by Ember Cole
I bite my lip. “I don’t know. It’s not like I have a lot of experience with nice guys. Like what do I even do with one?”
Kymber laughs and shakes her head. “Sounds like you were off to a good start in our apartment,” she says. “You just botched the dismount a little.”
I rub my thumb through a ring of moisture on the table, not sure I want to say the words I’m thinking. The words I’ve been thinking for two days. But it’s killing me not to spit them out, so I do. “What if he’s realized I’m batshit crazy?” I ask. “And what if he’s at home right now thinking, ‘Man, I’m glad I dodged that bullet’?”
“Beks,” she says slowly in a tone I recognize as the starting point of a lecture. “Did you ever think about talking to him about this stuff? You know, instead of working yourself into a tizzy?”
“Talking,” I repeat, like it’s a foreign concept. “We did do a lot of that in the elevator.”
When I wasn’t dry-humping him or riding his face or—
“So maybe you should do more,” she says. “Get to know each other a little before you jump to conclusions about whether you’re too crazy for him or he’s too perfect for you or whatever made-up story you want to tell yourself.” Kymber sips one of the drinks. I’ve lost track of which is which. “None of that’s true, by the way.”
“So what do I do?”
I realize it’s pathetic that I’m asking relationship advice from my best friend who was a virgin until just a few weeks ago. But Kymber’s always been better at emotional connections than I have. If anyone would know how to advise me, it’s her.
“There’s only one way to figure out if you’re compatible,” Kymber says. “And it doesn’t involve hanging out in a dance club with your best friend getting tipsy on watered-down drinks.”
I stab my cocktail straw into a maraschino cherry. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“You’re gonna need to talk to him, Beks.”
I know she’s right. She’s right about everything.
But how do I do it? And is it too late now?
I hesitate, then dig my phone out of my purse. Kymber watches me, sipping her drink as I pull out my phone. I set it on the table, still not totally sure I’m doing the right thing.
But it feels right.
I pick up the phone, and Kymber frowns. “Don’t text him,” she says. “You need to talk in person if you want any shot at making it work.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I don’t even have his number.”
“So what are you—”
“You’ll see,” I tell her, and Google exactly what I need with more confidence than I feel.
10
ADAM
I grab the flux brush out of my toolbox and use it to smear a thin layer of soldering paste on the end of the copper pipe.
I’ve done this a million times before, so my brain’s got time to wander. The direction it goes is back downstairs to apartment 4C and into the circle of Bekka’s arms.
Dammit.
I struggle to shove the pipe into the fitting, which totally reminds me of Bekka. Not that there was any struggle shoving pipe into—
Fuck, this isn’t helping.
But neither is building this damn desk. When I made the one in the lobby, it was a mindless deal. Just burning off some energy and using up some old lumber I picked up at the scrapyard. The copper legs were a fluke thing, just an idea I had that seemed sort of cool at the time.
But now that I’m making another, I can’t stop thinking about Bekka’s hand skimming the cool wood surface of the other one. I picture the way her eyes lit up when she told me about doing her homework there, or the way she offered to help me start an Etsy store.
Etsy store. Fuck. That’s not what this is about.
I grab the pipe and try again. I just need to focus. Not on Bekka, but on this damn fitting.
“Come on, asshole.” I’m muttering at an inanimate object, which isn’t the first time I’ve done that in the last two days. Working with metal isn’t usually this difficult.
You’re not usually this distracted.
Cursing again, I finally get the two pieces joined together. I set the pipe down and uncoil ten inches of solder wire. If I can get the legs on this desk tonight, maybe I’ll go out. Take my mind off everything that’s been spinning through my head the last couple days. It’s either that or grab some real estate and put myself through another ass-kicking. I’m pretty sure I’ve done more push-ups since walking out Bekka’s door than I did in ten weeks of boot camp.
I flip down the shield on my welding visor and pick up the torch. I’ve just snapped the flame to life when there’s a knock at the door.
I consider not answering it. God knows I’m busy, and if it’s my father, he’s going to be pissed that I’m welding in my apartment again.
The knock sounds again, followed by a feminine voice. A voice I’ve been hearing in my head for the last two days.
“Adam? Are you in there? It’s Bekka.”
Bekka.
My chest tightens, and I can’t tell if it’s excitement or discomfort. Maybe both. I hesitate, then switch off the torch. My feet start carrying me toward the door before I’ve made up my mind to answer. I flip up the shield on my welding visor, hating how excited I am to know it’s her on the other side of the door.
The instant I throw it open, my heart seizes. There she is in a bright blue miniskirt and a drapey-looking white shirt that leaves her shoulders bare. I’m snapped right back to that moment in her apartment when I peeled her top off and pressed my lips to her—
“Adam.” Her red hair is loose around her shoulders, and she fiddles with a lock of it as she looks at me. She does a nervous little foot shuffle, and I glance down to see she’s wearing the same shoes she had on the other day.
Since when did I start giving a shit about a woman’s shoes?
Since you felt them digging into your back as you fucked her on the table.
Sex, that’s all it was. That’s all she wanted. What we agreed to. I’m cool with that. She’s cool with that.
