Page 209 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

Dropping to her feet with her arms still wrapped around me, she practically hangs from me like a swing from a tree. All smiles, she asks, “When did you get home?”

Home?

There it is again, but this time, it feels right. It’s not the building; it’s her. “Three minutes ago. That’s all it took to get from the front of the building to your joy, beautiful.” That earns a smile. I hold her around the lower back and try to see the differences since I last saw her. Carefree in a loose sundress that hides all the good stuff.

She still has makeup from going into work. Then I’m reminded how she still works at CWM to stand my ground and save my reputation. She stayed despite giving me her resignation. Any investigation would reveal she enjoys working here and never felt pressured by me or any other staff, excluding Justin, of course.

I say, “Let’s get inside.”

She’s quick to roll the suitcase right into her life with no questions asked. She’d have questions if she knew I was leaving. Am I lying by omission?

She asks, “Are you hungry? I was thinking homemade meatballs and red sauce.”

“That sounds incredible.”

Since we’ve been dating, the cooking concerts have moved to a more sociable hour. I never complain anymore and score with the food created.

While she cooks, I shower, hoping some of the guilt will wash down the drain. I feel a lot better clean and on a full stomach. “I’m so tired. I never adjusted from East Coast time.”

“We might be able to save you just yet,” she says, reveling because I used to say my heart was West Coast all the way. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way—since last April.

I’m tempted to hold her, but when we climb under the covers, one kiss leads to another and two orgasms. I can willingly admit that I felt no shame a few minutes ago as I lay in recovery. But then it sneaks back in without my permission. I’m not going to get a night’s reprieve to enjoy our relationship before it falls apart.

I’m a realist.

I know her tendencies, and although I started to believe in the big d-word—destiny—I was a fool for letting my guard down. “Babe?” I whisper so slight, hoping she’s asleep so we can tackle this tomorrow.

“Yes?” she replies, sounding roused from sleep.

“What do you think about Seattle?”

She traces figure eights across my chest. “I’ve never been.”

“Would you want to go?”

“Sure.” Maybe there’s hope. She goes on, “We could visit Pike’s Place, the original Starbucks. We could be regular tourists when we’re there.”

“We can.”

“Could,” she corrects so innocently. She was always whip-smart, and that includes when we’re post-coital and even more so with her senses still on high alert. Kicking her arm up under her, she looks down over me. “What are you thinking, Drew? A visit? A quick trip? Or?—”

“Longer than a quick trip?”

“Are you asking me? If you’re asking me, I vote no.”

My swallow becomes a gulp, and her eyes redirect to my throat. When her hazels return to me, she asks, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

I nod once, still holding her around the back, her skin so soft just like I remembered. “On the way over here, I was told a trip I thought was going to be no more than two months has been extended.”

“Two months?” Her mouth hangs open as shock shapes her features into disbelief.

“That was before.”

“How long now?”

“Indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely sounds like a move. You’re moving to Seattle?” Her daggered stare penetrates mine where all the apologies lay. She closes her eyes, and then when her lids fly open, she climbs out of bed. “This isn’t a discussion I want to have in bed.” Slipping on a robe, she leaves a huff of anger behind as she walks into the living room.

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