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Thoughts of the past rush through my head as the waitress comes by and pours us some wine that Linus apparently suggested. Memories of when I first met Hudson and how I didn’t want the drama of his baggage. Because baggage only leads to heartbreak. There was a short time I thought maybe I was wrong to place him in the friend category. Back then, he practically was a boyfriend to me, picking me up from work, cooking dinners, even taking care of me when I was sick.
Then I got pregnant with Adley, and I just couldn’t cross that line. I wanted Adley to have two parents in her life, and fear stopped me from allowing myself to fully feel for Hudson.
A warm hand touches my arm, and my mind returns to Matt and the restaurant. What is wrong with me?
“Sorry,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat.
Matt smiles, one that all the girls probably fall head over heels for. “I lost you for a minute.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just in the middle of this book that I’m writing, and I think it’s consuming my thoughts a little too much.”
Yes, that must be the reason all this stuff with Hudson is surfacing. It’s the story. It has to be.
“It amazes me that you’re a writer. How do you come up with all your ideas?” He picks up his wineglass and leans back in his chair, waiting for me to answer.
Matt doesn’t seem like a wine guy. He seems like a beer and shots guy. Maybe it’s the snowboarder thing, and how back in the day, I spent most of my time with snowboarders. For those eight months, Hudson’s snowboarding friends practically lived with us. And all they did was drink beer, do shots, and eat Chinese food.
“It used to come easier. This book was really hard to start, but now that I’m on a roll, I can’t type fast enough.” I refrain from telling him that I kind of wish I was with my laptop right now.
“That’s great,” he says before sipping his wine.
I take a sip of the wine, loving that Linus picked a white he knew I’d love. “And you? How did you become a snowboarder?”
He talks for the next twenty minutes about his snowboarding career, starting from the first time his dad put him on a board. We go through appetizers and soup before he’s finished telling me all about from childhood up until the last trick he did this afternoon on the halfpipe.
I smile politely, eating the delicious food Linus has made, drinking my wine, but somewhere along the line, I tune out. The next part of my story plays in my head like a movie.
Bea and Pete stumbled into their apartment door. She fiddled in her purse, searching for her keys while Pete laughed. Bea ended up dumping the contents of her purse all over the dirty floor in the hallway of her apartment building, and the keys jingled as they fell to the floor.
Pete picked them up and dangled them in front of her face. “You’re drunk!”
Bea swiped them away from him and inserted her key into the door. “So are you!”
She walked in and Pete bent down to pick up her lipstick, wallet, and phone from among the receipts and change scattered on the floor.
“You left all your shit!” he shouted too loudly while Bea watched him, holding the door open.
She just laughed until Mr. Overfelt opened his door and scowled at them. Their laughter died quickly.
“Sorry, Mr. Overfelt,” Bea said.
He stared long and hard, then shut his door and flipped the lock.
“Come on,” Bea whispered, or at least she tried unsuccessfully to keep her voice down.
Pete walked into the apartment, taking the door from her and shutting it, placing his finger over his mouth. “Shh…”
Their faces were so close together, and they both had their fingers over their mouths, telling one another to be quiet. Their eyes locked, and for the first time, neither of them turned away.
The longer they stared into each other’s eyes, the more something changed between them. Like a hunk of clay, it changed shape and meaning. They didn’t laugh again, and Pete leaned forward, the finger that was over his lips now shifting to touch her face.
Bea stepped back, her eyes darting away. “I need water.”
She was just steps away from the kitchen when Pete grabbed her hand and tugged her back into his arms. Bea had no time to prepare herself. When Pete’s lips met hers, she froze. Having no idea what to do, she stood there, but Pete wouldn’t accept it.
She hadn’t moved from his embrace. She didn’t step back or push him off. So he continued to press his lips to hers, and his hand went to the back of her head. He swiped his tongue along the seam of her lips, and she succumbed, opening for him.
Her hands went up and wound around his neck, pulling him closer. Neither said a word, their lips and hands doing all the talking. Pete couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t get close enough. Her body pressed against his felt too damn good.
