Professor Adorkable

by Edie Danford

  He shuts me up with a kiss of his own. “Never,” he says. “You are essential. You are necessary. I need you in my life in so many ways, they would fill a galaxy. One hundred balloons of appreciation—it doesn’t seem like too much.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, smiling up at the ceiling. “I love it. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  We hold hands and, for several minutes, we watch the balloons float softly against the ducts and beams. I smile when I notice that one of them is shaped differently from the others. “Mar,” I say softly. “Did you get one that’s heart-shaped on purpose?” I squint up at it. I sit, trying to get a better angle. Yep. Heart-shaped.

  I turn to look at him. His eyes are closed. His hand is lax against his chest. His parted lips tremble a bit as he exhales a gentle snore. Maybe it’s because of all the miracle-like feelings in the air, but I suddenly notice the way light is hitting his body, zeroing in on a particular spot above his left hip bone. A spot I didn’t notice during our lovemaking.

  Leaning forward, I examine it more closely. My eyes immediately blur and I brush away tears so I can see again. A tattoo. Marek has a tattoo of a tiny, heart-shaped balloon.

  I press a careful kiss to it. He doesn’t stir. I smile in sympathy. Poor guy. He’s had a hard day. In fact, when I think about everything he must’ve done before he came to get me at the airport, it’s amazing he’s been able to come twice before passing out.

  Well. Maybe not such a miracle. He’s a superstar when it comes to coming.

  I snuggle against him, looking up at the heart-shaped balloon.

  My own heart is down here on this bed, being safely kept by Professor Adorkable.

  Epilogue

  Marek

  I’m walking down 57th Street, smiling, thinking of the picture Pete sent me an hour ago. He photographed the lilacs blooming in the courtyard of our new building. May is having her say today, he’d written.

  As I walk, I have to agree that May is doing its best to shout Hyde Park out of its recently rainy doldrums. I’ve been feeling spring-like and lighthearted since February, when Pete got back from Texas, and I’m glad the weather is finally syncing with my mood.

  I stroll past 57th Street Books and look down at the basement shop’s narrow window displays. Pete and I have listened to all the Harry Potters, and we’ve begun reading to each other from random books we select from this shop. Middle-grade fantasy seems to work best for the goofy voices we come up with. We’d tried an adult thriller and ended up creeping each other out. Pretty hilarious, really.

  I don’t see anything intriguing in the window. Maybe Pete and I can come back on the weekend and do some shopping. I don’t mind shopping if it involves books. And Pete.

  I keep walking, passing the wellness center where Pete has once-a-week meetings with a counselor. He’s been corresponding with a few people he worked with in L.A. Each step takes time. Each step takes pondering and discussion. It’s a process. I am so proud of him, and proud to be someone he can talk to about some of these things.

  My step picks up as I get closer to home. I’d gone home for lunch, so it hasn’t been long since I’ve seen Pete, but we hadn’t had time for anything but a quick grilled cheese. No kisses, even.

  Pete had been excited because furniture is being delivered for the living room today. “I can’t kiss you when you look at me like that,” he’d said. “Because you know where it leads. I don’t want the delivery dudes to show up while we’re making love. Too much scrambling around and lightning-fast jizz-cleaning would have to happen. We’ll do slow and leisurely on the new couch later. Promise.”

  This placated me. Somewhat.

  Only some of the living room items are coming today. We haven’t picked out everything yet. We’re taking it slow. Which is good. Because buying the place had been fast. Almost too fast. And Pete had decided he wanted to paint all the rooms with colors we chose together. Every wall. Himself. I’d protested at first, but he’d insisted it would make him happy. He liked paint and painting. And who was I to tell him which things should make him happy and which things shouldn’t?

  After almost a month of being in the new place, it’s evident that it makes both of us happy. The townhouse had sold to a newly hired professor from the Middle East—who was well-pleased to purchase the furniture too—within two weeks of being on the market. Very lucky, my realtor had said. Serendipitous, I’d thought.

