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“Don’t worry about me,” he says as he walks toward the window. Moving the curtain to the side with his fingers, he spreads the blinds and looks down the street.
Rad Wellington is too big for this space. He’s meant for wide-open lofts, penthouses, and rooftop terraces. It’s utterly fascinating to see him in my apartment. The entire place could fit in his spare room. Makes me wonder how it will feel to be living in his space—airy and spacious or like I’m staying in an Airbnb, where it gives the façade of feeling at home. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here, huh?”
Glancing back, he says, “I don’t know that I’ve ever been here.” He moves around a stack of boxes and finds the end of the futon in front of him.
I get two bottles of beer from the fridge, and when I turn back, I catch him searching the apartment. I’m assuming over the lack of space a man his size requires. “It’s a . . . cozy place.” He’s polite enough to call it cozy versus tiny. “Why haven’t I been here before?”
Shrugging, I set the bottles on the counter and dig through a drawer for the bottle opener. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s completely out of your way?” A draft breeze runs across my bum, and I lower my arms, realizing I’ve been flashing him my ass. I duck behind a smaller stack of boxes and tug at the hem of my shirt. With my shorts being closer to him than me, I’m stuck.
His eyes narrow as he runs his fingers through his hair. “What are you doing?”
My spine stiffens. “Just standing here?”
Touching his chest, he angles his head. “Are you asking me?”
“The English language deems that it was indeed a question, but I didn’t mean to pose one.”
Scratching the bridge of his nose, he furrows his brow. “Why are you hiding behind those boxes?”
“I’m uh . . .” Sighing, I ask, “Do you mind closing your eyes for one minute. I need to grab a pair of shorts, and unfortunately, those shorts are closer to you.”
He looks to his side and reaches down to a pile of clothes I’d dumped on the futon earlier. The lace of a hot pink thong wraps around his finger, and he stills. I stop breathing altogether, frozen to the spot—horrified, mortified, and every other fied—that he’s seeing my underwear for the first time.
Sure, I wear comfy clothes on the daily, but I like to keep things spicy underneath. Sue me . . . oh wait, he’s a lawyer and could.
When the slyest of smirks plays along his lips, my heart thunders in my chest until he sets it to the side to take hold of a turquoise pair of running shorts and asks, “These?”
I press my hand to my forehead and gasp for air. “Those work.” He tosses them to me and then turns just before I reach for them. After slipping them on, I step out of hiding. “All good.”
His hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking as dapper as ever. “Are you going to give me a tour?”
“Sure.” I laugh, moving next to the bed. “Look left, now right. That’s the kitchen. Behind me is the bedroom. Behind you is the living room. That concludes our tour for today. Don’t forget to tip your guide.” I give him a wink and click my tongue.
There’s a sweetness to his smile that’s not often seen. Although I do remember seeing it last night when we were on the roof deck. It looks nice on him.
He chuckles. “Tipping the tour guide. You might be more Phoebe than I realized.”
“Probably. Oh! I have beer . Would you like one? I also have one or two pieces of pizza left from dinner if you’re hungry. Cammie ordered an extra large.”
“You don’t have to go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, Rad.” I return to the drawer and start searching through the junk to find the bottle opener again.
He comes to stand beside me, his arm brushing against mine. He twists the metal top off one bottle and then the other. “They’re twist off.”
“Ah. Guess it’s obvious I only keep beer in the fridge for company.”
There’s no great rush to leave. Standing next to each other, he glances over, giving me a charming boyish smile. It reminds me of when we were in college with no real responsibilities in life. Grades and part-time jobs. Afternoons spent studying in Central Park and lattes down in Washington Square. The six of us were inseparable.
Life loves throwing curveballs. All we can do is step up to the plate and swing. “Pizza?”
“No, I’m good,” he says, now grinning to himself. He returns to the futon and pushes the clothes pile to the side before sitting down. “You like pizza, but it looks like you cook, too.”
