And so I snuck out of the house and found a grocery store that was still open, not even sure if he’d be here when I arrived. I figured if he wasn’t, I’d just drive home and eat my purchase by myself, and if he was, well, I’d wing it.
The door opens, revealing his disheveled form in silhouette against the light behind him. His hair is pulled back in a low bun and his slacks and button-down shirt are wrinkled. I wonder if he’d been dressed to come to Charlie and Viv’s or if he tried to dress up for her regardless of whether or not she’d notice. I bite back a sad little noise in my throat. I don’t want him confusing sympathy with pity. Just then I catch the strains of jazz playing in the background.
I hold my box up higher with a bright smile on my face.
“I thought you could use something to eat.”
I glance meaningfully at the tumbler of dark liquid in his hand.
A hundred emotions run across his face, and he seems to be struggling with what to say. How much of that alcohol has he had already?
“God, you’re beautiful.” It comes out gruffly, like an admission of guilt.
He reaches out for the box in my hands, and I give it over with another smile.
“I just thought that maybe you’d . . .” My words trail off and I frown when he immediately sets the box on a console table by the door along with his drink. When he turns back around, the look on his face is fierce. I know exactly what that look means.
“I don’t want you to think I came over here for this again.”
I jump a little when his fingertips slide under the hem of my dress to reach my skin.
“I don’t,” he whispers, kissing along my neck.
A tiny whimper slips out of my mouth when his fingers slide down my back along with the zipper on my dress. I need to focus.
“You’re upset.”
Those same confident fingers slide back and forth against the rainbow of ink that runs along my side. He always seems to go back to that spot on my skin, though he’s never once asked what the tattoos mean. “And?”
I’m trying to stay on topic, but I keep getting lost in the sensation of his hands. My answer comes out breathy. “I just wanted to help.”
A slow, lazy grin spreads from one side of his face to the other. “Oh, believe me—this is extremely helpful.”
It’s hours later before I remember the Trojan horse sitting on the console table and force Liam to accompany me to the kitchen. He pulls on pajama pants and a T-shirt, and his overly long hair looks almost as chaotic as mine does. I find his blue cashmere sweater lying over the chair in his room and throw it on. It’s about a hundred times too big for me, but it feels like heaven and smells like him.
“You go there.” I point to the line of stools sitting next to a marble-top center island and then hurry to grab the box and my bag from the entryway where I left them. When I come back into the kitchen, he laughs.
He points to the can of whipped cream in my hand. “Now we’re talking.”
“Exactly. We’re talking. But first we’re going to enjoy this.” I remove the pumpkin pie from the container with the flourish of a magician. “What size piece would you like? Tall, grande, or venti?”
I vaguely remember the layout of the kitchen from when he made me breakfast. I pull a knife from the drawer but need some guidance from him before I can find the plates on the overhead shelf. I look to him for an answer he still hasn’t given me on the size of his slice.
“I really want to make a joke right now about your use of the word piece and exactly what kind of piece I’d like—”
I roll my eyes.
“But you won’t because that’s rude.”
His lips twitch.
“Right. I’d hate to be rude.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to choose venti.”
I slice into the pie.
“Thank goodness! I’m going to choose venti too, and this way I don’t feel alone in my gluttony.”
I put two gigantic pieces of pie on each of our plates and carry them around the island to take a seat next to him. After sliding a plate towards him, I shake up the can of whipped cream. I add a stream of the white topping down one side of the pie in a straight line.
“I think you can tell a lot about a person based on how they add their whipped cream,” I say.
“Ahh, one of the great tenets of life.”
I wish I had something heavier to throw at him than just my glare.
“Don’t be a wiseacre.”
He laughs.
“Wiseacre? Are you secretly a hundred-year-old man?”
The look I turn on him is solemn. “Sadly, you are not the first person to wonder that. Now back to the pie. I like to cover mine completely in this sort of uniform formation.” I add one row after another, covering every square inch of my slice. “This way I can be absolutely certain of my pie to Reddi-wip ratio.”
I set the can in between us and take a bite. I can’t help dancing a little in my seat; it’s the perfect combination of flavors, and I’ve waited all day to get it. I grin at the amused expression on his face.
“Come on.” I nod at the can. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He picks up the can and shakes it for good measure. He adds a perfect dollop to his slice directly in the center. I’ve eaten blueberries bigger than that circle of whipped cream. My eyes fly to his.
“You can’t be serious!”
His shrug is playful. “I don’t really like whipped cream.”
I have to take an extra-large bite of my pie to cope with this discovery. “Good gods,” I despair around a bite of pumpkin filling. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
He takes a bite of his own pie sans whipped topping. “Deal breaker?”
He’s nearly a foot taller than me and a giant wall of solid muscle, but he’s still playful enough to come to the kitchen in the middle of the night to eat a piece of pie the size of his face.