  Pete and I liked the loft, but had found the location inconvenient. I couldn’t come home for lunch. Or between classes. Or have convenient evening study seshes. Or meet Pete for quick walks on the Midway. And, when Pete’s online business with his mom started to take off, he’d decided he wanted an office space that wasn’t so close to the bed.

  The bed was very distracting.

  So Pete’s stepbrother arranged to have his property-management people put the place up for rent, while Pete took some time to think about what he wanted to do with it. The rental had been snatched up quickly—and serendipitously—too.

  When someone from my department had told me about an apartment his neighbor was thinking of selling that would be a fifteen-minute walk to campus, we’d gone to take a look, not expecting much. But, as Pete liked to say, “We fell in love with the place almost as fast as we fell in love with each other.”

  Of course I’d fallen in love with Pete much faster than he’d fallen in love with me. Despite his protests to the contrary. And so I am not sure about his condo-love comparison.

  This is a topic we like to debate while drinking tea or coffee on the tree-draped balcony off the cozy master bedroom.

  I like to think the place is a lot like Pete. Compact. Light-filled. Charming. Perfect for me.

  I turn down Madison Park and am met with an almost blinding amount of bright green. The buildings on this block share a lush little park, and today I feel pleasantly spoiled by the flowering trees and grassy smells.

  Guilt happens, but only a tiny amount, when I see a large truck pull away from the front of our building at the end of the block. We’re on the top floor of four stories and we’ve discovered that movers and delivery-people grumble when they’re faced with so many flights of stairs.

  I don’t like grumbling and prefer to let Pete work his charm (that often involves fresh baked goods) on out-of-breath workers.

  I let myself into the gated courtyard, pause for a moment to see if Pete might be looking out the sunroom’s windows—he isn’t—and then hurry into the building and up the stairs.

  “How does it look?” I call after letting myself in to the apartment. No deluxe mudroom, but there’s a bench and a coat tree and space for my “coming home messes.” I kick off my shoes.

  “Pete?” I step into the living room, sliding a little on the super-polished floors.

  Yes. The couch has arrived. It looks awesome. I smile. Pete must be pleased. The color—a peacock blue—looks great with the other colors he’s chosen for the space. So great that even I can tell it looks great.

  “I’m in here,” he calls from somewhere down the hall.

  “Where is here?”

  “The bedroom.”

  “I like the bedroom.”

  His excellent laugh greets me as I enter the room. He’s on a stepladder. He has a can of paint in one hand and a small brush in the other.

  “I thought painting was done?”

  He smiles. “Don’t get scowlish. I’m doing a very small job today.”

  I try to remove the scowl from my face. I know painting sometimes involves a lot of cleanup—brushes and drop cloths and can storage. When I get home, I want kisses before dealing with paint and cleanup.

  I’m a demanding and spoiled roommate.

  Pete climbs down from the ladder. He comes close. I breathe in his scent. Plus paint. It’s good. He tips his chin for a kiss. I deliver one, letting my lips be extra greedy. Because I can’t squeeze him if he’s holding paint and a brush.

  “Mmm. You taste good.”
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  “I had gum at work.”

  He laughs.

  “What?”

  “You’re cute.”

  I shrug. I remember the couch and smile. “The peacock color is perfect, right?”

  “I knew all along it would be.”

  I snort, remembering the doubts and the hand-wringing at the store. “We need to have a slushie to celebrate,” I say. “Right now. What shall I make?”

  Cal gave us an ice shaver and many small bottles of exotic flavorings as a housewarming gift. I’ve been enjoying experimenting with all these things. Pete has been enjoying making fun of me—accusing me of being a mad scientist manufacturing concoctions. He enjoys drinking these concoctions, of course.

  “Anything would be good. But make lots. Whitaker and Zoe are coming over.”

  “Oh. Right.” This both pleases and displeases me. I’d wanted to test out the couch with a make-out sesh right away. But I will be happy to see Zoe and Whitaker.

