“I should go soon—presentations tomorrow,” I remind him and myself. My eyes lift to his lips, remembering how they tasted.
He stands up, pays the bill and rests against the bar, leaning in so close I feel his breath on my cheek. “Can I walk you home?”
I look up at him and stifle a laugh. “It would take like two hours to walk back to mine.”
“I didn’t say toyourhome.” His lingering look unspools any resolve I entered with.
We walk in silence, our fingers are intertwined. He took my hand to drag me across the road during a quick break in the traffic, and without us noticing our palms had molded together by the time we reached the other side. His apartment building is ten minutes away, but I would have stayed like this for hours, meandering the streets with him in a sweet, blissful silence.
He leads me into the familiar building, past the concierge who nods politely at us with a knowing smile, into the lift, where my chest starts to heave but he doesn’t move, just strokes my palm with his thumb. Nothing has ever felt better than his skin on mine. The elevator dings and we traverse the length of the sleek gray hallway until finally,finallywe reach his door. He lets go of my hand to reach into his pocket; the keys jangle in the lock as the door creaks open.
He walks ahead, flicking on the lamps. Warm light trickles through the room like honey, illuminating parts of his home like synapses of the brain. My mind is firing on all cylinders as I absorb all the facets of his space from a different perspective. I linger awkwardly at the end of the entrance hallway at the threshold of the kitchen as he rounds the central island and fills two crystal highball glasses with water.
“Is Iris here?” I ask, having spotted the telltale sign of her earrings in the key bowl.
His head lifts toward a door further down the hallway. “She’s asleep in the guest bedroom.”
I wince, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Shit, sorry.”
He chuckles, still speaking at his normal volume. “Don’t worry. The walls are thick and, to be honest, she’d sleep through an earthquake.”
“How long is she staying here for?”
“As long as she wants, but knowing her it won’t be for much longer.” My heart swells at his protectiveness. Iris seems like the sort of person who wants to beindependent, but knowing you have someone who can be relied upon when your parents can’t be is something everyone should have. A small voice in my head tells me maybe I could be that person for Eric, but it would be unfair to us both to promise anything until after we know our fate at Catch Group.
He takes off his jacket and pads into the living room, switching on his vinyl player, which already has a record sitting atop it. A live, slow jazz recording quietly fills the space as he paces back to the kitchen island, picks up the glasses and hands one to me. I realize what he’s doing. He brought me here, but this time he isn’t running the show. For the past few months, he’s been the one deciding whether something was going to happen—denying me or daring me. This time, he’s waiting for me. We stand there, staring at each other and sipping the ice-cold water. My stubborn nature wants to hold out, play this game of chicken with him all night. But my body wants to do something else. I compromise, downing the water in one gulp and handing him the empty glass. I slide off my loafers and shoulder bag and leave him in the hallway to begin inspecting his apartment room by room until I meet his bedroom.
I’m snooping, blatantly. Something I have desperately wanted to do since I first came here with a sprained ankle. I look at picture frames, books, little trinkets I didn’t expect him to have. The same strip of photos I saw the last time I was here is now poking out of a book on his dresser. I feel him enter the room as I slide thepictures out, revealing the mirrored images of my past self and him.
I grip the edge of the glossy strip, lifting it over my shoulder to him. “You knew I’d seen this?”
He lets out a breathy laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I was fucking mortified when I realizedthat’swhy you left so abruptly.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought you’d think I was a crazy person, telling you I never thought about you then using your face as a bookmark.”
I run the side of my finger over our happy, tipsy faces. “No crazier than I was at the Christmas party.”
He sighs, stepping in closer so his lips rest near my ear and hands rest on my hips. “I know you don’t associate that night with good feelings, but knowing something was there for you too was one of the best moments of my life.”
I swallow, breath caught in my throat as my neck cranes to feel his touch. Photo-booth Eric looks at Photo-booth Grace with something I thought I’d never seen in real life, but maybe I just wasn’t looking. I twist to face him, my back pressing into the wooden dresser. “I’m glad you did it, pulled away. I think if it had happened then, we never would have spoken again.”
“I would have tried.” He smirks.
I huff a laugh, biting my lip. “OK, fine, but I would have been too awkward to talk to youeveragain.”
“I don’t know. Something tells me you would have come back for more,” he jokes, the dimple reappearing in his cheek.
My eyebrow cocks as I look him up and down. “Someone’s confident.” We shift, our bodies inching closer together.
“Someonesnuck into my bedroom,” he counters, placing his hands on either side of me on the dresser. My blood heats as he holds the position, patiently waiting for me to move closer.
“Well, I wanted to see where the famous Eric Bancroft magic happens.”
His voice lowers. “It’s close-up card tricks, exclusively.”
I stifle a smile. “And I was very concerned about your thread count.” I furrow my brow and press my hands to his broad chest to push past him.
