by Kendall Ryan
One hour later, my little maroon suitcase is stuffed full. I have no excuse to linger further. But I do anyway—walking through slowly, looking at everything one last time.
This apartment has been the backdrop of my life for the past four years, ever since I got my undergrad degree and stopped rooming with Camryn. Everything within these walls is a product of my decisions and mine alone. I chose this place for its airy architecture, its honey-colored hardwood floors, even the blue-diamond tile pattern in the kitchen and bathroom. I bought every stick of furniture, striking my ideal balance between stylish and cozy. I decorated its walls with framed art prints that suited my tastes. I filled its fridge and cabinets with my favorite snacks. I cluttered the bathroom with my beauty products, not worrying about leaving space for anyone else’s stuff. I organized everything according to the system that would best help me remember where I put it. Now . . . I can kiss all of that sovereignty good-bye.
Sure, I can bring a few more of my things to the penthouse, but so can Noah. He’ll add his own unique flavor to our new home.
Our new home . . . I wonder how long it will take me to get used to that. And it’s already fully furnished—which means no bringing my beloved squishy gray velvet sofa. Most importantly, there’s only one bedroom. I won’t have anywhere that’s truly my domain anymore.
But Noah must feel the same way. He’s also sacrificing the privacy and freedom of his bachelor pad. In fact, he has more to lose than me, since he actually had a sex life. And from what he said yesterday, it seems like he’s serious about giving up his entire playboy lifestyle. Even though he’s probably never been monogamous in his whole life.
Man, watching him try to keep it in his pants is going to be hilarious. And just what is his plan if I do take up with another man? Start a brawl like a couple of teenage punks?
I shake my head. That will never happen, anyway. Work is my whole life—I don’t have time to invest in dating. And even though I’ll never admit it to Noah, I don’t have the stomach for one-night stands. I can’t imagine myself enjoying physical intimacy without emotional intimacy. Unlike Noah, who seems to have zero problems whipping it out at the slightest provocation.
At least, he did until we started dating.
I seriously don’t understand what’s going through that man’s head. All I wanted was for us to go from acquaintances to friends. Why does he have to push for overachievement? Why is he so determined to play the perfect boyfriend, even when nobody’s around to witness his act? Why does he feel like he has to stay faithful to me?
Just to keep up appearances for the public? To gratify his male pride? Or because . . . he genuinely wants to woo me for real?
I realize I’ve been staring out the window for almost five full minutes. I haven’t even been watching the dark, twinkling cityscape—moving lights for the cars, static ones for the offices working late or the families relaxing together. A glimpse into millions of people’s lives, spread out in stars like a reflection of the night sky. I suddenly feel very small . . . and lonely.
It takes me a moment to recognize the feeling because I’m usually lonely in the abstract, daydreaming of a faceless fantasy lover. A hazy ache for human contact. Someone to brush his fingers through my hair and whisper sweet things in my ear. Someone to hold me and tell me everything will be okay. Someone to investigate when there’s a noise in the night. Now, though, my loneliness is specific and sharp.
I want to see Noah.
He’s the only person in the world who understands how I feel right now. Camryn can try to sympathize, and she’s definitely done a lot to help me through this, but she’s not down in the trenches with me. Noah is.
I’m not sure if I want to talk to him right now, but I at least want to see him. I want to know he’s still there, by my side. I need to hear his optimism and see that smirk on his mouth to know that maybe, just maybe, I’ll make it through this.
I pick up my suitcase, turn the lights off, and leave my apartment for the last time.
• • •
Even at this time of night, Manhattan traffic isn’t fun. As my cab crawls through the packed city streets, I suddenly get an idea.
“Is there a tea shop nearby?” I ask the cabbie.
He gives me a confused look in his rearview mirror. “What, like a café?”
“No, I mean a place where I can buy . . . equipment? Teapots and kettles and stuff.”
He starts tapping his GPS screen. Fortunately, we’re stopped at a red light, but I get the feeling that he wouldn’t care if we weren’t.
“About three blocks west,” he says after a minute. “You got some shopping to do there?”
“Yes, please.”
He promptly muscles into the right-turn lane, ignoring a few shouts and middle fingers from the other drivers, and speeds through. Somehow we arrive at the store without causing any vehicular manslaughter.
As I count out my fare, I say, “Can you wait for me? I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.”
He raises his bushy eyebrows. “That long? You sure? I’ll have to drive around the block, and the meter’s runnin’ . . .”
“I can afford it.” For now, anyway. Tate & Cane isn’t totally underwater yet.
He shrugs. “Okay, lady, whatever you want.”
I step out of the cab and he’s gone before I reach the front door.
The tiny boutique has an entire wall devoted to tea gear—cups, pots, kettles, infusers, strainers, paper filters, little wire racks for organizing boxes, airtight jars and tins for storing loose leaf. I consider the display, tapping my lips with one finger.
Finally, I choose a squat, Japanese-style ceramic teapot with a mottled forest-green glaze. Its shelf tag reads: Ao-Oribe ushirode kyuusu, tenmoku glaze, sasame filter.
