To See You (17 page)

“She likes the company since her son went to college. She and her husband are good to Harri. They walk her, give her lots of love. I’m lucky.”

“Oh?”

“I mean I’m luckier to be here now.”

Another
oh?
slipped from my mouth. What was I fishing for with this guy?

“Yeah.” Layton leaned over and took my wineglass and set it on the table, placing his tumbler next to it. He ran his hand down my cheek, a small callus on the side of his thumb grazing my skin.

“I want to kiss you. Is that okay?”

Molten pools of chocolate stared at me. All I could think about was when I was ten years old and my parents took me on a trip back east. We stopped overnight in Hershey, and I remember wanting to dive into the vats of chocolate . . . just like I wanted to dive into Layton right now, despite him being all wrong for me. A lot like chocolate, I guess.

My overachieving brain was running circles inside my head. Pros and cons floated around in there, jumbling with my hormones, but the hormones were winning. Thank God.

“You should,” I whispered.

And he did.

Layton leaned in, and the scent of clean rain filled my senses as he touched his lips to mine. They weren’t too soft or chapped, but were just right, tasting mine with a confident firmness. At first, his kiss was simple, chaste even, not demanding anything from me as he watched me through half-closed eyes. I drank in his gaze for one last second before closing my eyes and allowing the sensations to overcome me.

He inched closer, and I basked in his warmth as his knee bumped mine and his hand came down to rest on my leg. He brought his other hand up to sift through my hair, eventually allowing it to settle on the back of my neck, keeping me close. And he never let go of my lips.

A small nip at my lower lip encouraged me to open my mouth and allow him to deepen the kiss. When I did, his tongue swept through my mouth, looking for mine and tasting like chocolate ice cream.

God, sinful chocolate. It was all I could think about, a big sundae of all my naughty vices—the guy and the chocolate candy and the ice cream.

We stayed like that for a while, kissing and exploring as we sat on the sofa. Both of us needing to breathe, we broke free for a minute and stared at each other as our chests rose and fell in sync.

What was Layton doing to me? I met the guy on a plane in a down time in my life, and despite the fact that I wasn’t nice to him, he pursued me through e-mail. I had to be the dumbest girl in America despite all my academic and business success.

As we gazed at each other, saying nothing, his hand roamed my waist at the bottom of my shirt, his thumb tracing the fine line of skin at my waistline. His finger was smooth against my skin, never snagging or scratching.

It was heaven, I decided, but not for me.

“I have to go. This is a lot to take in, okay?”

Layton’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry if I pushed too fast. Stay, Charli,” he said while scooting to the far side of the couch. “I’ll keep my hands and lips over here.”

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

Mortified, I grabbed my forehead and took a deep breath. “I did not just use the most cliché line ever, did I?” I mumbled, refusing to look up for fear shame or regret would be plastered on Layton’s face.

“You did, but it’s cool. I get it. This is unexpected.”

I looked at Layton sitting there, his AC/DC tee stretched across his chest and riding up a smidge on his hip, his dark hair a mess, his jeans unfashionably loose, and those Chucks.

Could this be me? Here with this guy? Then I saw his dimple and the stubble and the way sincere worry transformed his face, and I thought . . . yes, it could, but I didn’t know if I wanted it.

“I have to go,” I repeated. “I just need to collect my thoughts.”

“Okay,” Layton said, but he didn’t move.

“I’m going to catch a cab downstairs.”

Please e-mail me.

Please don’t hate me.

Keeping those thoughts to myself, I stood and grabbed my tote, noting my half-f glass of wine on the table.
Is my glass half-f or half-empty?
I was starting to believe I was a half-empty kind of gal.

“Do you want me to walk you down?”

I shook my head. “Thank you, but no.” I headed toward the door.

“Why don’t I stay an extra night?” he suggested. “We could do drinks here, on the rooftop of the hotel. I hear it’s pretty outrageous at night. We can just relax, have a couple of drinks, and end this on the right note. Not like now.”

“Okay.”

I might have agreed but I knew I wouldn’t show up. My inner bitch was winning out, and I hated her. I deserved a lifetime of being alone. I had to get out of there.

“Seven again?” he asked.

God, he was still trying. He was so nice. “Sure.”

