TRUST, page 8
“I’ll catch you,” he quips.
It’s not like I’m going to jog in them, I think with a shrug. I take them off and Boyd hands them over to the saleswoman to box up while I put my sneakers back on. “Thanks for the shoes, sugar,” I say and add a dramatic wink.
Ten
Boyd
I’m not sure I’ve ever gone to this much effort to spend time with a girl before, but as we exit the store I’m not ready for the day to be over. We walk back in the direction of the car, Chloe swinging the bag with her shoes and me carrying the dress bag slung over my shoulder. She doesn’t see this as a date so she’s relaxed and I want to hold onto that a little bit longer. We walk in comfortable silence down 17th and when we should cut down 6th to grab the car on 18th I keep walking.
“Isn’t the car down that way?” Chloe asks, starting to recognize that we’re back at the same intersection we walked past earlier on the way to Dough.
“I need to grab something from American Apparel,” I tell her, remembering we passed one on earlier today on the way to Dough.
“Sure.” She shrugs. “No problem.” I like her like this, when she’s not on guard. Although she’s pretty damn funny when she’s nervous too.
I drag her into American Apparel and grab some crewneck t-shirts I don’t really need while Chloe pauses in front of a display of raglan tees. So I get a couple of those too.
“So what made you go into law enforcement instead of the candy business?” she asks when we’re back outside.
“Women,” I tell her and lead her down 19th towards Broadway, for no other reason than it’s the opposite direction from the car. She gives me a signature Chloe dirty look and I laugh. “I’m kidding. I was never going into the candy business. I’m on the board because my grandfather asked me to be on it, but business has never been my interest. I’ve been into technology since I was a kid. It started with hacking game apps, making workarounds to beat the game. That sort of stuff. Let’s just say it progressed from there. Then the FBI recruited me shortly after college.”
“You must be pretty talented,” she says innocently.
“You have no idea,” I saw slowly, my eyes not leaving hers. She gets my meaning and her eyes widen and she gnaws on her lower lip.
“I’m sure,” she agrees, clearly at a loss in how to reply. She slows in front of a window display at Fishs Eddy. “Let’s go in here,” she says. She bounces on her toes a little when she says it. I glance at the window display—looks like an assortment of shit from Grandma’s garage sale, but if it puts a smile on her face, I’m in. I grab the door and follow her inside.
I trail her through the store watching her make a loop, pausing at things that interest her, running her fingers across items of particular interest. I have no idea what I’ve stumbled into. The store is jam-packed from front to back with the oddest assortment of housewares shit. But Chloe is enthralled. Much of it has a funky vintage flair and reminds me a bit of the assortment of picture frames she had hung in her apartment. After looking at everything she goes back through the store a second time and picks up a small selection of items, chattering about Christmas before heading to the register. It’s October so I’m not sure what the fuck she’s talking about, but I don’t say anything.
We exit the store and continue walking around the Flatiron district, ducking into stores that catch her interest. We end up in front of Beecher’s.
“Let’s have dinner.” I nod to the shop. “They have a restaurant downstairs.”
“You couldn’t get a date for tonight either?” She stops dead on the sidewalk, eyebrow raised in disbelief.
“You need the practice. Come on,” I tell her, holding the door open. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes but enters the store. It’s early so we’re seated immediately. Chloe buries her head in the menu and I start to wonder if I imagined the way she looked at me back at the donut shop when she snaps the menu closed and speaks.
“Why did the orange go out with the prune?”
I can feel my lips pull into a smile as much as I attempt to resist and keep a straight face. “You’re nervous? We’re just practicing, remember?”
She twists in her seat a little and nods. “True.”
The waitress stops by and takes our orders. Steak for me, macaroni and cheese for Chloe.
“Macaroni and cheese?” I ask, my tone teasing and brow lifted.
“We’re in a restaurant underneath a cheese shop, Boyd,” she says, stressing the word cheese. “I bet it’s the best macaroni and cheese in the world and you’re gonna be so jealous when it gets here.”
