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***
Next morning, early, I’m at the same position I was last night, outside her building, perched on my Ducati. Waiting.
Not sure for what, exactly. A reaction of some kind, I guess. With my luck, a dog may have wandered into the building and eaten the gifts I left on her door mat. Or a mad neighbor trampled all over them.
I rub my face. I’ve shaved and even went and had a haircut. I’ve run my fingers so often through the top since last night that it’s standing up in dark spikes, much like Ash’s. I even bought some new T-shirts, and I’m wearing one without permanent stains. Bright white; a blank slate.
My fingers tap a rhythm on my thigh—one two three, one two three. My leg starts to bounce.
What am I doing here? She must think I’m a psychopath, hanging out outside her building. Frowning, I get up, glance one last time at her window and swing my leg over my bike.
My cell beeps in my pocket, and I pull it out.
‘R u here?’
I glance up at her window, and I think I see a dark silhouette. I type, ‘yes’
‘Come up.’
She buzzes the heavy entrance door open, and I take the stairs two at a time. She’s standing on the landing, holding the box of mocha cupcakes with espresso frosting in one hand and the DVD of Pacific Rim in the other.
I pause at the top of the stairs, scanning her face. She’s biting her lip, but her eyes are sparkling.
Then she grins widely and launches herself at me, cupcakes and DVD and all, and I grab her and spin her around. I laugh with her.
“You like what I got you?” I mutter as I deposit her on her doorstep.
“Love it.”
She hasn’t changed. She’s still my Erin. With her dark hair loose, dressed in tiny red sleeping shorts and a loose white blouse, she looks good enough to eat. I feel as if I haven’t seen her in weeks, when it’s only been since last night.
“You didn’t have to buy me presents,” she whispers, her eyes with their green and golden flecks bright.
“I wanted to.”
She smiles and lowers her gaze. I’m rooted to the spot, unable to look away.
“I should leave.” I glance at the open door, reluctant to go.
“Stay. I’ll make breakfast,” she says, her voice low, unraveling my control fast.
“Breakfast.”
“Pancakes. Come, have a seat.” She turns and walks across the living room toward what has to be the kitchen, her hips swaying. I don’t think she realizes what she does to me.
I take a seat at the table of the small, tidy kitchen, and stare at Erin as she heats the pan and pours the mix. The aroma of pancakes fills the air, and my stomach rumbles. Does she remember it’s my favorite sweet?
Erin snickers, glancing at me over her shoulder.
Even that small gesture serves to make me harder. I shift on the seat and adjust myself under the table. I need relief, or I’ll go crazy. Her every movement ratchets up the heat until I think my blood is boiling in my veins.
The pancakes pile up and when she brings them to the table with a bottle of maple syrup and a pot of coffee, I’m momentarily distracted. I used to love pancakes, and my body suddenly remembers it hasn’t had any fuel since yesterday midday. I inhale pancake after pancake, my mind blissfully blanking.
When I lo
ok up a few pancakes later, I find Erin’s amused gaze on me.
“Well, it’s a pleasure feeding someone who enjoys my cooking,” she says, smiling.
