“I used to keep the wine at your place, not really at mine.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. But if you must know, I got pretty shitfaced a few weeks back, after everything with you, and Spencer…” she trails off for a second. “Drank everything I had in the house. Then got the worst hangover of my life, Instacarted some Pedialyte to help with that, and swore of alcohol for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh.” Now my cheeks are heating.
“Mmhmm,” she says, all amused, eyes twinkling again.
“But I’ll happily eat the croissant. Thanks, kid.” She shoots me a saucy wink before tearing off a piece of it and tossing the bag back to the counter. She holds the chunk of pastry between her first finger and thumb, her head tilted back and mouth wide open to drop it in, then makes a show out of licking her fingers while holding my eyes.
This morning has been a goddamnridefor my consciousness.
I wonder if this is the kind of excitement I’m in for from now on. The thought warms my chest, and I realize I’m in for whatever the future holds, as long as it’s with the girl in front of me, and she’s got that smile on her face.
THIRTY-FOUR
GEMMA
It’s been two weeks since that night we shared our hearts and our truths.
He still comes to the library every day.
We’ve had dinner together at my place every single night since. (He hasn’t cooked it, thank God, but he has ordered it for us every night.) He’s also brought me a new vase of peonies every. Single. Day. My small place is overflowing with them at this point, it’s getting ridiculous. I’m starting to think he’s made a checklist of everything he’s seen a guy do to grovel in movies over the years, and thinks to himself,how can I take this two steps further?
Had to draw some lines when he tried to use his key privileges to do everything for me. Like, he tried to get my clothes ready for the next day (I told him I wasn’t a toddler and to stay the fuck out of my underwear drawer), and he compromised to taking over my dry cleaning (I didn’t even know I owned anything that could be dry cleaned, but that has been kind of nice, actually). Do my dishes, in the dishwasher, with Dawn, because he’s never done his own and doesn’t know what he’s doing (Google it, if you don’t know how that turned out). Jumping up to beat me to any task I stood up to do (and I domeanjumping). Get a glass of water? He gets there first. Bring my laptop to the couch to work on my Etsy store? He grabs it for me.
Eventually, I had to tell him that supporting me doesn’t mean being my bitch, and I even kicked him out once to really sink my point home. I appreciate all of his efforts to show me I’m his priority and that he’s here, he cares, but I don’t need him taking a piss for me, ffs.
What I haven’t done is sat on his lap again since that night in the club. Hasn’t felt as safe to do it when it’s just us, alone in my house, on the couch where he told me he loved me and that he gets himself off to the thought of me.
Somehow, in this environment, it feels a little less like pushing the limit and a lot more like temptation when my bed is only steps away from us.
So I’ve been a little less torturous on him, at least physically. But I have been letting myself speak freely with him. If I wanna flirt, I do. I spent years holding it back with him. Not anymore.
It’s killing me going so slow with him (probably killing him more if I’m honest), but in a way it feels like a natural evolution, a progression of our friendship to something more.
That’s not to say there aren’t times he has to get up from the table, fist pressed into his mouth, eyes wide, and walk away—to the other side of the room, to the bathroom, or outside, depending on the look I gave him or what exactly was said. But hey, he’s the one who made the stupid decision not to touch me as more than a friend. If you recall, I made no such promise to him.
So most nights, I can’t resist flirting with him. Sometimes even at the library, if I can get away with it. Leaning over in front of him as he’s trying to read, tossing him a wink every now and then, asking for his help reaching a tall shelf just so he has to come and press against me from behind, shit like that.
To his credit, he rarely flirts back, trying not to cross that line. But I can tell it gets to him, and sometimes he can’t help himself. The looks I give him when it’s just him and me, at my dining table, on the loveseat, pretending like we’re paying attention to whatever is on TV, how his eyes will scrape along my entire frame in response, soaking in all the parts of me his hands can’t (yet). How I go out of my way to brush against him every chance I get, just to be close to him, and the way he’ll linger as near my body as he can get away with, fingers gripping whatever object is next to him until his knuckles turn white. Sometimes those fingers clench over one of his pecs instead, a new reaction I’ve noticed recently.
Or that time I dropped my napkin just so I could bend over to grab it right in front of him. That was the first time he had to walk outside. Made some string of high-pitched noises and bolted straight out the back door, biting his knuckle. It wasn’t the only time, either.
I’m not doing it to be cruel, not mostly.
But I am loving exploring this dynamic between us. It’s the first time I’ve been free and open about my interest in him, and the fact that the teases and flirts between us come so naturally…it’s promising. The chemistry between us, even though we’ve yet to actuallydoanything, is off the charts. Way hotter than I’d even imagined it would be.
It’s driving meinsane.
With every passing day, I know I’m that much closer to caving, begging him to make that move he promised me fifteen days ago (but who’s counting?). I’m trying to hold out.
More than me needing this time, I think he does. He’s rebuilding his faith in himself. That he can be the man he thinks he should be.
Honestly? I know he already is.
But seeing how proud he’s becoming of the growth he’s made this past month… I don’t want to take that away from him.
