KNOT: A Wake Family Novel (19 page)

“You were going to share it? It wasn’t a gift?” he was suspicious, but I could tell he was hopeful, too.

“Nope. I don’t
give
wine like that to a
friend
I’ve only had for one day.”

I was a terrible liar, but even if he didn’t believe me, it was a way I could let him know I understood.

I don’t care who you are, when a man buys you ice packs—just in case he’s not there to help you—you think more of him. You make allowances.

Because I cared that teeny, tiny sliver of a bit, I lied.

He mulled it over, let it sink in. The man was always thinking. He gave me a sideways glance but let me off, placing the wine on the counter. Then, he said, “Your place looks nice. You got a lot done.”

I looked around at my kitchen and the rooms it opened up to.

There were still a lot of boxes, but the majority of them were empty. Shelves, albeit also empty, hung on the walls. I had my table and chairs in their place, and I’d hung a few paintings in the dining room.

I wasn’t a stranger to a drill. I read do-it-yourself books about as often as cookbooks, and read cookbooks like some women read Cosmo. I had a cute toolbox. It was candy apple red, my favorite color.

Don’t get me wrong, I read Cosmo too, but that’s an entirely different ritual.

A monthly, full-night, take-out and Cosmo, first to last page operation. I never took the stupid quizzes. I didn’t read it for the articles, but for the ads and pictures. So many times I’d fallen in love with a designer perfume when I was growing up reading my mother’s, prying the lightly glued sample tabs up and running them over my wrists.

I would smell it on myself all day, and pretended like I was a grown up. When could do whatever I wanted. When could leave and never come back. Live my own life.

I collected perfume like some women collect shoes, and had most of the ones I coveted as a child. Mostly from the eighties and nineties.

One bottle I owned was a vintage Guerlain
Apres L’Ondee
from 1960, I’d never even worn it. Some bottles, like that one, I’d never spray, because they’re so rare. I couldn’t think of anywhere that special I’d have to be.

I’d been itching to get them on display again, and he was right, my apartment looked nice—compared to the disarray yesterday.

Before I could thank him for the compliment, he busted me.

“I think you’re lying to me, and you did buy the wine for me.”

Well, there went that plan.

I picked up the wrapping paper and the box my ice packs came in and tossed them into the trash, feigning ignorance. “Why would I do that? I bought it to share.”

He leaned against my bar top, palms down and swayed as he deliberated. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.”

“Well, I’ll take a glass then,” he challenged, glancing at his watch, something he did a lot.

Did he have somewhere to be? Was he going to a ballgame?

“Were you on your way out? I can wait. I didn’t even get it chilled.”

Before the words were even completely out of my mouth, I knew I’d given myself away. Who comes to share a bottle that’s not chilled?

He stared me down, and his jaw ticked. I was caught, but he wasn’t rubbing my nose in it. His voice was controlled and even, “I don’t have plans. Chill it, then come down.”

No one ever talked to me like that. I didn’t respond.

“Please,” he said annoyed, then added gentler, “I’d like to have a glass of wine with you, if you’re really sharing.
Please
.”

There it was again. He yielded to me.

He never pushed me too hard after I resisted. Even though he’d admitted he wanted to. Even when I knew he could.

No. He’d change tactics. Changed his tone. Changed his stance. He looked uncomfortable doing it, and truthfully I didn’t like it much either.

He’d said please. I guessed I was still a little soft inside from his gift.

“Okay,” I answered, but held up a finger. I had a stipulation. “Except, I’ll have you come back here. We can drink at my place tonight.”

“What time should I come back?” he said, through gritted teeth. He hated giving anything over to me. I wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was still early afternoon.

I relented, “What time works for
you
?”

He’d bought me ice packs. I’d pick my battles.

“It’s three thirty now. I’ll come back at six.” So decisive.

I clarified, “For a drink.”

“For a drink,” he agreed and relaxed a little.

I walked around the counter and playfully punched at his shoulder. “See we can be friends.”

I could have walked away, but I didn’t. He took the pretend punch in stride and leaned to one side as if it actually injured him. He looked so young and sexy and fun in that moment.

He taunted, “You’re really asking for it, friend.”

I stared at him a breath too long, he was so alluring. I blinked away thoughts of kissing his neck, smelling his skin.

I have to stop.

“I have things to do.” Then, I looked at the boxes, knowing they’d be my favorite ones to unpack.

He cleared his throat. “You have things to do.”

REGGIE—Saturday, June 28, 2008

S
he
had things to do?

I was missing a ball game with Justin. It wasn’t a major thing, we’d merely decided to catch an afternoon home game, but still.

She was being difficult, but I’d rather be with her than at the game. Yet, I knew that wasn’t smart.

I was really winning at life.

I readjusted my stance and asked, “Six. Are we having dinner and drinks or just drinks?”