“If you say so.”
“You will be.”
“So why did the orange go out with the prune anyway?”
She blinks for a second then smiles. “Because he couldn’t find a date!” Then she laughs. “Get it? Date? Like the fruit?”
“Got it.” I incline my head in acknowledgment. “Speaking of dates, do you have any this week? Anything I can prep you for?” How the fuck am I supposed to deal with her dating? What if she finds some guy who likes these ridiculous second-grade jokes and she wants to fuck him? That’s not going to work for me.
“No.” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at herself. “Last week was an anomaly to be honest. I don’t get out that much.” I wait for her to laugh or crack a smile, but she picks up a piece of bread and rips off a tiny chunk instead. “There was this one guy I’ve been talking to for weeks online.”
Well, that’s fucking great.
“But then he asked me to get a tattoo. Which is weird, right?” She looks to me for confirmation but keeps speaking without giving me a chance to reply. “I never even met him. But he asked me to get a tattoo. Of his name. On my freaking body.”
Fuck, no.
“He said to put it on my hip or somewhere sexy.” She leans in closer and lowers her voice. “He said this way he would know that I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”
I eye her for a moment. “You’re making that up.”
“I’m not.” She shakes her head back and forth. “That is a true story.” She punctuates her sentence with a fingertip in the air. “Anyway, I should spend some time studying those books before I go on another date.” She’s serious.
“Chloe,” I groan. “Throw those ridiculous books away. You need real-life practice, not a book.”
She pauses, having just stuffed the piece of bread into her mouth, and stares at me. I can practically hear her mind whirring, wondering if I’m referring to real-life sex practice or real-life dating practice. I’m definitely referring to sex.
“Um, yeah,” she mumbles noncommittally and continues chewing.
The waitress arrives with our orders and Chloe digs in, emitting a happy little sigh as a cheesy noodle hits her tongue. She takes another bite and moans. She wiggles in her chair but I don’t think it’s for the same reason that I’ve just had to adjust my goddamned cock.
“See! You’re jealous, aren’t you?” she asks, eyes wide when she notices me staring at her. I don’t think gluttony is the correct deadly sin that I’m feeling, but I attempt to look chagrined as I wave my fork at her plate.
“You might have out-ordered me with the macaroni and cheese, Chloe.”
She tilts her head slightly to the side and offers me a funny half smile before she nods and pushes her plate towards me. “It’s okay, we can share.”
Later when the bill arrives Chloe digs out her wallet.
“I’ve got it,” I tell her. Why the fuck is she trying to pay?
“But it’s not a date. Why should you pay?”
“I’ve got it,” I repeat. “You can owe me another favor,” I add when she looks like she’s going to object again. “If that makes you feel better.”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “I feel like you’re stacking up all the favors. How do I get a favor?”
“Would you like a favor?” Please let it be dirty.
She thinks about it and shrugs.
On the drive home she tells me about her class. About the kids, the school, her classroom, her upcoming lesson plans. We talk a little bit more about what it was like for me to grow up as the son of a US Senator. I find myself talking to her about the shock of finding out about Sophie—finding out that I had a half-sister who was obviously born while our father was married to my mother. About realizing that my mother knew about Sophie’s existence all along. I tell her that looking back from an adult perspective I’ve realized how much the tension between my parents contributed to me choosing boarding school. Because while they’d always put on a happy facade—both in public and at home—there was always something that felt off.
When we arrive at her apartment I find a place to park on the street before she has a chance to question it and grab her bags from the back of the car. She could easily carry these items herself, so I keep her talking and walk her inside. When we reach her unit she looks at the bags in my hands and frowns before turning to unlock the door.
“I could have carried that myself. You didn’t need to park.”