Why is she here then?
I clear my throat. “Did you need something?”
There’s a fast flash of hurt in her eyes, but she covers it quickly. “I, um—yes. Yes, I do.”
“What is it?” Part of me feels justified being kind of an asshole, since she’s the one who kicked me to the curb.
But most of me knows she doesn’t deserve it. It’s not like she ever lied about what she wanted. I’m the idiot who got carried away.
She scrunches up her nose and peers over my shoulder. “Are you…welding?”
“Yep.”
“Shirtless?” Her gaze flits back to my chest and hovers there a moment before wandering over my pecs and down my abdomen, lingering on the happy trail above my belt buckle.
I shrug and pretend I don’t give a shit that she’s checking me out. That she’s staring at my chest or that she smells fucking amazing or that she’s standing in my doorway looking hot as hell. None of it matters.
Keep telling yourself that, asshole.
“I’m working on another desk,” I mutter.
Her eyes brighten, and her brows lift a little as she peers over my shoulder again. “May I see it?”
I shrug again but move aside. She has more right to see it than anyone else, I suppose, seeing as I’m making it for her. Because I’m an idiot.
She hesitates, then steps into my apartment. Her head is on a swivel, and I watch her stride through the room and start studying it. I’m damn glad I cleaned last night.
“Wow, I like your place.”
“Thanks.” It’s a bigger apartment than hers, and I’ve done a lot to spruce it up. Wood flooring, an extra half bath off the second bedroom. Not that I’m planning to offer a tour.
Bekka peers into the kitchen. “Wow, those cabinets. Is that pine or cherry or—”
“Alder,” I say, wishing it didn’t turn me on to see her stroking a hand over the doo
r of the closest one. Why are we talking about my damn cupboards?
She turns back to face me. “Did you make these?”
“Yeah.” I should probably quit with the one-word answers. “I did.”
Nice going. Scintillating conversation here, dumbass.
Bekka bites her lip but looks undeterred. “They’re really beautiful,” she says. “People on Etsy would seriously go nuts for this stuff. Are you still thinking of doing that?”
“Bekka—”
“It would be a cool side gig while you’re in school, if you’re planning to do that. I know you talked about engineering or architecture or—”
“Bekka,” I say again, a little louder this time. I fold my arms over my chest and stare her down.
She blinks. “What?”
Her expression is so unsure that I bite back the jackass thing I was about to say. I’m not even sure what it was anymore. I’m having a hard time meshing this version of Bekka with the confident fireball in the elevator. Or with the smokin’ hot sex siren in her apartment.
But they’re all the same woman, and she’s here in my apartment looking beautiful and vulnerable and so goddamn sexy.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
The words still come out harsher than I meant them to, and her eyes flicker with uncertainty. I soften my voice and make a half-assed attempt at starting over. She’s trying here. I should try, too.
“I made the cabinets last summer,” I offer. “That side table over there was one of my first major woodworking projects.”
She steps over to it and runs a hand over the varnished surface. I ignore the fact that my mouth starts to water. The reverent look in her eyes as she admires my handiwork is almost the death of me.
When she stops rubbing the wood, she picks up a silver photo frame. As she studies the picture, I watch her face. I see the instant she realizes what she’s looking at.
She holds up the frame for me, even though I know damn well what’s in the photo.
“Is this your mom?”
I nod and try to will away the tightness in my chest. “Yeah. Yes.” I swallow hard, knowing I should offer more. “I was—um—six when that was taken. It was just before she left.”
She looks at the photo again. “You had freckles.”
“Yeah. I did.” In spite of my best effort to be a hard-ass, I catch myself smiling a little. “I still get them on my shoulders sometimes when I’m out in the sun a lot.”
Her green eyes lift to mine, and she nods. “Same here. I look like a polka-dot sheet if I don’t wear bazillion-SPF sunscreen all summer long.”
She studies me for a long time. Then she sets the photo down and moves toward me. There’s a hesitation in her steps that’s nothing like the Bekka I first met. This Bekka is uncertain and vulnerable. This Bekka has her heart on her sleeve.
But why is she here?
“Look, Adam,” she says softly. “I think I got off on the wrong foot with you.”
“How do you mean?”
She’s close enough now to touch me, but she doesn’t. It’s like there’s some kind of weird force field between us, and neither of us wants to bust through it. “I got too focused on getting into your pants,” she says, “and not enough on getting to know you.”
I snort. I can’t help it. “I had no complaints about you getting into my pants.”
The corners of her mouth tilt up a little, but it’s not a full smile. “I’m not complaining, either. It was amazing.” She bites her lip. “But your dick isn’t the only amazing thing about you.”
I shouldn’t feel a jolt of lust, but I do. She holds my gaze for a second before her eyes drop to my hands. At first I think there’s some kind of weird dick/hand innuendo thing happening, but I realize I’m still wearing my welding gloves.
I peel them off and set them on the counter beside me, surprised that it leaves me feeling naked. Bekka steps closer and takes my left hand. She lifts it up slowly, and for a second I think she’s going to kiss it.
But she turns it over and skims her thumb over the back of my knuckles. “How did you get this scar?” she asks softly.