I haven’t the faintest idea what any of that means. And the price is slightly horrifying. But its color and elegant shape are perfect—tasteful, yet eye-catching, not too masculine or too feminine. A symbol of compromise, a hope for harmony. A gift that I chose myself, but in recognition of a ritual that Noah holds dear.
Just for the hell of it, I take a pair of matching cups too. I’ll definitely stick to coffee in the mornings. But maybe, late at night, it wouldn’t be so bad to share a hot cup of tea with Noah.
I make my way to the front of the store, smiling to myself, feeling calm at last.
Chapter Nine
Noah
“I’m in the mood for red meat,” Sterling says as we walk down the crowded sidewalk after work.
“Damn. Dry streak, buddy?” I rub my chin thoughtfully.
“What?” He squints at me in the fading light.
“A craving for red meat usually means a lack of sex. A desire for a certain other kind of meat, if you will.” I grin at him.
“Shut it.”
Oh yeah, he’s in a funk. I know for a fact he’s been going through some type of dry spell, but I have no idea the cause. Before I can pry, he’s chuckling next to me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re so misguided, it’s not even funny. You’re the one who’s going to be in for the world’s biggest case of blue balls—marrying someone as hot as Olivia Cane and not getting to fuck her?” He makes a pitiful noise. “That’s just a damn shame.”
“Who said anything about not getting to fuck her?” I pull open the door to the Grassland Steakhouse and gesture for him to enter.
He shoots me an odd glare, but approaches the hostess to request a table.
Once we’re seated with our drinks—a whiskey neat for me, a pint of imported beer for him—Sterling leans closer. “Did you and your lovely bride make more headway on your relationship than I’d realized?”
I shrug. “Not yet.” She’s far from being my bride, for one thing. “But I, for one, am not giving up hope.” I take another sip of my drink. “In fact, after dinner, I’m meeting her at our new apartment. A gift from her father.”
“No shit?”
I nod.
&nb
sp; “Living together, huh. That’s a big step.”
“Indeed.”
For a moment, I put myself in Sterling’s shoes and wonder if he’s feeling like he’s suddenly lost his best friend and wingman. We used to go out every weekend together hunting for pussy and fun—in that order. Now, I’m practically a married man with a new housemate, and probably a curfew.
But when I glance back at Sterling, he’s grinning at me like the cat who ate the canary, and I’m certain he knows something I don’t.
• • •
After dinner, I arrive at the penthouse first. It’s a stunning apartment in the heart of the city.
I take my time looking around, flipping on light switches as I go. Expansive views from an airy twentieth-floor balcony, a modern kitchen with a little Italian coffeemaker on the counter that I’m sure Olivia will love, and expensive finishes everywhere I look—from the thick crown molding to the marble countertops to the hand-scraped oak flooring. It looks every bit like a marriage retreat. The walls and furniture, carpeting and linens are all in various shades of white and cream. It feels pure and untouched.
Honestly, it feels a bit like walking through a museum. It’ll take a while to think of this place as home. I’ve held on to my little bachelor pad near the F Line for so long now, I don’t like the idea of leaving it. But I know this is all for the best. A future with Olivia is what my father wanted for me.
And speaking of fathers . . . a bottle of red wine and two glasses have been left on the counter with a note from Olivia’s dad.
Noah,
Thank you for doing this, son. I won’t be around forever, and it feels so good to know that you will be there to take care of my little girl. I know you won’t let me down. There’s not another man I’d trust with both my company and my daughter. I hope you know that.
Very truly,
Fred Cane
I fold the paper into a square and stick it in my pocket. I realize that Olivia’s dad always trusted me with her. Even when I was a horny sixteen-year-old kid with a new driver’s license, and she wasn’t allowed to date, I alone was awarded the privilege of taking her on outings. We boated, played mini golf, went to the movies, you name it.
I open the bottle to let it breathe and cross the room to look out on the city skyline below. I can’t help thinking back on all the good times Olivia and I have shared. And the difficult ones too. We’ve been there for each other through the loss of our mothers and watching our company crumble.
I stand here thinking for so long, I lose track of time. Surprised, I blink back to reality and look at my watch. She’s late.
With a sinking feeling, I wonder if she’s even coming. Why in the fuck should I care if she wants to live here or not? She’s made it clear how she feels about me—how much she hates the idea of being stuck with me. I’m akin to a piece of dog shit on the bottom of her five-hundred dollar heels.
But I know there’s a lot more to it than that. I’ll be sorely disappointed if she decides not to show.
Finally, there’s a click in the lock. I try not to sprint to the door like a golden retriever.
Olivia comes inside. I’m not sure what I expected, but she’s changed out of her work clothes and into a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a lightweight sweater.
“Hey.” Leaving her suitcase by the door, she crosses the living room toward me.
“You’re an hour late,” I say as I make my way toward the kitchen.
“I was picking something up.” She sets a brightly colored shopping bag on the counter. “Something for you, actually.” She treats me to a rare, warm smile.
I watch as she removes a box from inside the shopping bag and sets it on the counter.
“Well . . . are you going to open it?” she asks.
