Page 108 of The Promise Of You

And that, I’ll say it again, is scary as fuck.

The table is set, the main dish is keeping warm in the oven, apps and dessert are ready, and the salad just needs to be tossed, when a soft knock on the door sounds right at seven.

Chloe is standing there, looking shy. Pink tints her cheeks, and her smile is uncertain. Her eyelashes bat and she says a tentative, “Hey.”

I feel the same.

It was one thing to fool around at her place and in the truck.

But we both know why she’s here. We both know what this means. This isn’t a second one-night stand. This isn’t giving in to impulse.

This is us wanting to explore what we could be.

I might have talked dirty to her at her place today—telling her I wanted to fuck her in that dress—tonight means so much more to me.

“Hey,” I say, holding the door open for her.

She’s wearing the dress, but it looks like she pressed it or something, because it certainly doesn’t look like she wore it the day before at the fair and last night in my truck. She smells like flowers, like maybe she’s wearing a spritz of perfume. Her hair flows on her shoulders, and there’s light makeup on her eyes. She doesn’t need it, but I like that she did it.

She looks around my apartment, her smile deepening. Then she drops her handbag on the couch, kicks her shoes off, and turns to me. And I’ve never felt so good in my life.

thirty-three

Chloe

Justin shuts the door quietly behind me and wraps me in his arms, a slow, tender, deep embrace. He kisses my neck, and my center fires up, then he hoists me on his hips, our foreheads touching. I fist his hair, bringing his lips to mine, darting my tongue out. He kisses me back, a soft and slow kiss as he walks us into his apartment. Then he twirls me around and drops me on a countertop and leaves me slightly dizzy, a stupid happy smile on my wet lips.

“Mojito?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, craning my neck to follow his awesome body as he moves to make us drinks. He’s wearing washed-out jeans, a short-sleeved button-down that’s a very light shade of gray, has tiny stripes, molds to his muscles, and shows a good portion of his tats. He’s barefoot and I think to myself, He has great feet.

I have a little internal smile at my weird-ish observation, then I turn around to take in my surroundings.

Where Justin lives.

His apartment is right above the pub. We’re in a large open space with the kitchen area in one corner and sliding doors that open to a deck built on the pub’s roof. There’s no furniture outside, not even a single chair. Just railing all around it. Justin clearly doesn’t use the outdoor space.

I move my attention to the inside. The walls are exposed brick, the ceilings high with dark beams. The floor is wide wooden planks showing all kinds of wear and tear but sanded down and polished. A leather couch faces a huge flat-screen TV mounted over a fireplace, with a battered, dark coffee table in front of it. To the side, next to the row of windows facing The Green and between shelves filled with books, there’s a wood and metal dining table set for two.

My heart does a little thump as I take in the flowers in a small Mason jar, the tea light candles flickering, the napkins carefully folded over the plates.

Then I move my attention to the black-and-white pictures on the wall.

I hop down from the countertop and walk to the photographs.

The sound of a shaker fills the room, followed by drinks being poured, then Justin’s steps and his warmth next to me as I catch my breath.

The first photograph shows an old building, floor to ceiling openings, about two stories high, with men in leather aprons posing with their tools. The sign above their heads reads, Sal’s Forge.

The second photograph is the same building probably decades later. Some of the openings on the left side have been walled from the ground up, maybe to create large bay windows. It’s hard to tell because it’s boarded. A partial story has been added to the building, also on the left side.

The right side, about one third of the whole building, looks like it’s been rehabbed into a store, or maybe a restaurant, with its own entrance and windows and awnings.

The third photograph is clearer, and that’s the one that guts me.

It’s a more recent photo. Black and white. Not by artistic choice, I don’t think. The framing could have been better. Not a professional photographer. It’s more like it was printed in black and white by choice. Maybe to match the others.

The photograph shows the same building. The boards are gone and replaced with windows. There’re flower boxes now but with the picture being in black and white that’s kind of lost. The main entrance for the bulk of the building on the left side is now a wood and glass door with wrought iron details I’m familiar with. There’s a brand-new sign, The Lazy Salamander.

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