Sora bites her bottom lip, and for a second, I think she mightcry. Then she moves in and lets her big pit-mix hedge his way out. Woah, he’s huge. Stout. Intimidating looking. He could take a bite out of me without really trying.
“Larry’s a softie, really,” Sora reassures me.
“Oh, hey, boy.” I offer my hand, but he reaches up to sniff and misses me by at least two inches. It’s then I realize that his perpetual wink is because he’s missing an eye.
“He’s not good spatially. He never adjusted to losing an eye—raccoon, the shelter said,” Sora explains, and so I move my hand so he can sniff it. Then I hold up the round plush toy and figure I’ll toss it to him, and maybe he’ll catch it.
“Here, boy. Here! Catch it!” I toss it in the air, and he jumps up to get it, but he misses by a good six inches.
“He can’t catch things very well. Or fetch,” she adds, as Larry scrambles to pick up the plush, but misses it time and again. Poor dude.
Taking pity on him, I lean in and pick it up, then manage to put it right in his giant, open mouth. “Here you go.” Larry happily trots off to a back corner of the apartment. “I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
Sora studies me. “Want to come in?”
“Can I? Or does that violate Solo February?”
“Get in here before I change my mind,” Sora teases, and I hop to it, following her into her modest vintage condo. “Shall we have wine?” she asks.
“I think it’s a must.”
The kitchen looks newish, but rarely used, as the stove and oven seem pristine. She limps over to the gray cabinets and retrieves a couple of wineglasses and then a bottle opener from a drawer.
“Let me do that. You rest your ankle.”
She laughs a little. “I’m fine.”
“You may not have broken anything, but you need to rest.” I move closer to reach for the corkscrew, and as I do, I brush her arm. She flails a little, and I worry her weak ankle will bring her down. I steady her with one hand, and she glances up at me, eyes grateful. And sexy as hell. Damn, but… those lips. Big, plump, kissable. And now I know they taste like crème brûlée. And for a second, everything stops, and we just stare at each other, the pure desire taut between us like a guitar string.
She’s got to feel that. She can’t help but feel it. Right?
Then I remember she’s standing on a hurt ankle.
“How about I help you to the couch?” I offer.
“I can manage,” she says, limping a little. But I follow her, acting as her crutch, just in case. She sinks into the blue-gray cushions and smiles up at me. “Thank you.” Her voice is barely a whisper. I reluctantly leave her to uncork the wine.
“I like your place,” I say, glancing around her small but neat living room. It works as living room/dining room and part of the open kitchen. A compact blue sectional and small matching armchair sit in the middle of the room, and a jungle of plants lines the small hallway to the kitchen. She doesn’t have much on her walls, and there’s an unpacked box or two making the place feel a little like she just arrived, but not in a bad way, I think. Her flat-screen TV stands on a glass console table to the left. Windows line the back of the room, and a door to the right leads to what seems like a bedroom, as I can just see the white corner of an unmade bed. The exposed red brick on the wall behind the couch makes the room feel warmer andbrighter, as does the pine floor. I see a small silver laptop open on her kitchen table.
“You writing anotherSolo Februarypost?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, and nods. “This one’s about the joy of spending time with friends instead of… on dates.”
“Oh. That’s good.” I guess it’s good. Are we friends? I was hoping for more than friends, but I’ll take friends.
I fill her oversized wineglasses with two generous pours and head to the sofa. Since it’s an L-shaped sectional, I take the shorter end of the L.
“To healing quickly,” I say, offering up my glass for a toast.
“Amen,” she says, and leans forward to clink my glass. I take a sip of the drugstore wine, relieved to discover it’s drinkable. She doesn’t seem to mind it either as she takes a big gulp. We stare at each other for a small beat of awkward silence.
“Want a chocolate?” I offer up the first giant red heart full of delicacies.
She opens the lid of the giant heart, tapping her finger on her plump, pink lips. “Which one?” she debates, as she scans all the options—light, dark, and white truffles, all with mystery fillings.
“Well, you should eat them all,” I say. “If this is your first true box of Valentine’s chocolates, then I think, by law, you have to try them all.”
“Well, I have bought some myself. On February fifteenth, when they’re seventy-five percent off.”
