"That's ... kind of creepy."
"You're not exactly in a position to complain, are you? And,youwrote me a letter, remember, detailing what you want me to do to you. We're definitely even, I’d say.”
She flattens both palms on her cheeks. "Oh my God, I can't believe I did that."
"I can't believe you thought I wouldn't respond."
"So, what if I chickened out? What if I'd taken the card back? What if I denied, feigned ignorance, I mean, just pretended I knew nothing about it?”
"I would've come to you eventually."
"Really?"
"Been working up to it for months. You just made it easier."
Her eyes meet mine, something new in them. Something wondering.
As we share tiramisu for dessert, Emily licks her spoon, and my brain blanks for a solid ten seconds, especially in light of what she wrote in that note. I'm already so hard to the point of pain, and this is just dinner.
By the time we leave, the night has grown colder, and I have never been so fucking aroused in my entire life.
My hand brushes hers once, twice. The third time, she hooks her pinkie around mine. It's not quite holding hands, but it's something. See, I'm a grown man in my thirties, but something as small as this makes something take flight in my stomach.
Great. Just great.
We're back at our apartment floor half an hour later, and Emily is back to being a nervous wreck. "D-do you want to come in? For a drink or ... I have wine. Or coffee. Or I could make tea. I don't actually have tea, but I could?—"
"Emily."
She looks up. "Yeah?"
"I'd like that. You don't have to make excuses. Just invite me in."
She nods, unlocks her door, and we step inside.
Her apartment is exactly what I expected. Warm. Soft lighting from lamps and strings of small lights. Smells like peppermint and coffee. Cozy, lived-in, everything Emily.
A tabby cat appears, and I swear it glares at me. In all my life, no one has dared to glare at me like that. No one. Yet this Garfield wanna-be somehow found the audacity.
"That's Croissant," Emily says. "He doesn't usually like strangers."
The cat sniffs my shoes, seems unimpressed, and walks away with his tail high.
"Wine?" she asks, already moving to the kitchenette.
"Sure."
We sit on her couch, a careful distance between us. The cramped space in her apartment feels charged now, tension so thick I can taste it. No restaurant noise or other people. Just her and me— because the cat doesn't count.
She swirls her wine. "I can't believe you actually wanted to have dinner with me."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Have you seen you? And then, you know,me."
My eyebrows furrow. "What about you? What’s wrong with you? Out with it. What is it, kleptomaniac? Closet serial killer? How many closets have you killed?”
“Stop it! I’m just ... ordinary and honestly not much to look at. You're..." She waves her hand from my head to my shoes.
