back to the apartment. “Studios are hard to find.”

  His elbow brushes mine as he turns. I try to ignore the tightening in my belly at even that touch. “I was fortunate. Someone’s application had just fallen through when I was looking.”

  I sip my wine and
look out the window.

  He steps back and looks at me. “Would you let me teach you how to throw a proper punch?”

  The question surprises me. “Is that a skill I’m going to need in the next few minutes?”

  An amused smile flashes over his face, but then his expression turns more serious. “I worry about you out there by yourself,” he says with a wave of his hand toward the window.

  I shrug. “I’ve got the knee-to-the-balls and the finger-to-the-eye maneuvers down, so I think I’m probably okay.”

  “And God forbid you should ever need to defend yourself against an attacker again, those will probably be more useful to you, but it can’t hurt to know how to deliver a solid blow.”

  I nod. “All right.”

  We step into a small open area between his couch and the kitchen counter and he takes my glass and sets it down. “Boxing is all about balance and leverage. You need to feel your base of support and stay on top of it. That gives you mobility and strength.” He lays his strong hands on my hips. “Don’t let me move you.”

  I spread my legs slightly, and when he presses on one hip, pushing me to the side, I resist.

  “Good,” he says.

  He presses harder on my other hip and barely moves me, then raises his hands to my shoulders, and I hold my ground as pushes me in several directions in quick succession.

  “Once you have your base of support,” he tells me, pressing his rolled-up sleeves higher on his forearms and drawing my attention to the lines of his muscles there, “you can either move or attack.” I lift my gaze to his face and know I’ve been caught looking when he raises an eyebrow. “Moving is definitely the better option. If you can run, always do. But if you’re cornered and you need to throw a punch, leverage your upper body off your solid base of support.”

  “Meaning?”

  He steps around behind me and gently grasps my forearms just below the elbow. “Meaning,” he says, lifting my arms, so my fisted hands are just under my chin and my bent elbows are against my ribs, “you need to keep everything close to the core until you’re ready to strike. They call it ‘throwing’ a punch for a reason. Stay balanced, then leverage off your base and throw your fist forward.”

  I shoot my right fist out as fast as I can, jerking my arm out of his hand.

  “Good,” he says. He draws my arm back to my side and I realize he’s pressed up against me, his whole front in contact with my whole back. I loose focus for a second when he lowers his hands to my hips. “Same thing, but snap your arm faster, then bring it right back to your core.”

  I do as I’m told.

  “Did you feel that?” he asks, laying his other hand flat and firm on my stomach. “If you’re strong here, in your core, that gives you a solid base to leverage off of.”

  What I feel is his toned arms around me. What I feel is the irresistible urge to run my fingers over them and memorize the contours of the veins and muscles. What I feel is a tingle that zings out from my groin to his hand, low on my belly. But I’m pretty sure that’s not what he’s talking about. “Yeah.”

  A shudder ripples over my skin at the feel of his breath in my hair, as if he’s lowered his face. His hands shift to my hips and his grip on me tightens. In that second, the urge to turn in his arms and stare into those dark, tortured eyes is almost unbearable. I hold my breath and wait for him to let me go. Finally, he takes a shuddering breath and steps back, clearing his throat. I watch as he reaches over the back of the couch and comes out with a throw pillow. He stands in front of me with it bunched in his hands. “Again.”

  I get myself balanced and snap a punch into the center of the pillow.

  “Now with the left. Same thing.”

  I try with my left and it feels slower and clumsier. “Guess I’ll have to hope he doesn’t grab me by the right arm, huh?”

  “You’re right-handed, so using the left will take some practice, but it’s the same thing. Solid base, tight core, and snap.”

  I try again with my left and it feels a little less awkward.

  “Now stagger your stance,” he says, stepping closer and drawing my left foot forward with a scorching hand on my thigh, just below the hip. I fight to keep my breathing even. “As you snap, stay over your base of support, but step quickly from your back foot to your front foot.” His fingertips stroke up my leg as he releases me, causing my breath to catch. He holds the pillow again. “That will put some momentum behind the punch.”

  I snap my right arm out, shifting onto my left leg as I do it, and my fist makes a solid-sounding thud into the pillow and pushes Alessandro back a half step.

  He tips his head at me and his eyes flare. “You’re a natural. I want you in my ring.”

  At the image of Alessandro, sweaty in a boxing ring, my heart skips. “Better be careful what you wish for.”

  There’s something sexily cynical in his smile as he holds the pillow up. “Again.”