“Normally yes,” I sigh dramatically. “But I’ve never seen anyone look so handsome while eating a midnight snack, so I’m going to let it slide.”
He grins and takes another bite. He seems laid back, almost peaceful—a totally different person than the one who answered the door a couple of hours ago. I’m ridiculously happy that I played any role in that at all.
“So what happened today? Is everything OK with your mom?”
He pauses with the fork halfway between him and his plate.
“Same thing, different day,” he throws out casually.
I turn to face him fully and do something I’ve wanted to do since the very first night I met him. I reach up and tuck a piece of golden hair behind his ear.
“It wasn’t just a different day,” I say carefully. “It was a holiday. That can’t be easy.”
The kitchen is the only room with the lights on, so when he looks away from me, it’s out into the darkness.
“It was fine. How was your day?”
I try not to sigh. I want to be respectful of his privacy, but it’s not like we haven’t discussed this before. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who has discussed this topic with him. I worry that he’s so busy keeping up the pretense of having it all together that he doesn’t have anyone to talk to. I keep thinking if I just carefully bring it up or keep throwing him underhand softballs that maybe he’ll start to talk to me. Maybe that’s the wrong approach, though. Maybe I need to be more direct.
“My day was fine, but I think I’d rather hear about yours.”
He turns his head back in my direction, but his eyes land on the can between us. He grabs it off the counter with a mischievous smile.
“You know what I think?” He holds the can.
I’m already shaking my head. “There’s no telling.”
He reaches for my left hand, and since my body is his willi
ng accomplice, I place my hand on top of his outstretched palm without any kind of coaxing on his part. He adds a dollop of whipped cream to the center of my palm and leans down close enough to warm my fingers with his breath. Then without ever once breaking eye contact with me, he slowly licks it clean.
“I think we can come up with much more interesting uses for this than pie topping.”
In more than one book, the heroine describes her desire in the floweriest of descriptions. She feels like she’s going to internally combust or come out of her skin or get burned up by wanton flames.
My desire isn’t anywhere near as articulate.
My head fills with weird, nonsensical sayings: a flash of the jingle for a local electrician, the opening dance routine for Kids Incorporated circa 1991, the Mad Hatter’s gibberish as described by Lewis Carroll, and He-Man yelling about the power of Grayskull. These are the crazy images that fill my head along with a million other things that are so intense and demanding I have to stop myself from attacking him like a howler monkey.
“You—you don’t even like whipped cream,” I stutter inelegantly.
The light in his eyes catches on fire as he shakes the can again.
“I’m thinking it all depends on what you put it on.”
It isn’t until much, much later that I realize he never answered my question at all.
Landon bounces into my office a few days later wearing way too much pink and enthusiasm for a Monday morning. She’s all smiles as she deposits a coffee onto my desk.
“I’m trading caffeine for information,” she says as she plops down into a chair. “Your text messages were cryptic and uninformative. I want—” She halts as if remembering something.
She jumps up and hurries to close the door, then resumes her seat and takes a big swig of her own coffee.
“OK, go!”
I eye her dubiously.
“You first.” I take a sip. “How did everything go with Brody and your parents?”
“I told you this already.” She rolls her eyes playfully, because she knows I’m stalling for time. “My mom would marry him herself if polygamy were legal in the state of Texas.”
“And your dad?”
“They argued the entire time. They covered everything from football to workers’ comp and debated each point ad nauseam.”
“Crud. Really? They didn’t like each other?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Are you kidding me? They adore each other! My father loves a good debate, and Brody thinks he knows everything. It’s a match made in heaven.”
This makes my heart so happy. Not that I ever worried that they wouldn’t all love each other, but Landon’s relationship has gotten serious really quickly, and I know how important her parents’ opinions are to her.
“And he liked them too?”
She scowls at the question. “Girl, stop holding out on me. What happened?”
I glance at my computer screen, where a layout for an upcoming event is still open. I consider asking her a question about it just to throw her off, but she’s like a dog with a bone. She’s not going to be ignored, but I don’t even know where to begin or how to explain all that’s happened in the last week.
“Blessed assurance, are you blushing?” she screeches.
I will my face to return to whatever color it was before I started thinking about the last week. Equal parts embarrassment and annoyance make my voice come out too loud.
“I don’t know, probably!”
Her blues eyes flash in amusement.
“Oh, girl, tell me everything.”
I cover my face with both my hands, positive it’s bright red again. She laughs and waves a hand in surrender.
“OK, don’t tell me everything. Just give me the pertinent information. I left you crying and upset in a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and last I heard you hung out again, and again”—she raises her eyebrows—“and again. So where does that leave you now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you two have plans later?”
I shake my head.
“But you expect to see him?”
“If tonight is anything like the last several, then . . .”
Her perfect blonde eyebrows furrow.
“But if you haven’t made plans, then . . .”
