Page 41 of Room for Us
I stand, discarding my book on the coffee table.
“You look lovely.” My voice is thick. So is my dick. My knees feel weak and it isn’t the back-to-back runs. I want to kneel before her, lift up that dress, and make her come on my tongue.
She must sense where my head is, because she says stiffly, “This isn’t a date. No compliments required.”
Ah, there’s the spunk.
“Who said it was a date?” I ask, grinning as I rock back on my heels. “I’m in it for the free food. And you deserved a night off.”
That makes her pause. “Oh. Well, thanks. My mom’s an amazing cook.”
“Great. Can’t wait.”
She sways a little, off-kilter, before grabbing her purse, keys, and a cardigan from the entry closet. “Let’s go then.”
I walk past her, close enough that my shoulder brushes hers, and delight in her answering shiver. She frowns when I open the front door for her, and frowns again when I beat her to the car.
“What are you doing?”
“Being chivalrous,” I answer, gesturing her into the driver’s seat.
“Stop it.”
I chuckle. “Get in the car, Zoey.”
The drive takes under ten minutes but feels like twenty, my senses hyper-alert, her freshly showered skin perfuming the air. Her knuckles are white as she grips the wheel. She glances at me several times though the corner of her eye. I struggle not to adjust myself in my pants.
Finally, she pulls into the driveway of a ranch-style home dwarfed by huge trees. It’s old but well maintained, and radiates picturesque family living.
“This is where you grew up?” I ask, noting a tree in the yard that boasts a faded wooden swing.
“Yes.”
“Where did you go for college?”
“NYU.”
My skin ripples, my spine jerks, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I flash back to my flight out here, to the wholly odd sensation of leaving a part of myself behind. Of the world becoming a new shape—one I don’t recognize.
I murmur, “So did I.”
“Cool.”
I almost laugh at the exaggerated disinterest in her voice. “Where did you move after you graduated?”
She sighs as she puts the car in park. “Twenty questions again?”
I shrug, trying not to act as interested as I feel. “Guess so.”
A glare angles my way. “I stayed in New York. Lived there until a few months ago.” After a pause, she adds, “Upper East Side.”
We were in the same city for years. Granted, the probability of us crossing paths was negligible given the number of people in the city and our relative locations, but still.
She was close.
“I’m in the West Village,” I say finally. “Been there for years. Weird, right? We could have run into each other at some point.”
“Not likely,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “I didn’t get out much.” There’s a forlorn quality to the words that speaks of isolation.