I walk inside of her apartment and place the bags on her tiny kitchen table, laying the garment bag over one of the chairs. When I turn she’s still at the door two feet away removing her key from the lock. I have her pressed against the open door and my lips on hers before she even looks up. She freezes. Four long seconds. Maybe five. My fingers are behind her neck, my thumb on her cheek angling her mouth where I want it. And during those several seconds I berate myself for pushing her. Then I softly bite her bottom lip and she starts to breathe again, a tiny sigh that seems to move through her entire body because she relaxes and kisses me back. I move closer, closing the inch-wide gap between our bodies, the soft curves of her breasts pressing into my chest as I move my other hand to her hair.
When I finally break the kiss and step back, she blinks, eyes dazed. Her bewilderment is quickly replaced with confusion and then a flicker of apprehension flashes through her eyes. I’ve pushed this too soon.
“Well, I’m gonna go,” she says, jingling the keys in her hand.
“We’re in your apartment,” I point out, trying not to laugh.
“Oh, yeah,” she agrees, glancing around.
“That’s what I’d have done if this was a date,” I say, giving her an out. I keep my eyes on hers and rub my thumb across my bottom lip, remembering the feel of her mouth on mine. “And it wasn’t weird, right? You’re worried about nothing.” The creases around her eyes ease and she relaxes.
“Right.” She nods. “Well, you’re good at it,” she adds with a shake of her head and a laugh.
“I’ll call you with the details for next weekend,” I tell her. And then I get the hell out.
Eleven
Chloe
Boyd Gallagher can kiss. I’ve thought about his lips—that kiss—a few times more than I care to admit. A few dozen more times. He shocked me, caught me off guard. I wasn’t anticipating it, that’s for sure.
So I froze, unsure of what was happening. Unsure of how I felt about it. Then he pressed closer, kissing me deeper, and I stopped caring about what was happening. I stopped thinking about it and just enjoyed it—whatever ‘it’ was. And holy shit, Boyd Gallagher can make you forget. His lips can drive every single thought out of your head.
Well, maybe not every thought, because I managed to have a whole slew of inappropriate ones while his lips were pressed to mine. Thoughts about how no man has ever kissed me quite like that before. Thoughts of how my nipples felt pressed against his chest, how hard and warm he felt even through the layers of clothing separating us. I thought about how the skin on the back of my neck tingled where his fingers were wrapped, pulling me to him. I thought about how good it all felt without being too much. That while he ambushed me with the kiss his hands remained on my neck and pressed against the door next to my head. And finally, I had thoughts about how turned on I was. Like ready to unbuckle his pants turned on.
And then he broke the kiss and took a step back.
After that all my insecurities returned in a heartbeat and I panicked. Why was he kissing me? What did it mean? Did he like it? Did he want to do it again? Or did he never want to kiss me again? How long did I freeze at the beginning? Does he think I’m weird? Does he like me? Do I like him? Most importantly, what if I like him and it doesn’t work out?
What if we have sex and it’s bad and he never talks to me again? Or what if we have sex and it’s bad but he thinks it’s good and wants to keep having terrible sex with me? What if we get together and it doesn’t work out and then I have to explain it to my friends, which includes his sister?
So yes, I’ll admit that I panicked. I’m not a hasty thinker; I need a moment to process things or I feel cornered and I freak out. I’m like that with everything—apartment leases, pizza toppings, kissing. I just need a minute to think.
But then he rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb and told me that’s what he’d have done if we were on a real date. Because he’s my dating tutor or something now. When exactly did that happen anyway? The details get fuzzy when I’m around Boyd. He arrested my date. I asked him not to say anything about it to Everly or his sister Sophie. And that spiraled into me owing him a favor and him providing me with dating advice. I think. He’s sort of confusing.
I was a mass of mixed feelings after that kiss. Excited, terrified, confused, aroused. My heart was racing—hell, it still races a little when I think about it. I felt relief that it wasn’t real because it let me off the hook from thinking about what that would mean. Yet I felt disappointed and foolish for the same reason. So I said nothing—I needed another minute to process this twist—and before I could decide if I wanted to slap him or drag him back for more, he walked out the door, tossing out something about calling me with the details for next weekend.