Does she want to be in her place because of what I did and said last night up against the wall?

I noticed when I left options up to her when I was amendable, she was, too. “Are you hungry?” she inquired and started walking toward the door. The sight of her ass in those jeans was so damned good my mouth watered.

“I will be.”

“I’ll order pizza.” She turned on her heel and waited for me, but I couldn’t move yet. My eyes roamed her body, she noticed and looked down at herself, then blushed. When she realized what was happening, she cleared her throat and looked at me wide-eyed.

I had to snap out of it. I repeated, “Pizza and drinks. I’ll be back.”

With her thumb out she shook it in the direction of my condo. “You said that. Now go.” Then her hand flipped and fluttered.

She shooed me.

She
fucking
shooed me.

“Move it,” she added, and that jumpstarted my feet.

What the hell was I turning into?

I bought her fucking ice packs. I hadn’t known she was going to buy me that fucking wine. I knew she was lying about it, too. It was a gift. Only she’d taken it back.

That had me thinking on my way down the hall to my apartment.

Why did she take it back? She knew I liked it.

Nora was messing with my head.

She’d been messing with my head for months now. Maybe I’d been messing with my own head. Fuck, I didn’t know anymore.

All I knew was I still fucking wanted her, and I knew I couldn’t have her.

Friends. Ha.

Fuck that.

I turned on the game when I walked back into my place, then shot Justin a text.

ME: Sorry, I’m not going to make it. Something came up.

JUSTIN: Not to worry. Game sucks.

Which I saw for myself when I found the channel. It was so bad in fact, that my friend Paul from Seattle texted me to rub it in as well. It didn’t surprise me. We’d been giving each other shit since Kindergarten.

PAUL: Just saw your Cubbies get spanked. Are you crying?

ME: Don’t you have crime to fight or something?

PAUL: Nah. I’m off this weekend. Let me know next time you’re in town. We’ll go see a real ballgame. I’ll let you get me drunk.

ME: No. I’ll let you get me drunk. I got you drunk last time.

PAUL: Fine, princess. Drinks are on me.

The game ended, rather quickly, so I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.

I could always open my computer, do some work, but that was a rabbit hole I knew all too well. I’d be there all night.

I decided, even though I’d been taking the weekends off from the gym, I’d go for a run. It was either that or think about how fucking hot Nora looked in her apartment and jack my dick for the next few hours.

A run was more productive; besides, I’d probably be taking another cold shower when we parted for the night anyway. I’d been taking a lot of them.

My dick would have to wait.

When I got to the gym, I was glad to see it was empty. I turned my music up, and it flooded my head. The run turned into a full workout.

Lift. Push. Pull. Run. Repeat, but I still saw her ass every time I blinked.

Sweat poured off of me, and I was happy for the wear. It calmed me, eased some kind of tension I couldn’t explain.

It was fruitless though, because when I got back to my apartment a little over an hour later, I still jacked my dick off into a cold drain.

Five forty-five.

I’m going.

I’d thought about a lot that afternoon, and I’d decided to change up my approach with asking her questions. I’d been asking the wrong ones. Going about everything the wrong way.

She’d told me her terms, I needed to see where they were amendable. Or I’d need to find a way to be flexible with my own. Although, I didn’t think either were likely.

“You’re early,” she greeted, and I looked at my watch. I wasn’t early.

She wore a red silk robe that landed mid-thigh. It didn’t show anything, but my imagination was overactive as it was. My latest shower tug had been proof of that.

I did my best to keep my eyes on her face, and replied, “It’s
about
six.”

“I didn’t say
about
six. I said six,” she alleged. She was already goading me.

“Should I come back?” I was sarcastic but added a grin to smooth it over.

“No. I’m ready, just not dressed. I’ll be quick.” Then, she turned and let me in. “
My
wine should be cold now. The pizza will be here at six thirty.”

She padded across the floor, and when I heard her door shut, I finally allowed myself to look that direction.

The preemptive cold shower had been wise, but was it enough?

While she changed, I noticed the shelves in the living room that were empty earlier. Now they were host to beautiful glass bottles, the lights installed on the unit made them sparkle like jewelry.

A perfume collection.

I looked at each one. Some of the names were familiar; some were not. Regardless, she had an impressive assortment. I’d never known a woman to collect perfume like that. Growing up, my mother kept the few bottles of perfume she had on a mirrored tray on her dresser.

Nora had hers displayed like art.

“Pretty cool, huh?” she asked quietly like we were at an exhibit.

She’d put on a pair of jeans, a sheer ivory sweater with a tight white undershirt. Sexy and relaxed. Mostly sexy.

“Do you wear all these?” She always smelled different, yet kind of the same. I wondered if she liked wearing specific ones for certain things.

“No. I never wear these. I have some duplicates though, but they’re not in these bottles.”