That elevator ride still only lasts about a minute, but I’m sure Beau could do some amazing things in a minute.
This much shorter elevator ride is over too soon, and I pull him directly into my home once the doors open, since I’m the only one on the floor.
I dump my purse onto the table by the entrance and throw my coat toward the coatrack, not caring if it lands on it. I slip out of my shoes and motion for him to do the same with his. He doesn’t complain, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the compliance without an argument or explanation.
Some people are adamant about traipsing around my house in their dirty shoes. Do they know what they’ve been walking around in all day? Dog pee, that’s what. A lot of it supplied by my puppy-nephew, who loves marking the sidewalk right outside my building.
“I’ll make some hot chocolate, or some eggnog, if you want?” I move through my space to get to the kitchen, looking at the familiar colors of my couch and walls along the way.
I went traditional in decoration, with dark wood paneling and damask wallpaper in deep reds, greens, and blues in the different rooms. Pieces of furniture are large and comfortable, not just showpieces. Some of my favorite art dots the area, from any period or place that struck my fancy, alongside pictures of family, friends, and travel. Like an eclectic English country house, but smaller and with a bodega next door. And currently looking like Santa Claus threw up on it.
Perfection.
I really should have suspected how much I would love interior decorating with how obsessive I became when I was decorating my own home. Pinterest boards, spreadsheets, drawn plans on my iPad. Chasing down pieces I wanted all over town (and beyond thanks to the internet) and feeling like I just won a Nobel prize once I got what I wanted, or when I saw the rooms come together. I thought it was the thrill of decorating the first place that was mine. And that was part of it. But I felt shades of the same excitement designing exhibitions at work, and much more now, doing the same work for Beau.
“Make yourself comfortable on the couch,” I call out.
“Maybe let’s do eggnog? To change things up? How can I help?” Beau already has his jacket off and he folds back the sleeves of his button-down up to his elbows as he follows me into the kitchen.
I almost drop the pitcher of eggnog at the skin that’s exposed. Theforearmthat’s exposed. I swallow a few times, reminding myself that I’ve already seen him naked, so there’s no way I should be this affected by just his forearms. Muscular, veiny, dusted-with-the-perfect-amount-of-hair forearms.
But there’s something about seeing that particular stretch of skin that makes me want to swallow my tongue. Something about it that makes me hot even though it’s a cold New York winter night.
“It’s already done. I make a pot from scratch every few days during Christmas time.” I warm it up, then pour some into mugs and sprinkle extra cinnamon and nutmeg on top.
I hand one to Beau and lead him into the living room. “We could watch something.” Or bone. That’s an option too, even if I haven’t verbally offered it. “Do you have any preference?”
“I have faith you’ll put on an amazing Christmas movie.” He gets comfortable on the couch and extends his arm over the back, inviting me to snuggle in. Or at least it looks like an invitation to me.
I put on my favorite Christmas movie and take him up on his silent invitation by getting as close to his side as I can, pulling the blanket down from the back of the couch to envelop both of us in Christmas coziness. “This is my favorite Christmas movie.”
The movie starts and Beau laughs. “Home Aloneis good, butThe Nightmare Before Christmasis the superior movie.”
“You know what? I don’t agree with you, but I respect that opinion. Unlike your completely incorrect opinion that a Southern Christmas can even come close to a New York Christmas.”
“Good to know one of my Christmas opinions passes your muster.”
Beau snuggles me in closer and I go willingly. I yawn, the late nights catching up with me and hitting me even harder now that I’m comfortable on my couch, which has defeated my good intention to stay awake more times than I want to admit.
I put my empty glass down and think that I’ll seduce Beau in a second. After I rest my eyes for just...one...second...
I shoot awake for the second time in two days. A sharp pain stabs into the right side of my neck and my hand massages it without any relief. Great, I’m just going to have to wait the pain out. The joys of getting older.
I try to turn my neck to look at the man next to me, but the sharp pain in my neck stops the move, so I move my entire torso to look at him. Beau’s still asleep through my morning injury.
We never made it to the bedroom upstairs...we didn’t even have sex. One of us (I have no idea who) shifted us down to lie on our sides, and I’ve never been happier to have bought the extra-wide couch. I’m still in pain but less than I would have been without it.
The clock on the TV says there’s still an hour before I have to be at work. I force out a breath of relief. That means I get a few more minutes of freaking out over Beau. Because I am freaking out over the fact that we didn’t even have sex and it was still a surprisingly intimate night, just to sleep in his arms.
From someone who isn’t used to sharing the bed, or couch, it’s a big step. One I didn’t plan on taking with anyone. Because I don’t want to deal with the emotions involved with spending the entire night with someone.
But I’ve done it twice with Beau now and there’s no panic. No itchy feeling under my collar that signifies I’m getting too close to someone, telling me to flee at the first opportunity.
That lack of itchiness actually kind of makes me itchy under the collar. Ironically.
“Hey, Beau.” I gently shake him awake, not sure when he needs to get his day started. “We fell asleep on the couch.”
Beau’s Christmas-tree-hazel eyes flutter open, focusing on me and lighting up when he does.
