Just then there’s a knock at the door. I stare at Claire, who stares at me, then we stare through the bathroom’s open doorway.
“What time is it?” I ask. Surely it can’t be six already.
Claire hits the home button on her pink phone and says, “Four thirty.”
Yeah, way too early. I’m still barefoot as my feet pad across the room, toward the door, where I carefully tug it open. There’s no one there, but a splash of red from below catches my eye. I lower my gaze at the same time Claire lets out a gasp from over my shoulder. There, at my feet, sits a full bouquet of red roses fresh enough that I can smell their sweet scent. A glass vase holds them up in perfect form, and a squared, white note peeks out from between the stems. I retrieve the vase, a heavy thing, and turn back into the room to set it on my nightstand.
I stand back, distancing myself, and just stare at the gorgeous flowers for a minute. Do I want to read the note? Roses are a clear sign of romance, of a date. Silly or not, I’m afraid one look at that note might cross the line completely, locking me in, and I won’t be able to turn back if I go through with dinner.
Why didn’t I let him take me out this morning, when I saw him? Why did I have to pretend I was busy and suggest dinner instead?Dinner, of all things; of course he thinks it’s a date. Or if he didn’t before, one look at the way I’m dressed will certainly seal the deal.
“Well?” Claire breathes, about to burst. “Are you going to read the note?” When I don’t respond, she waits a minute and asks softly, “Want me to read it for you?”
After another second, I nod. She plucks the note from the vase and reads aloud, “Thank you for giving me another chance.”
That’s all. Nice and simple. No ‘baby’ or ‘love’ mixed in there. No pressure. I let out an exhale and my shoulders relax.
“That’s so sweet,” Claire says, still staring at the note. And she’s right. It is sweet. Bobby hasn’t bought me flowers since my nineteenth birthday, and they were nowhere near as lovely as these. Could he be serious about this, after all? Could he have changed for me?
Do I want him to have changed for me?
That last question has me chewing my lip again. It’s now been seven months since I first broke things off with him, and as horrible as it sounds, I haven’t missed him. Not romantically, anyway. His friendship on the other hand . . . Then again, maybe if he hadn’t injured his knee in the first place, if he’d never turned into the Bobby I walked away from, then maybe Iwouldmiss him romantically. Maybe I’d still want to be in a relationship with him.
The knot in my stomach suggests otherwise, but I shrug it off and nod at Claire. “Yes, it is sweet.”
She looks pleased with my response, eyes lighting up and white teeth flashing. Claire the Matchmaker is sassier than Claire the Concierge. She walks over to the single closet and shuffles through my shoes. “No high heels?”
“I didn’t exactly see this coming, so . . . nope. Just my old pair of sandals, two new pairs of boots, and the tennis shoes.”
“But you bought that sexy dress you’re wearing.”
I shrug. She has a point there. But that’s different; it isn’t like I bought it with something special in mind. I’d been shopping for a warmer sweater when I spotted it yesterday, hanging just right on the mannequin, and well, what girl doesn’t want a little black dress in her closet?
Thankfully, she doesn’t make me explain and instead hands me my newest pair of boots, black with a slight heel. She smiles. “These are cute, and with legs like yours you can totally make it work.” Her own legs start doing a little jig, and she says, “I have to pee. Would you mind if I used your restroom?”
“No, go ahead.”
She disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind her, and I sit on the end of my bed. Bending forward, I slide the first boot over my foot. Just as I begin to zip the second boot up, a familiar warmth brushes over my neck, my hair. I freeze, my fingers squeezing the zipper, and look around. My hair has fallen over my shoulders, blocking some of my view. I push it back with my free hand, still not seeing anyone.
But I know it’s him.
I try to ignore the sudden thumping in my chest and slowly finish sliding the zipper up. When I straighten my back, propped against the bed for balance, I feel it again. The heat. It’s coming from directly in front of me, like he’s standing inches away, except he’s not. Not visibly, anyway.
I wait a moment, unsure of what to do. When those rough fingertips I remember so well brush over my cheekbone, my back stiffens and my hands pull the comforter into a tight hold. His touch is like a feather stroking me as he carefully moves my hair away from my face. It’s an innocent movement, revealing my eyes, and it shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but I can’t help it when my eyelids flutter closed.
How does he make such a simple gesture feel so damn sensual?
I don’t realize I’m leaning into his touch until he pulls back, making me stumble forward. Before I can lose the rest of my footing, one firm hand curls around my waist, the other around the nape of my neck; both are strong and keeping me steady. I don’t resist his hold. His warmth seeps through my dress and into my skin, and again, I find myself leaning into it. Into him.
Some part of my brain must have awakened, because it reprimands me with a hushed,Pull yourself together. The hypnotic lull coursing through my body urges me to ignore the voice of reason, but I know I probably shouldn’t.
“It’s okay.” My whisper pours out into the empty room. “I can stand.”
His grip on my waist loosens but doesn’t fully let me go. The hold supporting my neck, though, disappears, and then what feels like a large thumb is gently pressing down on my lips.Uh oh. It would seem that my speaking has drawn his attention to my mouth. This can’t be good for me. When he slowly, carefully, runs his thumb over the slope of my bottom lip, my mouth parts slightly and a small breath escapes me.
How does he do that? Does he even realize the sensations he’s stirring in me? He certainly didn’t try to touch me like this when I was able to see him the other day. In fact, he seemed flat-out distant then. I think about how, somehow, not being able to see him makes me feel less intimidated, and I wonder if it’s the same way for him.
He stays like that, the tip of his thumb burning into my lips, and I forget how to breathe. How to move. There’s something about the way he touches me—so careful, restrained. It doesn’t feel cheap or like he’s taking advantage, but rather . . . rather like he’s touching a woman for the first time. Like he’s trying to understand. Understand every curve, every sensation.