  “Hmm.” I mull over ingredients and recipes in my head. “I think something involving strawberries.”

  “Sounds perfect.” Pete leans up for another kiss. “I’ll come help when I finish this.”

  This… I realize that I haven’t been paying attention to what he’s up to with the paint. I watch him climb the ladder again. This is the room he’d painted before any of the others, because the bedroom is very important. He is touching up a mistake, maybe?

  No. He’s working on something on the ceiling. The tip of his paintbrush is bright red. He’s dabbing it, filling in some sort of shape.

  I step closer. “Is that…?”

  “Yes. It is.” Pete gazes down at me, a grin on his lips, love in his eyes. “I’ve been painting them randomly on the ceiling of every room. I kept thinking you’d see me doing it. Or notice without me telling you. Today is the day you finally caught me.”

  Eyes wide, I look up at the perfect little heart-shaped balloon he’s painted. And immediately noticed three, four, no, five more on the ceiling of the bedroom.

  “Every room?”

  He nods.

  I rush around the apartment. Two in the bathroom. One in the half bath. Four in the living room. Three in his office. Three in the kitchen. The same for the living room and sun room.

  “Pete!” I holler, laughing, bonking into a few things as I keep my head tilted.

  “What?” he calls, laughing too.

  “I love you!”

  “And I love you.”

  I hurry back into the bedroom. “How much time till Zoe and Whitaker get here?”

  “Um. Forty-five minutes.”

  “Come down from there. Put away that paint.”

  “Oh-ho. That’s how it is, huh?”

  “Yes. I must make love to you. Right fucking now.”

  “Sheesh.” His eyes are shining as he climbs down. “So demanding.” The lid of the paint can is handy. So is a plastic bag for the brush. Suspiciously handy.

  I hold out my arms.

  He steps into them.

  We kiss, pulling each other down to the bed. As I undo his jeans and tug up his shirt, kissing my way down his torso to his tattoo, I might be a little distracted. I suddenly remember an item relegated to Old Business on our agenda items that needs to be moved back to New Business. Maybe I’ll do this after loving and before slushies… I want to talk to Pete again about the marriage idea, this time without any pressures from contracts or employment complications or expanding data sets.

  “Love you,” Pete whispers as he cradles me with his body and his smile. “You lift my heart.”

  “And you lift mine.” I kiss him, closing my eyes, feeling the hearts inside our bodies beating in perfect rhythm.

  And, as usual, pleasure with Pete takes me on a blissed-out journey. My mind soars as our bodies connect, and I see the hearts outside our bodies join—the idea of our hearts—the manifestation of this love experiment we are living.

  I see this idea floating like two dancing balloons, bouncing on the ceiling, strings entwining, then riding a breeze out the French doors, playing with the leaves on the trees, catching sight of the puffy, late afternoon clouds, and soaring into the atmosphere.

  Cosmic. Yes. I can’t help the direction my thoughts drift. They’re powered by love.

  Acknowledgments

  This was a tough one for a bunch of unpredictable reasons. I couldn’t have gotten through it without the thoughtfulness and talent of my editor, Christa Desir, and the unwavering support of my dear friend, Annabeth Albert. Writing a workplace romance had some head-desk moments—many thanks to Lily Morton for her awesome insights, and gobs of gratitude to my old coworker pals Matt, Jeff, Micah, and Leo for providing the real-life inspiration for Domesticated Inc. Every time I look at the cover for this book, I smile, so huge, happy thanks to cover designer, Garrett Leigh, for creating my most fave cover ever—as Marek would say, “Yes. So perfect.” To my family for giving me the real stuff in life to cling to! And, last but not least, thank you to all the romance readers out there! Your support of this genre lifts my heart!!

  More books!

  Want to know the story of Pete’s friends, Nick and Josh?

  For more romance by Edie Danford, please visit www.ediedanford.com.