"It's a block up." He gestures forward with his chin. "I'll drop you right in front."
I reach in my clutch for a few bills after I glance at the meter. I fish around for the cufflinks, making sure that they're still in the bottom of my purse. I tossed them in there with my keys and some money before I left my apartment.
"You're sure this is the place?" I look out at a shuttered drugstore. "I don't think this is right."
"Is that him?" He points toward the passenger window. "There's a guy lurking in the dark there. Is that your Prince Charming?"
I almost laugh at the comment. As soon as I got in the back seat of the taxi and showed him the text message from Julian with the address, he likely knew what I was doing.
I peer out and spot Julian standing next to the taxi. "That's him."
I place the money in his outstretched palm and slide across the seat. I still can't believe I'm doing this, but there's no turning back now.
His apartment isnothing like I imagined it to be. It's smaller than mine, cozier too. It's a one bedroom that sits above the drugstore. He led me partway down the alley to a side door. We had to climb three flights of stairs until we reached his place.
When he opened the door and I stepped inside, I could sense his life all around me.
The furniture is weathered leather. The coffee table is crafted from dark wood. The galley kitchen is tiny with only enough room for one person. He didn't take me down the hallway,but I see two doors. One must be his bedroom, the other the washroom.
"You're surprised, aren't you?" he asks from behind me as he takes my trench coat. "You expected something different."
I did. I expected a penthouse overlooking the park or a brownstone with five floors. "I'm not sure what I expected."
"I bought this place when I was in college." He places my coat on the back of a chair. "I never got around to moving."
"Why move if it feels like home?" I turn to face him. "This feels like a home to me. Your home, I mean."
A smile spreads across his face. "It feels like home to me. It's always felt like home."
I move toward the couch knowing that I need to sit. My knees have been shaking ever since I sent that text message inviting myself over. "I bought an apartment last year that is starting to feel like home."
It is. I've painted it twice with Tilly's help. First, I covered every wall in a light shade of blue and then a month later, I opted for a medium gray. It's still not perfect, but I'm inching closer to it.
"Where do you live?"
"Murray Hill," I answer quickly. "It was a great deal and it's central. I can walk to work. That's important to me."
I open my clutch and reach in. "I should give you back the cufflinks before I forget."
"Tell me why you came, Maya." He takes a seat next to me as he takes the cufflinks and places them on the coffee table.
He's only wearing black sweatpants and a blue T-shirt. I noticed the black ink peeking out from beneath the arm of his shirt almost immediately. I can't tell what it is, but I'm almost as surprised by the tattoo on his bicep as I am his apartment.
"You have a tattoo." I ignore his question. I'm not ready to tell him that I came here to kiss him again. I can't confess that I want more.
"As do you." He reaches for my left hand and tugs it into his lap.
I watch silently as he flips my arm over and carefully unfastens the leather band of the watch I'm wearing. "I saw this at the restaurant the night you were with the Wartons. I've been dying to know what it says."
I don't move as he slides the watch off. He traces his fingertips over the curves of ink on my inner wrist. He does it once and then again before he finally looks at my face. "Enough."
"Enough," I repeat back. "A reminder that I'm enough."
He draws in a quick breath before he brings my wrist to his lips to kiss my skin. "You're so much more than enough. You're everything."
I close my eyes. I don't want to get emotional tonight. I didn't come here to feel anything other than physical pleasure. "Can I see your tattoo?"
He kisses my wrist again before he reaches over his head to tug his T-shirt off.
