I expect our ‘date’ is going to take the form of retaliation for my ambushing him with an evening of poetry and community spirit at Taverne Toulouse. He’s probably going to take me to some industrial warehouse to illustrate the values of commerce like I tried to illustrate the values of choosing human connection over profit.
I have a suspicion that despite my best efforts, that night left me with far more to think about than him. He really did sound like my mom, harping on and on about me reaching my full potential, but somehow, the words stuck more coming from him. I know he was just trying to prove a point, but what he said latched onto my thoughts like a burr clinging tight to my clothes. It’s been impossible to pull it off.
All I can think about is how well you would do if you were under the spotlight yourself.
That’s never been what I want. It’s not even because I’m totally selfless—far from it, actually. I just feel more accomplished when I’m the one running around making sure everyone’s okay. It’s what I do. It’s who I am, and there’s security in knowing that.
Only now that Taverne Toulouse needs someone to step up to the plate, someone to decide they have the ambition and ruthlessness needed to actually turn the place around, there’s no one ready for the role. There’s no one for me to help. I’m like a VP without a president. I’m standing there with someone else’s speech notes and realizing all the TV cameras are pointed at me.
The ding-dong of the doorbell grinds my train of thought to a halt. I glance down at my outfit—my skinny jeans and a plain black v-neck—and pick a stray hair off my shirt before throwing on a spring jacket and grabbing my purse. Julien said we’re keeping it casual tonight, and I’m both amused and slightly nervous to see what he shows up wearing. After the sweatpants and ball cap incident, there’s no telling what he’s capable of.
I pull the door open and don’t even hide the fact that I’m looking him up and down. I start with his shiny rich boy shoes, rake my eyes up over his blue jeans, and take in his broad chest covered by his Cambridge sweater with a leather jacket on top. His beard somehow looks extra lustrous tonight, and now that I know what it feels like brushing the insides of my thighs, it’s the first thing I think about whenever I see his face.
“Like what you see?”
“Huh?”
I realize I’m totally zoned out over his beard. He’s smirking at me from behind it.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Insufferable,” I mutter.
“You look lovely,” he counters.
I try not to smile. “Just lovely? I’m notravissanttonight?”
“You told me that was cheesy, but it is the first thing I thought when I opened the door.”
So cheesy. So, so cheesy.
Yet I can’t stop myself from beaming at him.
“I think your books are trying to escape.”
He nods to where my ever-increasing book stacks are inching their way out of the living room, getting closer and closer to the front door.
“One day I’ll have to start lining the floor with them and putting my furniture on top,” I concede.
We hover by the door, and I know this is probably the moment where I’m supposed to ask him if he wants to see my place. I also know we probably won’t make it to wherever he wants to go if we end up in a room with a bed.
There’s another reason I hesitate; he still hasn’t seen my apartment, and it feels like the last bastion of defense. Between our date nights, all the post-sex conversations whispered in the dark, and the stupid photos and texts we send each other when we’re supposed to be busy with work, I’ve shared more of my life with Julien than I intended. We’ve only known each other for a handful of weeks, and yet he knows more about me than some of the guys I dated for months and months.
I don’t even know if we’re dating. If I let him into my apartment, if he runs his hands over my books, if he leaves his scent soaked into my sheets, if I wake up to find him pouring coffee into my favourite mugs, this thing between us won’t just feel serious. It willbeserious—which could be a serious problem.
Time is passing so much faster than I thought it would. My deadline with Fournier will be here before I know it, which also marks my deadline with Julien. There’s something here, something strong—something that wants to get stronger—but I don’t know if it’s enough to change the nature of who he is and what he wants.
Yet that’s the only way to protect who I am and whatIwant.
It’s too much to think about right now. It’s so much easier to let myself get lost in him, in the warmth of his touch and the spark of his company, if only for a matter of hours.
“So,” I break the silence that’s been stretching on for way too long as I step out onto the walkway beside Julien, “where are we going tonight?”
I feel his eyes on me as I fumble to get my key in the lock, but if he recognizes my efforts to put up a desperate barrier for what they are, he doesn’t comment on it.
“I’m not going to spoil the surprise,” he answers.
“A surprise, eh?”