  After half an hour, I finally feel like I have it to where I might actually do some damage to something other than my fist if it was to connect with someone.

  “You’re a quick learner,” he tells me, handing me the throw pillow. He gestures to the couch. “Relax. I’ll start dinner.”

  I toss the pillow on the couch and follow him to the kitchen, where he ducks into the fridge and comes out with two boneless chicken breasts. He pulls down a cutting board from where two are stacked on end against the fridge and proceeds to pound the crap out of the chicken with a mallet.

  “There has to be something I can do to help.”

  He opens the fridge again and comes out with a bundle of asparagus, which he sets on the counter. “If you insist, you can wash and trim these.”

  I wash the asparagus and snap off the ends, then stack it and the two cockroaches on a plate next to the stove as Alessandro drops a cube of butter in a cast-iron skillet, where it sizzles. He rubs salt and pepper into the chicken, then flours it.

  “Anything else I can do?” I ask as he drops the chicken breasts into the skillet and browns them.

  “Sit and drink your wine,” he says with a wave of his arm at the couch.

  I go into the main room, taking my wine with me, and sink into the sofa. I take a long sip. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  He turns and flashes me that smile again. “Are you questioning my motives?”

  “Maybe.” My heart is pounding. Why am I flirting?

  I’m sipping my wine a few minutes later when he picks up the plate of asparagus and starts dumping the spears into the skillet. He stops and smiles over his shoulder at me as he picks out the cockroaches. “Touché.”

  I smile sweetly back at him.

  He turns to the stove and I sip my wine again, but whatever he just poured in the pot smells good, drawing me off the couch and back into the kitchen. “What are you making? I ask, looking into the skillet.

  “It’s a traditional Italian chicken dish.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “So far, just chicken, artichoke hearts, asparagus, cream, chicken broth, and wine.” He picks a jar off the rack over the stove and when he shakes it into the pot, I smell oregano.

  He moves around the kitchen like a pro as he prepares the pasta and spoons the sauce over it.

  “Is wine okay for dinner, or would you like something else?” he asks as he takes our plates to the small table near the window on the kitchen side of the room.

  “Wine is good, but I need a refill,” I say, holding up my empty glass.

  He grabs my glass as he sweeps past on his way back to the kitchen. “Have a seat. I’ll be right there.”

  I slide into one of the chairs at the table and pick up my fork. I know enough about manners not to start before Alessandro’s back, but that doesn’t keep me from dipping the tines of my fork in the sauce and tasting it.

  “Holy Christ, that’s good.”

  Alessandro picks up our glasses and moves back to the table. “I’m glad you approve.” He lowers himself into the
seat across from me and nods at my plate, indicating I should go ahead. He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  I cut off a hunk of chicken and cram it in my mouth. “Oh, God,” I moan. “Who taught you to do this?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “Well, the woman deserves a medal.”

  I dig back into my food, but just as I cut through a stalk of asparagus, an antenna flips out of my sauce. “Shit!” I scream, dropping my fork with a clank.

  But then I hear Alessandro chuckling. He’s staring at me out from under his long, dark lashes, and in that look, I see the boy he was so long ago.

  “You son of a bitch!” I say, but I’m laughing. How did I not see this coming? “I warned you.”

  I grab the bug out of my sauce and charge at him, but he leaps out of his chair, laughing. “You warned me about cockroaches in your tea. I didn’t put the cockroach in your tea.”

  “Close enough.”

  He moves around to the front of the couch, but what he doesn’t expect is the direct, take-no-prisoners attack. I leap over the back of the couch and take him down, tackling him onto the throw pillows at the end and cramming the bug in his face.

  And then I realize where I am: lying on top of Alessandro on a couch.

  We’re leaving, Hilary.

  Everything stops. Me. Him. Time.

  I’m plunged backward in time to the rec room. Creed sang “My Sacrifice” from the radio and it was just us, which meant I could do this. I could touch him. He was on the couch in his T-shirt and jeans, and I was on top of him. He was kissing me, but he stopped.

  “We’re leaving, Hilary.”

  I shake the memory away, my heart beating in my throat.

  Please. Don’t.

  I climb off him and just stand here for a second, not sure if I should go.

  Alessandro pulls himself up and looks at me a moment with wide eyes. His whole body is tense, his shoulders stiff and his hands bunched into fists at his sides.

  I smooth my hair back. “I—sorry. I should go.”

  He rubs his forehead, then looks at me. “You haven’t eaten yet. Come back to the table.”

  We stand here staring at each other for another tense minute, then settle back into our seats.