Page 18 of If You Like It, I Love It

9

Joni

The ride back to my house after dinner has the relaxed comfort of familiarity—easy conversation, shared laughs. But as we get closer to the end of the drive, anxiety knots between my shoulders.

Will he assume he’s coming in? If he doesn’t initiate, do I have the courage to extend the invitation? I’ve made such an issue of our ages, but I’m ready and willing to pretend those are just numbers for a little while.

No matter what happens between us tonight, I’m sure we can still get through my kitchen renovation. For all I know, I wouldn’t be the first client he’s slept with. That’s a topic that definitely didn’t come up over dinner. In fact, the possibility hadn’t occurred to me until just now, and it doesn’t bother me to think he may have slept with clients before me.

I don’t think I’d mind knowing he makes a habit of seducing every single woman on his client list. I respect a person who can compartmentalize and keep personal things personal and business separate and unaffected. It’s an underrated quality.

But if things got weird between us, I’d have to use someone else for my bathroom remodel, and that would be a shame because I think of Enzo every time I walk into that room.

I look over at him in the driver’s seat. The silhouette of his face is all sharp angles, but when he looks over at me and smiles, they soften.

His tires roll to a stop on my driveway. I watch the veins in his forearm shift in the moonlight as he twists the keys to turn off his truck. He leaves them hanging there instead of putting them in his pocket right away.

“I’ve never had any problems with theft out here,” I say before I lose my nerve, “but I wouldn’t leave the keys hanging in the ignition overnight.”

Fuck. Who said he wanted to stay the night? What is wrong with me? Why’d I add that word?

“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t do that.” He pulls the keys and wraps his fingers around them.

Does he mean he shouldn’t stay?

“Come here.” He’s already leaning toward me as he says it, so I don’t have to move far for our lips to meet. The fingers of his keyless hand thread into my hair, and he pulls my face closer still. The second his tongue touches mine, the knot between my shoulders begins to untangle itself.

Being in his truck makes this reminiscent of a goodnight kiss, but his increasing intensity makes me believe he’s not saying goodbye. This doesn’t feel like an end to a date; it feels like a segue to the next phase.

Our kiss ends, and our eyes meet.

“Can I come in?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

His fingertips brush my ear as he plays with a section of my hair. “I need to be sure that you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

He kisses me softly before he gets out of the truck. I don’t reach for my door handle before he arrives to open it, but it’s not because I’m waiting for him to do it. My body is too at ease to rush—not exhausted, just content to let the rest of this night go at its own pace.

Nervousness blooms instantly when he opens my door, and I’m not sure if it’s shared tension between us or my own apprehension rising again. So much for being at ease. It was nice while it lasted, the whole forty-five seconds of it. Why do my emotions have to be on a damn roller coaster all the time around him?

I let him help me down out of the truck, but this time, I might actually need the help. My hand fumbles my keys at the front door, and the jangle of metal matches my clattering nerves.

I’m still sure I want him here, but having his body so close, and soon to be closer, makes me feel like I’m at the mercy of a force I can’t control—up, up, up, up, up, teetering . . . unlocking my front door releases a surge of adrenaline—drop, whoosh!

Once the door is opened and I’ve stepped inside, my anticipation begins to level out, but my stomach feels like it’s been tossed over an edge and yanked back again.

He follows me in and calmly closes the door behind him. I hear the click of the deadbolt as I drop my keys to the bottom of my purse. The latch engages, and I can feel it in my chest. It’s not pain or fear, just a strange punctuation on the moment that, thankfully, doesn’t last.

My steps advance slowly after I set my purse on the table in my entryway. I’m good now. We just had to transition from will we or won’t we to we most definitely are.

We are inside. Locked in. We are doing this.

“You want a drink?” I ask.

“No. But a glass of water by the bed might not be a bad idea.”