Though to be fair, I doubt he’d be riddled with any negativity from an affair with an older woman. It would be me who took the heat, the judgment, the ridicule. But that’s a risk I need to be willing to take if this goes beyond friendship. If the payoff could be worth the potential devastation. Trying to ignore what he’s awakened inside me seems riskier to me at this exact moment in time, and that terrifies me, too.
He thinks it over for no more than a couple of seconds, then nods firmly. “That’s fair. I’ll take it.”
He reaches out a hand in between us, and I place mine in it. He winks at me, shaking it briefly, then pulls my fingers up to his lips and places the softest of kisses on the tops of them. My insides turn to butterflies and take flight.
Looks like the negotiation stage is complete.
I never stood a chance.
TWENTY
ASHER
Saturday night.
The first one I’m looking forward to since I can remember.
Part of me wonders if I hadn’t already known where she lives, if she’d have found a way out of hanging tonight, but I tell that part to stfu.
I know she’s nervous. I know she’s got fears where I’m concerned, and I know they’re valid. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of them, and I’m going to keep reminding her why we’re pushing past them. Why we’re giving this a shot. Because this connection, this attraction, it runs deeper than anything I’ve had before. I can’t speak for her, but I know there’s something different about whatever’s brewing between us, and she’s acknowledged that, too.
I’ve never been in love, not even sure what my beliefs are on it, never really been something I’ve thought much about. Pretty sure I don’t believe in soul mates or fate, either.
But Idobelieve that she and I could be great together.
That what might come out of this could be more than worth all we’re going to have to put into it in order to even find out.
Earlier today, when I’d texted to see if she was cool with watchingThe Officetonight, keeping it casual and low-key, no pressure, she (adorably) asked what she should wear. I told her whatever the fuck she wants. Sent her a selfie from where I was lounging at my place, showed her I was in my off-hours usual: joggers and a tee. She sent one back, a pic of her through some bougie full-length mirror, looked like it was in a hallway, wearing some kind of sweats and a tank. She was making a peace sign and sticking her tongue out in the cutest way. That innocent little pic gave me a semi—ended up having to rub one out before coming over tonight so I didn’t embarrass myself here—but it’s got my mind racing about what pics I might be able to get from her in the future. Significantly less innocent snaps. I swear this girl’s given me a pin-up girl kink.
Take a couple deep breaths in my Jeep before I head up to her door, run my hands through my hair and exhale real big.This is it. The first time we’re gonna hang out, on purpose. Not hiding behind propriety or shirking away from other eyes and ears. Just the two of us. Dipping a toe in the water of our possible future.
Fuck, I go a few months without sex and I’m turning into a goddamn sap. This is embarrassing.
On my way to her front porch, I shoot her a text, let her know I’m here.
The door opens in seconds, like she wasn’t more than a few steps from it, and I love that she isn’t trying to play it cool, or pretend she hasn’t been expecting me. She doesn’t play games, I don’t even think she has it in her.
There’s something that can be fun about chasing your next lay, but fuck, is it refreshing to just be able to be honest and upfront with the girl I’m into, not have to worry about if it’s gonna turn her off that I’m not playing hard to get or some shit.
I can’t help the grin that overtakes my face when I see her, in the same clothes she had on in that pic earlier, hair thrown back, looking more casual than I knew she could be. She smiles back, ducking her head like she’s still shy about this.
The second I cross the threshold, I wrap her in my arms, pull her into me. She makes this little noise, like she’s surprised, but I’m just greeting her like I would any good friend. Except maybe Mark. He gets a punch in the arm, it’s our standard hello since before high school.
I make that hug last as long as I can get away with in my head, rub her back up and down a few times, hold her head against my chest for a couple seconds, soak in the feel of her, before I force myself to pull away.
That smile of hers grows, her eyes wandering up and down my face like she can’t believe she can do it freely. One of the first times I think she’s let herself do it, actually.
She shakes not just her head, but her whole upper body, like a massive chill hit her, or she’s trying to shake something off, that smile still wide on her gorgeous face, and she turns to close and lock the door, then face me again.
“Welcome to my place,” she says, gesturing around. “Want a tour?”
“Sure,” I say, and she takes me around, showing me both bedrooms and bathrooms, the kitchen and laundry room. It’s not a huge place, but it’s obviously had some work put into it. Everything looks brand new, and it looks like she’s had it professionally decorated. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than mine and Mark’s place, which is already out of our price range. (His dad covers most of it for us—they spoil Mark pretty nicely, and sometimes me, by extension.)
I gawk as we go room to room, mostly shocked at how it looks like it came out of a magazine or something, since she shared with me that she decorated it herself. I consider myself a designer in some aspects, but how she made it look like this is a mystery to me. It’s a completely different language than the kind of design I’m capable of.
We finish the tour in the kitchen, and she spins on a bare heel to find me a lot closer to her than she expected. Her eyes widen a little and she steps back a half step, but I wrap an arm around her waist to keep her close. Her pupils blow out a little and her shoulders fall down, her body relaxing into mine. One of her hands comes to rest on my chest, and I’m impressed with how fast she’s coming to grips with this new gradient to our friendship.
Going from nothing but professional communication, whether it was in person, over email or text (even the memes count as professional in my mind; yeah they were funny, but it was still on the topic of a client), to some personal tidbits shared here and there, and then casual texting at nights, during our newly implemented routine, it’s been a big deal for her, I can tell. She’s been hard on herself, berating herself for giving in, for being interested in me, and I need her tostopthat shit.
