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The silence stretches and, with considerably less bravado, he asks, “Are you okay today?”
Am I?
Two weeks ago, I would have laughed it off and said Of course. But I don’t know how to answer. I’m okay that we had sex, if that’s what he means. More than okay. I’m just not sure if everything else feels as easy as it used to, and I honestly don’t know what changed. Melly has always been Melly. Rusty has always been Rusty. But maybe I’m not that Carey anymore.
“Carey?”
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “About this, I mean. Are you?”
“Yes.” He has a hickey next to his collarbone. My first thought is how relieved I am that he can cover it up; my second is that I never want him to put clothes on again. “I am extremely okay.”
“Good.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” He rolls to his side again, pushing himself up onto his elbow, and because it’s a struggle not to look down again, I decide not to fight it. After a few wordless seconds, he laughs. “I might put some clothes on if we’re going to continue the conversation like this.” He motions vaguely to his lower half, still on display. “It’s a little drafty.”
Laughing, I pull the sheets to our chins and cuddle into the heat of him. He picks up my hand and begins massaging my fingers. Although there isn’t much he can do to stop the way my hands start moving as soon as I wake up, it’s still soothing; the rest of my body melts against the mattress. I’m happy with comfortable quiet. Talking means bringing up what got us here—or who—and what we’re going to do about it. I don’t know if I’m mentally prepared to deal with it before the sun is even up.
“We don’t have to decide anything now,” he says, studying me, “but we’ll eventually need to be on the same page about what we do outside this room.”
I gnaw on my lip, thinking while he continues to massage my hand. “As much as I want to protect this and keep it just between us for a little while, Melly will know. It’s like how dogs can smell fear, except it’s me with any hint of a life outside of work.”
He laughs.
“We don’t have to be anywhere for a few hours.” He looks at his watch. “Plenty of time to figure things out. I could go grab us coffee and something to eat and be back in ten minutes?”
“Yes, please.” My stomach gives a timely growl. “As you can hear, I am starving.”
He leans over me, hair a mess and eyes still sleepy. He kisses me once, not too long because we haven’t brushed our teeth yet, and then he’s up, sliding his glasses on and searching for his pants.
I lie back against the bed and stretch, content in a way I haven’t felt in ages. I listen to him move around the room, finding a shoe by the door, the other under the bed. Dressed, he leans over me again. I reach up, brush his hair back, and smile, relishing that this doesn’t feel awkward or weird.
“I want you to keep your glasses on.”
He lifts a single brow. He knows exactly what I mean. “We’ll do that when I get back.” A pause. “Don’t answer your phone yet, okay? Knowing Melly I’m sure she’ll be calling soon, and I want us to talk things out first.”
He peeks back over his shoulder at the clock. I groan. It’s five—almost time to get up and moving—but I want to stay in this happy bubble so much longer. “I won’t.”
Another kiss and then he’s up. “I’ll be fast. I’ll run.”
I laugh as the door closes behind him and fall back on the bed, grinning up at the ceiling. The room falls silent, but my booming thoughts easily fill the void. I like him. Not only is he absurdly good-looking when he’s naked, he’s also intuitive and patient and communicative and seems to get me, like really get me. Not because I’m simple, but because he’s looking carefully.
My smile falters. If he’s looking carefully, once the excitement of this wears off, he’ll see that there just isn’t all that much to me. Small-town girl, never been anywhere, no hobbies.
I like him, but what do our lives look like once we get back to Jackson? Other than the fact that he lives in a studio and has one loud neighbor and one old one, I know nothing about James’s life back home. Is he an early riser or a night owl? Does he cook or order takeout every night? I know he’s tidy, but is he fussy? Would my disdain for washing dishes drive him crazy? And what would it be like to work with someone I’m dating? I already don’t have time for a relationship—would the reality be that we’re ships passing in the night, the way it is with everyone else in my personal life?
