Page 22 of Watching Ames

“It’s perfect,” Alex told her when I didn’t respond, taking his phone from the retreating waitress as I neatly packaged up the implications of that picture and tucked them away to turn over and examine from all angles another day, when I wasn’t tied up in knots over Bex and Peter. When I was ready to respond to what Alex kept offering but I was currently too scared to consider. When I was willing to take a risk on a man I was convinced wouldn’t want to keep me over a man who I was about to move in with. When I was willing to risk the only friendship I had left.

So instead I locked it all up, hopping up from Alex’s lap and moving to take a few pictures of the dessert for my business’s social media. He turned the plate without my asking, allowing me a better angle to get the entire dish, and when I gave him a soft smile in thanks, the corner of his lip turned up in response. No smoldering looks or questioning glances that sent me spinning with lust and anxiety. Just a friendly face as we shared our dessert, spoons clinking against the plate I made as we finished our dinner.

I didn’t think about the picture when the waitress took the plate away and handed us the bill. I didn’t think about it as Alex paid, not breaking eye contact as he handed his card to the waitress. I didn’t think about it when I splashed water on my face in the bathroom, skin flushed and pink with something I didn’t want to name. I didn’t think about it when I passed by another set of waitresses talking about the man I was with - so similar to that night with Peter that I almost stumbled - but this time they were gushing over the way he looked at me. I didn’t think about it as Alex walked me to my car, tucking my hair behind my ear before tugging on my earlobe in the familiar motion that always served to make me smile. I didn’t think about the picture when I drove home, alone, and let myself into my empty apartment.

But later that night, when Alex texted me a copy of the picture, I saved it to my phone, just in case I wanted to think about it later.

Chapter14

Her

Peter’s assistantmust have stopped by at some point and let him know that Bex had left because he came straight to my apartment after work on Monday. He didn’t ask where Bex was or what we’d been up to, just gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as he settled into the couch with his phone held a few inches from his nose.

“By the way,” he told me, eyes still fixed on an email he was typing with furious thumbs, “I have a showing set up for us later this week with my realtor. Penny will send you the info the morning of so you know where to go and everything. The realtor will meet us at the house.” It took me a full minute to discern that Penny was the name of his assistant, whose name I had been swearing started with an S for the past two months.

I didn’t even have time to argue or agree; Peter was already moving on to the next topic, telling me about some late-night dinner he and the rest of the partners would be going to next week. But I nodded along anyway, trying and failing to convince myself that this was what I wanted.

* * *

Penny - whose nameI still couldn't fathom, the upbeat sound not matching the snotty personality - left a sticky note with an address and a time on my counter Wednesday morning, the familiar neon square stark against the granite countertop. Just below it there was another note, a list of reminders that my apartment needed to be painted and all the holes needed to be patched within the next two weeks. The number “two” was underlined with thick lines, and the aggressive slashes made her annoyance with me clear.

Despite Penny’s previous reminders, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to paint my apartment or start packing my things, too stressed about finishing myMorelplates and then the fight with Bex throwing off my motivation.

Thinking of my sister, I sent yet another text, watching as the short plea to call me was left unread along with the half-dozen texts still sitting above it. After a few minutes with no response, I hefted a heavy sigh before gathering up my things to head off to meet Alex atIronwood, our morning routine having picked back up after ourMoreldinner.

It was easy to forgive him after he showed up in the rain at the coffee shop and then at dinner, saving me when I was alone. All too easy to go back to seeing him for coffee in the mornings or walking a few blocks to meet him for lunch, chatting until one of us had to leave for work. What wasn’t easy was pretending to ignore the confessions he made on that bench, the look he gave me in that photo of us at the restaurant, and the way that both made me feel.

The night we went toMorelhad sent me spiraling, unable to ignore the pull I felt toward him, something that excited me and terrified me in equal measure. He still featured in my dreams with his husky voice, which I heard on the edges of my consciousness every morning when I woke up. But despite what my heart was screaming at me, the logical side of my brain had been in control of my decisions for the past five years and was content with reminding me that I barely knew him.

Besides, what could I even do with my feelings? Throw away my current life, the one I had been working toward and dreaming of for years, for a chance with Alex? Risk my friendship with him for what might be a passing interest on his part? Not to mention, I had committed to living with Peter, all too easily reminded of the fact when my phone rang with an alert, reminding me that I had to leave for the showing in half an hour.

“I thought you didn’t have work this morning?” Alex questioned. It was hot enough that we’d been forced to switch to the iced version of my - our - favorite drink, and ice clinked in his cup as he brought it to his lips. I was momentarily distracted by watching his tan, stubbled throat work as he swallowed the liquid, shaking myself as I shoved my feelings firmly back into the friendship zone.

“Not until this afternoon,” I confirmed, silencing the alert for now. “Peter set up a showing at a house for us so I have to leave in a little bit.”

“You excited?” Alex hadn’t said anything about my plans to move in with Peter, just accepted the fact after I blurted it to him mid-breakdown in his car.

But a muscle in his jaw ticked with the question, eyes tracking my face as if he were looking for a lie when I told him, “I’m curious to see what the house will be like.”

Not a lie, just not necessarily the truth either. I wasn’t excited to look at the house, my stomach coiling with dread as the minutes ticked down to when I’d have to leave to go to the showing. I felt backed into a corner, and even though a part of me was hopeful that I would show up and love the house, a larger part warned me that I was making a mistake.

Alex didn’t respond, just raised his eyebrows and waited for me to elaborate, taking advantage of my tendency to ramble when I got stressed. After a few moments where I tried to hold out, the words blurted out and didn’t stop.

“Peter and I have very different styles, so I guess I’m just worried that the house he picks won’t really fit with my taste. Or that it won’t be something I love. And shouldn’t a house be something that you love, if you’re planning on living there and creating a life in it? But then again, I know we have to compromise so I understand if I don’t get everything I want.”

“And what is it you want in a house?” At my blank stare, he elaborated, lips tipping into an amused smirk, “In your dream house, what would you want?”

I laughed, unable to recall a time anyone had asked me that question, not even now that I was moving in with Peter. I thought for a moment, Alex waiting quietly until I relented.

“I don’t want some old, gothic Victorian house,” I joked as I gestured at myself, from the piercings littering my ears, down to my ripped band t-shirt and black skinny jeans paired with my scuffed, chunky boots. “That’s more Bex’s style. I actually like more modern styles, with big windows and open floor plans. A few bedrooms and bathrooms, I guess. That’s really it.”

Alex scoffed at my description, goading me further, “That’s your dream? A few bedrooms in a modern house?” He jerked his head to the side, motioning in the direction of the row of townhomes that were being built a few blocks down. The houses had gone up almost overnight, the only difference between each one the shade of neutral gray or beige they chose to paint it. “We can walk right over and get you one of those now.”

His teasing sparked a fire in me, and I burst out in an agitated huff, “You want to know every little wish I have for my dream house?” I put air quotes around the word “dream,” frustrated that he was forcing me to list everything I was hoping for and knowing I wouldn’t get most of them at the showing in half an hour.

“Yes,” his eyes glittered at my temper, that dangerous edge flaring to life in a way that had my knees pressing together beneath the table.

My voice came out breathy at first, and I cleared it before starting over, “I want a lot of natural light for my plants. So I can have more.” I only had a dozen or so, my apartment only getting enough light through one window in my kitchen to keep anything alive for long.

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