Page 52 of Best Offer Wins
“What is that?” he asks.
“You know, I can’t quite remember…”
“Why don’t you just open it, then?” He hands me the scissors from the knife block.
“That would be one way to figure it out,” I say with a laugh.
I push one of the blades into the taped seam as slowly as I can, trying to think how I can possibly explain this away. Right as it begins to split, I pull back.
“Whoops, you almost got me. I just remembered, this is something foryou.”
“For me?” Ian asks.
“Your birthday isn’t that far off, you know.”
“Is June that close?”
“I just really liked it and I didn’t want to wait,” I say, playfully clutching the box to my chest. “Enough questions! Leave me alone while I try to think of somewhere you won’t be able to find this in six hundred fucking square feet.”
He smiles. “All right. Well, thanks, I guess.”
I bring the box into the bedroom and open it with my keys. I take out the numbers—heavy and handsome, like jewelry that’ll tell everyone the house belongs to me—and divide them between two purses that I rarely use, shoved into the far reaches of the top closetshelf. (My fabric swatches and wallpaper samples are already hidden there, too.) Then I break down the cardboard so it’s flat enough to stuff into our recycling bin, and change into sweats.
Ian frowns when he sees me. “You already took off that smokin’ dress?”
“You mean that extremely uncomfortable dress that I’ve been stuffed into all day?” I settle in next to him on the sofa.
“I would’ve gotten it off quick enough,” he says, grinning. He pulls me onto his lap, so that I’m facing him in a straddle, then he kisses me deeply. Somehow, the roughness of his stubble and the beer on his breath aren’t ruining this. Are they making it better? It’s because I was at the Tavern today, I realize. This is how it felt—how it tasted—to make out with him when we were first together.
He moves his hand under my T-shirt, then over my stomach and up to my boobs. He has a point that sweat pants aren’t as fun as real clothes for these purposes. We both wriggle awkwardly out of ours—none of the sexiness involved in wrestling with zippers or belt buckles.
When we’re done, he spoons me on the couch. Erika was right. Ian and I are going to be fine—better than fine, fucking spectacular—just as soon as we get out of this apartment.
I turn to face him. His arm, draped heavily over my waist, feels like a security blanket.
“Hey, I meant to tell you when I got home, I have to go out of town for work for a couple days. We’re pitching some wineries out in Virginia.”
“Cool, when?”
“Leaving tomorrow, back Sunday morning.”
He scrunches his face. “That’s short notice.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I say. “Beth was supposed to go with Jordana, but she tested positive for Covid this morning, and Jordana doesn’t want to do it alone. She only asked me to come this afternoon.”
“Huh, okay. No big deal, I guess.”
“Really? And you don’t mind if I take the car?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. Maybe I’ll ask Brant if he wants to hang out this weekend.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” I say, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, one other thing—can you take Fritter out for his walk Saturday night? And maybe just let him sleep here? Natalie has a shift.”
“Sure.” He laughs and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Man, you really love that dog.”
I kiss him again, then get up to shower and pack a bag.
18