I shrug helplessly. “He just texts me, and then I go over to his place.”
Gods, when I say it like that it sounds so shady.
“That sounds super shady,” Landon says sternly.
I do a full face-palm. “That is exactly what I was just thinking.” I take a deep breath. “But it’s not like that—I swear. When we’re together we hang out and laugh and . . . and . . .”
She rolls her finger in the air in a carry-on motion. “I got it.”
“Yeah, well, that too. But he’s—it’s amazing. He’s funny and charming and so sweet to me.”
She’s nodding along in agreement, but I can tell she wants to say something more.
“What? What are you thinking?”
“Have you gone on a date? Gone for coffee?” She winces a little. “Have you ever even gone out in daylight together?”
I make a lame attempt to lighten the mood.
“Are you suggesting he’s a vampire?”
“No.” She shakes her head sadly, unwilling to play along. “I’m suggesting that you’re a booty call.”
Ouch.
That one hurt. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that this is something I’ve been worrying about but haven’t wanted to acknowledge. Liam treats me like a princess when we’re together. I just can’t imagine that someone who’s only looking to hook up acts that way. I know there’s something deeper between us. I shake the ugly words away and refuse to hear them.
“No, I think it’s just new. We’ve only been hanging out officially for a week.” I ignore the voice in the back of my head that says there’s nothing official at all about us hanging out. “I think I just need to do something impactful and attention grabbing.”
“You need to talk to him about this,” she says sternly. “You need to explain to him what you want out of this relationship. You have to know if he’s able to give you those things or if he’s even interested in giving you those things, Miko. Otherwise this whole thing is doomed.”
Sadly, the last thing Liam and I do is talk about anything serious, but I’m not about to tell her that. I paste on a bright smile.
“No, come on—it’s too soon for something that heavy. I have the perfect plan. It’s number eight on my list.”
“Girl, I really don’t think—”
“Landon. It’s been six days! And even your perfect relationship isn’t always perfect, so please stop trying to be my mom and just be my friend right now.”
It’s the harshest I’ve ever spoken to her, and I immediately want to take it back. The look of chagrin on her face stops me.
“You’re right. You’re so right. I’m sorry for getting you all worked up. I’m just worried about you.”
I sigh. “I get it.”
She shakes her head in disagreement. “I don’t think you do get it, though. You’re so fun and funny, and you embrace everyone and everything no matter how odd or broken or weird. You’ve never met a stranger; you literally make friends with everyone you meet.” She leans towards me. “You have the biggest heart of anyone I know. I just worry that that means there’s more of it to get easily broken.”
I blink at her a few times. I have no idea how to respond to that. Luckily, Landon fluffs her hair and smiles happily.
“All right, I’ve said my piece. Tell me about number eight on the list.”
I cross my arms. “Don’t pretend to be interested on my account.”
“Ahh, come on. Don’t be a grouch. Tell me about your idea.”
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I could sit here and stew in my annoyance. I could brood about my current pseudorelationship. Or I could accept her worry as part and parcel of her friendship and move on. The truth is I need Landon to be my wingman on this, because I feel totally unsure of what my next move should be. Two weeks ago I didn’t question anything I did; I just went with my gut. But now I’ve got Liam, and it’s so much more wonderful than I thought was possible before. The problem is that I only have him in some small way, and I’m terrified of the idea of losing even that. This makes me question things I wouldn’t have before. At least if Landon is on my side, I have someone to talk it through with.
I pull out my list, which now covers both sides of the original paper with Casidee’s notes. I lay out my latest plan for her, even if I have to stop a couple of times so she can finish laughing. It is kind of ridiculous, but that’s what I loved about the idea in the first place.
“The thing is,” I tell her as I finish up the details of my plan, “I need to figure out a time and place to pull this off. What’s the modern-day equivalent of playing poker in an antebellum jail cell?”
She taps her finger on her nose, genuinely trying to come up with an answer for me. Gods love her.
“I think they’re going to the Beanery this Saturday to watch the games. We could meet them there.”
I don’t know anything about any kind of sport. I’m not even sure which games she’s referring to. But that’s neither here nor there. “Perfect!”
She grins mischievously as she stands up. “Now you’ve just got to figure out what to wear.”
I smile along with her.
“Exactly.”
She laughs on her way out the door, and Casidee comes in a moment later. Her face is bright with enthusiasm.
“Well?” she asks me expectantly.
“Well what?”
“Well, what did you think of the new Colleen Hoover book? I’ve been dying to talk to you about it all weekend long, but I was too afraid to text you for fear that I’d accidently reveal some kind of spoiler.”
She’s nearly breathless in her excitement, and I’m totally startled to realize that I completely forgot that the new book was out. I preordered it months ago. I usually stay up until midnight to watch it download onto my iPad, just for the joy of finally having it in my hands.
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