I freeze, perplexed by the change in conversation.
“I noticed it the other day,” she says. “When we were—when we were in my apartment.”
I nod, not sure what to say. “I’ve had it a long time.”
“How did it happen?”
“Playing with a box cutter when I was twelve,” I tell her. “Eight stitches.”
This time she does kiss it. Her eyelashes tickle the tips of my fingers, while her lips skim soft and gentle across my knuckles. When she looks up at me, there’s something in those green eyes that takes my breath away.
Then she smiles. “That’s what I mean,” she says. “I want to know you. I just—I get this sense that there’s so much more to you, and I want to learn it. If you’ll let me, I mean.”
My heart twists at the earnestness of her expression. I want her, too, but there’s something I want to know first. “Why?”
She bites her lip and lets go of my hand. For a second it seems like she’s not sure what to do with her own hands, and she folds them in front of her a little awkwardly.
“Because that hour in the elevator with you—I felt more connected than I have with anyone else,” she says. “More alive than I have with anyone else, no matter how many dates we went on.”
I groan. “Tinder isn’t about dates—”
“That’s not what I mean.” She shakes her head as a tiny frown line appears between her brows. “What little I know about you, I like a lot. Enough that I want to know more. I know it’s only been a couple days since I dumped my idiot boyfriend, but you know what I’ve been thinking about since then?”
“What?”
I hold my breath, waiting. Honestly unsure what she’s going to say.
“You,” she says. “Not CJ, not his fiancée, not the breakup, you. And not just the sex stuff, either.” Her cheeks pinken a little. “Okay, some of the sex stuff.”
“Same here.” I rest a hand on the counter, wondering if it’s okay to admit this. If there’s a reason I’m itching to let my guard down a little. Her words the other day still sting, and I’m not sure where we’re going with this. “I’ve thought about you a lot.”
Relief washes over her face, but we’re not done yet. I can see she knows this. “I know I freaked out the other day. I got tangled up in my own rule about how soon is too soon to start dating again, not wanting to be a floozy throwing myself from man to man. But I’m thinking maybe it was a stupid rule to start with. Especially when you’re the man.” She bites her lip. “And I guess what I’m asking is if you’d be interested in giving us a shot. You and me. Together.”
I hold perfectly still, a first for me. Is that what I want? I know I want her, but is the rest of this worth the risk?
I know the answer to that already.
I’ve opened my mouth to say it when the doorbell rings.
Bekka blinks, then steps back. “I—uh—I should get that.”
Huh?
“Not sure if you’re forgetting, but we’re in my apartment.”
“I know,” she says, already halfway there. “But I’m expecting someone.”
“You’re expecting company at my apartment that you’re visiting for the first time right now?”
But she doesn’t seem to hear me. Just flings open the door and steps back.
A pimply-faced teenager stands there holding a big red-and-blue bag thing. He’s wearing a name tag that says Charlie and a look that says Bekka Zoler is his personal goddess.
I can relate.
“I got here as fast as I could,” he says to Bekka, casting a nervous look at me. “Sorry I’m late.”
I look at her, then him, trying to figure out if this is some weird entrée to a threesome. If so, not my style.
That’s when he opens the bag and I’m hit with the fragrant aroma of sausage and bell pepper. My mouth starts to water as Bekka ha
nds the kid a wad of folded bills, then takes the white cardboard box from him.
“Thank you, Charlie,” she says. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, ma’am. Have a good—a good whatever.”
Clearly the kid isn’t sure what’s happening here. That makes two of us.
Bekka closes the door and turns to face me. Her expression is uncertain, and she’s gripping the pizza box like it’s the only thing anchoring her in place.
“I wanted to make up for the other night,” she says. “I never got to thank you for the pizza. Or to have dinner with you like you asked.” She bites her lip, then sets the box down on my coffee table like an offering. Then she starts to back away. “But I understand if we’re not on the same page. I can just—”
“Stop.”
I’m not sure she realizes she’s edging toward the door until my word halts her in her tracks. She freezes like an animal caught in headlights, not sure which direction to move.
I step forward, determined to block her escape. To keep her here. To make sure neither one of us runs away this time.
“I need to say something.”
Or hell, maybe I should show her.
Without another word, I fold her into my arms. I half expect her to stiffen, but she melts against me instead. It’s not like in the elevator, though, or even like the frenzy in her apartment. This is quiet and solid, our heartbeats mashing together in the center of our bodies.
I hold her like that for a long time, breathing in the flowery scent of her hair and feeling her lush curves pressed against me. I don’t know if I’m holding her to keep her here, or just because she feels so damn good.
“I thought you might hate me.” Her voice is muffled against my chest.
I draw back, hoping I haven’t been smothering her. “Definitely not.”
“But after the way I treated you—”
“No.” I shake my head, not wanting her to sprint too far down the road to self-flagellation. “I mean, it made me feel like shit, but I get it. You were four hours post-breakup. I’m the one who started rushing things. Who tried to change our agreement. But you, you’re allowed to be a little—”
“Crazy?”
I smile, kinda digging the fact that we’re already finishing each other’s sentences. But that’s not the word I wanted. Not the only one, anyway.