Silence fell between us, though Matthew kept his eyes fixed on me. This would have been a great time for tequila to magically appear in my hand. It wasn’t cheating; I skipped lunch and my skinny latte breakfast meant there was room for splurging tonight.
“I met you yesterday. Why does it feel like I’ve known you, I don’t know, longer than that?” Matthew asked.
“Maybe you knew me in a past life.”
“You believe in reincarnation? All that stuff?”
I shrugged, thinking a moment. “I have to believe there’s something bigger than me, bigger than us. Maybe we’re just recycled versions of ourselves, floating around the universe, trying to make sense of it all.”
“You believe in soul mates, too? Isn’t that why we’re all floating around?”
Matthew sounded both skeptical and hopeful, and I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. “It’s a possibility.”
“Mathematically speaking, a rather unlikely possibility.”
I studied our joined hands, the bar, the people laughing and talking, and I felt as though I was watching myself from a distance. I wanted to remember the way my foot bumped Matthew’s knee and my hair fell across my face and his eyes sparkled every time I laughed.
This moment, this night—they were proof I was still me, that I hadn’t lost myself to the deadlines and deliverables and action plans. Not yet.
I knew this school required me to give it my all, and I knew I was losing some of myself in the process. I’d wake up some morning, not able to remember anything I once loved about schools and kids and learning, and I’d be trapped in a hollow wasteland of spreadsheets and strategic priorities. I was sliding down that slope, the slippery one no one ever managed to climb. I didn’t know what would be left of me if I fell all the way to the bottom, but I didn’t have to worry about any of that tonight.
“You’re doing it again.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
My eyebrows arched upward. He had to know what he was doing. No one could stare that hard, look that heated without putting some effort into it. That kind of eye action burned calories. “The way you’re looking at me.”
“Lauren, please tell me you want to get out of here.”
*
The brisk autumnair whipped along Cambridge Street in sharp contrast to the overheated bar. Or maybe I was a little hot and bothered, and the bar was the best excuse. Wind blew through my hair and I struggled to smooth it into place while my new architect friend was trying to melt my undies off with a few smoldering looks.
I glanced up at Matthew, his tall frame sheltering me from the wind. My gaze lingered on the exposed hollow of his throat where his top button gaped open, then the way his belt rode low on his hips, and then the bulge just below the brushed steel buckle.
Scrumptious.
“What would happen if…” I bit my lip, hoping I was interpreting his signals the right way, hoping my tequila-infused courage would see me through. I stretched up on my toes, and Matthew’s hands went to my waist. “If I did this?”
Digging his fingers into my hips, he pulled me against him, and there was no misinterpreting that signal. Our lips brushed together, and I hesitated, wanting more—somuch more—but not knowing the right way to play this game.
“If you do that, I’m doing this,” Matthew whispered against my lips. Tugging my hair, he tipped my head back and slipped his tongue past my teeth, and it was exactly as I suspected: he wanted to swallow me whole. A strong gust forced me against him, and I shivered, at once relieved he was taking the lead and wondering if it was the lead I wanted.
“Let’s get you out of this wind tunnel,” he said, his hand rubbing in a circular pattern against my back.
“Mmm, not yet,” I murmured. My lips found Matthew’s again, and we were rooted to the sidewalk, our arms locked around each other, and I felt fully and completely awake, aware,alive. And I was doing this—kissing a stranger on a street corner, surrendering to my desires, letting my instincts make the decisions—and I wasn’t second-guessing myself.
“Didn’t say you had to stop,” he laughed. “Definitely didn’t say that. Just relocating.”
Matthew signaled for a cab, and shepherded me inside when it jerked to a stop at the curb. “Burroughs Wharf,” he called to the driver.
I didn’t know our destination, but being pressed against a hot guy on a Friday night meant I didn’t need an itinerary. Right? This was fine. Normal. Totally normal. There was no way this could end in Matthew killing me in the woods and wearing my skin as a scarf.
Enough with the greatest hits of Commodore Halsted’s Tales of Evil.
Even if Matthew was a serial killer, it would never get that far. I could break his fingers in eleven seconds if needed.
I pulled him to me again, my hand snaking around his neck, just under his starched collar, and our lips met. With his mouth locked on mine, Matthew was different. He wasn’t the Serious Architect with his technical vocabulary and curious, thoughtful expression, and he wasn’t the Serious Guy with his intense gaze and endless undercurrents. No, when he kissed me, he was thorough and insistent and affectionate, and this version of him intrigued me the most.
