Page 58 of Meet Me at the Metro

“Not much, I know, but—”

“Not much? Are you kidding me? I love it! It’s exactly how I imagined it would be.”

“Yeah?” he grins, crossing his muscled arms across his chest. “And how’s that?”

“Dark.Mysterious.”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes. “Let’s go get you some dry clothes. You’re shivering.”

With those words, Theo approaches me, his intentions set on carrying me again, but I quickly stop him. “Don’t even try. We’re not going to do this whole charade again. Remember what happened last time? We don’t need any more bruises tonight.”

“Nora, your foot is going to be fucked by the morning.”

“It’s alreadyfucked,“ I say, waving him off as I begin making my way up the steps. “Now, quit worrying.”

He sighs behind me, and I can’t help but smile.

My legs are wobbly when I finally reach the top of the loft, but Theo’s hands find my waist and give me a sense of balance again.

“Your place is so clean,” I note out loud as my eyes skim his open-floor bedroom. The warm glow of his bedside lamp illuminates the comfy space so perfectly.

“Did you assume I was a slob?”

“I assumed your place would be at least a little messier than mine.”

He snorts. “You live with Evie, remember?”

Theo’s bed is centered against the dark beige walls, his king-size mattress lying atop a stack of deep-stained wooden pallets. I walk over to it and smooth my palms against the soft fabric of his grey comforter, sheets, and pillows.

“So soft,” I tease. “What’s the thread count on these?”

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you lay in them and see?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Theo smirks.

I try to ignore the ache lingering between my legs and force my attention on something other than the heat suddenly growing in my chest. My eyes quickly search the room for a distraction and notice a vintage record player hiding in the corner beside the bed. There’s a box of records beside it, and I busy myself by flipping through the different albums and artists he has in the collection.

Goo Goo Dolls, Hozier, The Fray, Matchbox Twenty, Bach, Frank Sinatra, Radiohead, and Oh. My. God…

I pull the vinyl out of the stack and hold it high in the air. “ThePussycat Dolls?!”

“No!”He rushes toward me in an attempt to snag it from my hands. “That one isn’t mine!”

He struggles badly to catch ahold of the vinyl case, and I’m giggling so hard I can barely breathe. “And you critiqued me onmytaste in music?”

“Evie bought it for me.”

“Evie bought it for me,”I mock, attempting a British accent. “I’m sure she did. I don’t think I can ever look at you the same.”

“Oh, yeah?”He pokes his fingers against my sides, his free hand gripping my waist to steady me and keep me from losing my balance. “You think you’re so damn funny, huh?”

“Stop!”

“I’m sorry, what was that?You want me to stop?”

“Theo!” I squeal.

---