I figured she’d want to see the apartment first, but I oblige, coming to stand beside her. I can smell the light notes of honeysuckle on her skin. Damn, that’s going to be distracting if we’re living together now. I’ll be in a constant state of arousal. Awesome.
I lift open the flap on the cardboard box and dig through the packaging until I find it.
“It’s a teapot,” I say, holding it up and inspecting it with curiosity.
Then the meaning behind her gift slams into me. The conversation we shared about our moms comes rushing back. I don’t think anyone’s ever given me such a thoughtful gift before.
Olivia reaches into the shopping bag, pulls out two small cups, and sets them on the counter. “We can have tea together sometime . . . if you like.”
There’s a touch of uncertainty in her voice. Did she think I might not like that idea?
Well, I don’t. I fucking love it.
“That was very thoughtful of you, Snowflake.”
I thought my friend Sterling was the only one who got my obsession with tea, being that he’s British, but apparently Olivia is on board too.
I set the teapot down on the counter and pull her in close for a hug. I expect Olivia to go rigid in my arms, or even recoil with a comment about inappropriate physical contact. But instead she’s soft and warm, and her body molds to mine. Her hands rest on my shoulders and she watches me with wide eyes.
“Thank you,” I say, skimming my thumb across her jaw.
“No problem.”
“You know I’m going to kiss you at some point, right?”
We’re so close, I can hear her swallow. The very tip of her tongue pokes out—a quick, nervous lick that she doesn’t even seem aware of.
Damn, so cute . . . that’s a yes if I ever saw one. But I want more than just unconscious signals. I wait to see how Olivia decides to respond.
Finally, she gives me a small nod. “Maybe,” she says, trying to sound flippant.
I chuckle and release my hold on her. “Come on. You’ve got to check this place out. It’s incredible.”
“My dad went overboard, as usual.” She turns from me and gazes out at the balcony.
“Glass of wine first?”
“Why not?”
With a glass of red wine in hand, we make our way through the apartment. Olivia points out architectural details and discusses the shower schedule for the one bathroom we’ll share, while I just nod along and watch her.
Being here with her, listening to her ideas for decorating, sharing this space with her . . . it feels like a start. Maybe even the start of something real.
“This isn’t so bad, is it?” I tease.
She gives me a look. “Just because I nearly had a panic attack at the thought of living together doesn’t mean you get to gloat.”
“Fine. I won’t. But it’s a nice place. Your dad did well.”
She nods. Then she glances away for a second. “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”
We start down the hall, and I motion for her to continue in front of me.
“I’ve taken your proposition under advisement, and here’s what I propose.” Olivia’s tone is confident, her shoulders squared.
“My proposition?” I ask. She’s being so clinical, I can’t wait to hear her explain this.
She stops to look at me. “You know, that make-out idea you suggested at the bar last week. I’d be willing to try it sometime.”
Hell yes. I’m finally making some real headway here.
“Sure. We could do that.” Starting as soon as humanly possible.
“As long as there were parameters,” she continues.
Parameters. Rules. Guidelines. Why am I not surprised? This woman is unlike any I’ve ever met before. She certainly keeps me guessing.
“Such as?”
“First base only, as I believe you said. And fully clothed.” She narrows her eyes at my crotch. “Which means you keep that giant thing in your pants.”
“You think I’m giant?” I can’t help the smirk that uncurls on my mouth.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop fishing for compliments. You know it’s impressive, otherwise you wouldn’t have shoved it down my throat.” As soon as the words lea
ve her mouth, her face flushes bright pink, her Freudian slip sinking in.
“Oh, Snowflake.” I pet her hot cheek with my thumb. “I haven’t shoved it down your throat yet, but I’m very much looking forward to that.”
“L-let’s just forget I said that. No one will be shoving anything anywhere. First base. Got it?”
I chuckle. “I’m happy to go as slow as you need to.”
And it’s the truth. Slow may not be my usual style, but there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that I’m winning over her trust and readying her for more. The idea is quite gratifying. It will make my victory all the sweeter.
“This is going to work, me and you,” I tell her as we near the bedroom.
Yes, one fucking bedroom. And before you get excited, I summon up my willpower to tell her I’ll sleep on the motherfucking couch.
“You can have the bed,” I say, stopping in the hallway.
It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, no question. And since I did just tell her I was looking forward to putting my cock down her throat, I figure I have some making-up to do in the manners department.
“Are you sure?” Her voice is filled with surprise.
I swallow. “Of course. I’ll take the couch.”
Our gazes drift together from the modern, stylish tweed sofa in the living room to the massive king-sized bed down the hall dressed in fluffy down, and back to the couch again. There’s no way my six-foot-two-inch frame will even fit on that couch.
“You know what?” Olivia says brightly. “We’re two grown adults. It’s a huge bed. We can manage sharing it, right?”
“I’ll be a pussycat.” I grin at her.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she murmurs.
Chapter Ten
Olivia
I let Noah take the bathroom to brush his teeth first. We haven’t yet reached the level of familiarity required for me to watch another human being spit into the sink. Meanwhile, I take the bedroom to change into my favorite fleecy pajamas.
When I emerge, Noah is leaning against the wall outside the bathroom door. He cocks his head with an amused smile that stops me in my tracks.