On Wednesday he texted.
Boyd: Friday night. 8pm.
Chloe: ???
Boyd: What’s ??? Confusing?
Chloe: I thought you said the wedding was on Saturday?
Boyd:: It is.
Chloe: Then why do I need to see you on Friday?
Boyd: You need the practice. We’ll call it a date rehearsal.
Chloe: Are you serious right now?
Boyd: Dress comfortably. You can wear some of those godforsaken leggings you love. Wait, don’t. Sweatpants would be better. Baggy sweatpants.
Chloe: WTF are you talking about?
Boyd: See you Friday.
Chloe: Um, no.
Boyd: No you don’t own any sweatpants?
Chloe: No, I won’t see you on Friday.
Boyd: You will.
Chloe: What do we need to rehearse? You picked out the dress and shoes yourself. AND you’ve already rehearsed kissing me. Do you need to practice kissing me again? That was rude by the way. R.U.D.E. And if you think this favor I owe you includes making out with you in front of your family you can think again.
Boyd:: So as long as my family isn’t watching it’s okay? Deal.
Chloe: ………….
Boyd: ……….
The arrogant bastard shows up on Friday night at a quarter to eight. He’s wearing jeans that fit him perfectly, a long-sleeved black Henley and a smug smile—which drops from his face as his eyes trail over my legging-clad legs.
“Fucking leggings,” he mutters and walks inside my apartment without waiting for an invitation. I shut the door behind him and cross my arms across my chest while resting my weight on one hip, shooting Boyd with the most snarky expression I can manage.
“I’m busy, Boyd, what do you need?”
I mean seriously, what does he need? He cannot be hard up for female companionship on a Friday evening and as lovely as it is that he’s taken me on some sort of charity case, he’s got to have better things to do.
“You seem pretty busy,” he agrees, nodding towards my TV. I’m in the middle of a Dateline episode about a murder.
I sigh and roll my eyes, uncrossing my arms to wave a hand at him, indicating he should get to his point.
“I need you to pack,” he says.
Pack for what? I get a sinking feeling in my stomach as it occurs to me that Boyd’s never exactly said where this wedding is. Did I ever ask? Or did I just assume it was in the general Philadelphia area? I watch him as he strolls through my tiny studio apartment, his gaze roaming over my things while mine roams over him. Dammit, that shirt looks good on him. Freaking clingy cotton.
“What are you talking about?” I question when he doesn’t elaborate further. “Pack for what?”
He turns from the window, running his hand along his jaw. “Oh.” He pauses and drops his hand. “Did I forget to mention that the wedding is in Vail?”
“Vail!” I shriek. “Vail, Colorado? I can’t go with you to Colorado! It’s halfway across the country!”
“So?” He shakes his head, the skin around his eyes creasing in amusement. “Philadelphia, Vail. What’s the difference? I still have to go to this wedding, I still need to bring a date and you still have a new dress to wear,” he says, pointing to the dress still hanging in the store carrier bag, the hanger hooked over the top of my closet door. “Where’s your suitcase?” he asks, walking over to the closet and opening the door.
“Hey!” I protest.
He ignores me and, spotting my rolling suitcase on the top shelf—the shelf I need to stand on top of a chair to reach—he makes an easy reach for it and pulls it down. And yes, I catch a glimpse of his rock-hard abs when his shirt rises. I don’t stand a chance here, do I?
“I’m a teacher, Boyd. I can’t just miss class to do you a favor.”
He drops the suitcase on my bed and shoots me a smugly satisfied look. “What kind of amateur do you think I am? I know you’re off on Monday for Columbus Day. I’ll have you home by dinner time on Monday, Cinderella.”
“I don’t have a plane ticket,” I say, waving my arms in exasperation. He makes everything sound so easy.
He unzips my suitcase and lays it open ready for me to fill. “You don’t need a ticket. Any other objections?”