I gave Layton a quick peck on the cheek and ran right the hell out of there—my lips furious at me for rushing them away from his perfectly stubbled cheek.

Eight Months Later

I
half sat, half leaned at the bar waiting for her. It was an overpriced, cliché hole-in-the-wall in Manhattan she’d suggested.
Best burgers in New York
, she’d written in her e-mail. She’d assumed I’d want something big and heavy to eat, overselling the place to me and avoiding the fat fucking elephant in the room.

Which was me, so I didn’t take the burger suggestion as a slight. I deserved that one. Especially after the sushi debacle.

But I wasn’t one bit hungry for burgers—not tonight. To be honest, I was famished for her. I was so fucking starving for this woman, I’d gone without an apology, showed up like a good little puppy without even as much as an apologetic whisper. No
sorry
or a single freaking misgiving about what had happened the last time we saw each other. Zip.

Now I sat in the bar area like one of those big whales at Sea World, waiting in line for a dead fish. It was dingy and dimly lit, but the Yelpers loved this joint. Of course I’d googled it, making sure I was hip enough to show my face in the establishment.

Impatient, I swirled the Scotch in my tumbler, the ice clinking against the glass. Out of habit, I pulled my shirt down at the waist, making sure it covered my waistband. It was a habit I still couldn’t quite shake. I’d worn a waffle-knit shirt and khakis, the new trendy kind, elastic at the ankle and a drawstring at the waist—all the bells and whistles.

I wasn’t sure why I felt like I had to forgo my usual look. The only other times we’d met up, I’d been wearing a music tee and jeans. Except for the premiere, but tonight was different from the other times . . . I hoped. That assumption was probably false and premature on my part.

As I took a sip of my drink, the liquid burned the back of my throat and warmed me all the way going down, heightening my arousal and calming my nerves at the same time.

Tiny bells chimed above the door, signaling it was opening—a touch that was out of place for New York City, but I assumed it was part of the charm of this joint.

She stepped over the threshold, shaking the snow off her now longer hair before swiping her gloved hand down the front of her coat. I saw a hint of red peeking out from underneath her black coat, reminding me it was just past Valentine’s Day, making me wish I’d come earlier in the month. She could have been
mine
.

She still hadn’t seen me, so I indulged in a second or ten, allowing my gaze to roam her small frame all the way down to the fur-lined ankle boots . . . with a heel . . . on her feet.

Unable to get up or move toward her for fear she’d reject me all over again, I turned back toward the bar and caught the score of a basketball game on TV while tossing back the remainder of my Scotch. I felt her presence singe the back of my neck before she laid eyes on me.

Willing myself not to turn and seek her out, I ran a hand through my hair and mentally chastised myself.

You pussy
.
Just look at the woman.

My hair was styled the same, so she should recognize me from the back. At least, that’s the sorry excuse I gave myself.

I didn’t look, just forced myself to remain focused on the game. It was close, 82–75. Who was I rooting for?

Who the fuck was I kidding? I didn’t even watch basketball. The last game I remember watching was the NBA playoffs the night she didn’t show all those months ago . . .

When the clock had struck eight, I’d pretty much known Charli wasn’t coming. I’d extended my stay in New York, moved my return flight to the next day, and bought an actual button-down shirt on Fifth Avenue. But the whole day, a hint of her reticence when she’d agreed to tonight gnawed at me.

She wasn’t going to come—I knew it. My heart knew it. I felt it in my fucking bones. But I still bought the shirt like a chump, cleaned up my stubble, and shoved my feet in my Chucks like a man in love.

I’d found a quiet corner of the rooftop bar, where the corners of the glass met each other in a seamless line so as not to obstruct the view. I asked for a Scotch and then changed my mind to a beer, and seconds later changed it back again . . . to a Black Label and soda. My finger traced the flawless seam while my eyes roamed the New York skyline, but I saw nothing other than my reflection. Chubby cheeks, messy hair, and a shirt that was too tight.

My legs ached from yet another long walk in the park. I’d scrubbed the BO off in the shower, but my heart still beat too fast. Whether it was from the anxiety of waiting or my lack of fitness, I didn’t freaking know.

What I did know was Charli wasn’t showing.

And she didn’t. She didn’t even send an e-mail or a text to explain her absence until two months later. There hadn’t been an accident or a situation at work. She just couldn’t bring herself to come.