"What about our bikes?" My teeth chatter as I ask the question. I just got mine and I can't imagine leaving it at the beach. I can't afford to replace it.
"I'm going to get you home, so you can take a tepid bath, and then I'll come back for them in my truck and drop yours off."
"Okay."
Miguel keeps his hands at my waist as I stumble across the beach to the parking lot where we’ll get picked up.
“I have work to do today.” I tell him as we climb into the backseat.
“Can you call off?” He asks.
“Not really, it’s dog walking.”
“I’ll do it for you.”
“No, you can’t do that.”
“Then I’m going with you. Laney, I’m worried you’re hypothermic or in shock right now, I have to make sure you’re okay before I let you out of my sight.”
The worst timed shiver racks my body and all Miguel does is lift an arm for me to snuggle into him as we get into the car and cross the city blocks in morning rush hour traffic to my apartment.
Chapter eight
Miguel
Soaking and Warmed Up
Laneydriftedoffagainstmy chest as we crossed the mile to her apartment. I gently wake her by rubbing my hand along her arm as we pull up in front of a Chicago common brick building.
“We’re here.” I tell her with a press of my lips to her forehead. It has slowly returned to a normal temperature. Her body shifts against me and she’s moving more fluidly already. Thank goodness. “Keys?”
“In there.” She nods to the bag I’m holding. I reach in and dig around until I find her key ring. I keep my arm around her waist as we walk up to her door.
“Which apartment?” I ask as I lead us into the vestibule.
“Two A.” She mumbles.
“Alright, up the stairs we go. You’ve got it. C’mon Laney.”
She seems exhausted, her normally sparkling, wide eyes are barely open. Once inside her apartment I drink in every detail, desperate to know everything about the woman in my arms.
Mismatched dumbbells line the floor under the window next to a rolled out mat. The floral patterned sofa seems morelike the type you’d find in a grandmother’s apartment but the embroidered pillow in the corner saying “I’m too clumsy for fragile masculinity” is all Laney. Across the hallway to my left is a kitchen with a box of breakfast toaster pastries sitting on the counter.
“Which room is yours?” I ask as I walk down the hall.
“This one.” She holds onto the door frame for balance as she steps inside.
“Get undressed, I’ll start the bath.”
“Okay,” she murmurs. My mouth goes dry as she pulls my t-shirt off over her head. My eyes drink in the muscular expanse of her back, the nip of her waist, and the swelling hint of her breasts from the side.
Breasts that tortured me as I held her on the beach.
With a centering breath I drag myself away and into the bathroom. The water thunders from the faucet and the noise crashes through the otherwise quiet space. I find extra hand towels under the sink and roll one up to be a pillow for her neck against the cold, hard porcelain.
Without another task to complete, my brain takes the opportunity of a moment alone to overwhelm me with feeling.
First, my body flushes with relief to see her moving and recovering already. I’ll be haunted by the purple shade of her lips and the chattering of her teeth.
