Eli pants beside me, lips tenderly falling onto my shoulder. Our skin shimmers with sweat, hot and tingling. I am so overwhelmed by this man—wrapped tightly around my very being—that tears sting at the corners of my eyes.
“Stay forever,” he whispers in my ear, his voice so vulnerable and sweet, so full of longing that, reason be damned, I believe him.
“Okay,” I say back.
CHAPTER 30Holly
These weeks have been a complete blur—between planning for the Midnight Society’s Costume Ball and squeezing in enough official dates with Hugh to merit luring him home to my bed. We’ve ambled through the High Museum of Art, sipped cocktails on the roof of Ponce City Market, biked the Beltline to my favorite Glenwood Estates taqueria, and even visited the tasting room at the World of Coca-Cola. I figured that if Hugh is really on his way to Copenhagen, it’s my duty to show him a selection of Atlanta’s best and worst tourist attractions before he goes.
I saved the best for last night: an evening concert and picnic on the lawn of the Atlanta Botanical Garden. I packed the picnic, a simple spread from Alon’s Bakery, but he provided a wonderful Spanish cava and a single granadilla—the Bolivian fruit we never had a chance to try on our first date. It was delicious, but I’m not sure whether it was the strange pungent flavor of the seeds or the way he fed them to me under the moonlight, making me hungry for more.
Was it coincidence that the Botanical Garden is a short, four-block walk from my apartment? That I had him park his car at my place? Not exactly.
Through my bedroom door, Hugh lies drenched in morning sunlight, his bare leg tossed casually over my comforter, his dark hair wild against my mattress. He stirs, tucks his arm around my pillow, and then burrows into it. I wish I could go back to bed. I wish I could bring him fruit, and he could feed it to me, breaking it apart with his hands and pressing the sweet-sour seeds into my waiting mouth. But the clock is ticking on the Midnight SocietyCostume Ball. I need coffee, a shower, and a quick breakfast before the day’s packed agenda gets underway.
I open the fridge and peer inside. It dawns on me that I probably have nothing to feed that beautiful man still sleeping in my bed. I haven’t exactly had time to grocery shop. Thank God I picked up a pound of good coffee yesterday morning before meeting with my florist, when I rushed into Dancing Goats for a shot-in-the-dark and a doughnut.
How is it that my refrigerator is twice the size of Hugh’s, but contains about a quarter of the food? No yogurt in orderly glass jars, no bright seasonal berries or freshly squeezed orange juice. Just a few stalks of limp celery, a bag of carrots, and a haphazard array of condiments.
At least I have milk. Well, chocolate milk. Does that count as a breakfast food?
I pull the carton of chocolate milk from the shelf, unscrew the cap, and sniff. It still smells like high fructose corn syrup, so I think it must be okay. I head over to the pantry, open the door, and rummage around, until I excavate a few items that might qualify as breakfast foods.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” Hugh says, his voice still gravelly with sleep.
Peering out from behind the pantry door, I see him standing in my doorway, in nothing but the crisp white boxers I slid from his narrow hips nine hours ago. I can’t resist crossing the kitchen to wrap my arms around his waist. I kiss him softly.
“Thank you for last night,” he mumbles into my ear.
“It was my absolute pleasure,” I reply, thinking how hilarious it is that he is thanking me. I’m not terribly experienced in this area, but Hugh Pridmore is without a doubt the most generous lover I’ve ever had. And what do I have to offer in return? Chocolate milk, a quarter loaf of Nature’s Own bread, and month-old sugar cereal.
At least I have decent coffee.
Hugh heads across the room toward my bathroom.
“You can use my toothbrush,” I tell him, “unless you’re fussy about that sort of thing.”
He turns to look at me. His eyebrows raise and a knowing grin spreads across his now-stubbly face. Hugh doesn’t have to say anything. His teasing expression reminds me of everything I learned about him last night. A flush rises to my chest. This man is anything but fussy.
By the time he comes out of the bathroom, I’ve set a pot of French-press coffee, two mugs, bowls and spoons, a box of cereal, and chocolate milk on my kitchen table.
“Might I offer you some Frosted Mini-Wheats?” I ask, feigning a formal accent.
“I’ve long hoped to sample them,” he replies, taking a seat at the table.
“With chocolate milk?” I ask, dumping the cereal into his bowl and hoping it’s not stale.
“My favorite kind,” he says. “How on earth did you know?”
We sit together at my breakfast table, sipping coffee and slurping cereal in comfortable silence. It dawns on me that Hugh is the first man I’ve ever had at my breakfast table—well, excepting Joel, Peter, Byron, and my smarmy landlord (uninvited, of course). Over these last many years, I haven’t been keen to bring men to the apartment I shared with my young son.
But now, here I am, having breakfast with my lover. And it feels utterly delicious. He stands up to take his bowl to the sink, pauses to look out of my kitchen window, where, at the right angle, it’s just barely possible to catch a glimpse of the Midtown skyline.
“Ask me again,” he says.
“Ask you what?” I reply.
“What’s the sexiest city—”
