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Because we have never been truly alone.
Dining out came with the steady flow of patrons and restaurant staff. Hanging out with his friends… well, that explains itself. And earlier tonight, when we couldn’t keep our mouths off each other, people stood less than twenty feet from us—the office walls and door our only form of privacy.
But inside the four walls of Micah’s home, it would only be me and him. No one to stop at our table to interrupt conversations. No one to jiggle door handles and inhibit us from touching. Or kissing.
Micah strolls over and opens my door, two pizza boxes balanced in his other hand. “C’mon.” He jerks his head toward the house. “Let’s get inside and eat.”
He shuts the door and I press the fob’s lock button. I follow his sure steps on slate pavers. Slow down as we approach the screened porch. Stop breathing as he opens the front door and gestures me inside. He flips a switch beside the door and warm light filters through the space.
“Make yourself at home.” He sets the pizzas down on the coffee table and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Be back in a sec.” He disappears down a short hallway.
I step farther into the room, the scent of Micah’s cologne and lemon float in the air as my eyes scan every square inch. The house isn’t small but feels big for one person. Has Micah always lived alone?
Light oak planks the open floor plan. The exterior wall to the right has more windows than concrete or drywall. During the day, I picture the living and dining area bright and warm and serene.
An earthy-brown couch with a chaise faces the front wall of the house. A natural-edge, wood coffee table with wide iron legs sits within reach, a television mounted feet from the front door. Warm light spills from a lamp between the television and wall of windows, and a second lamp near the corner of the couch.
Across the room, near the windows, is a dining table—the same natural edge as the coffee table—with two chairs on either side. Large round bulbs hang at uneven lengths from thick black cords. In the dark, I bet they glow like stars. Like Micah’s eyes. Beyond the table, a large, sepia-tone world map is pinned to a corkboard. A collage of photographs surrounds the map and I step closer to view them.
I reach out and stroke a finger over a younger version of Micah. One I remember from years back. When life was simple and not so simple. In the photo, he has an arm around Shelly and who I assume is their mother. All three of them smiling without a care in the world.
“That was in the Smoky Mountains.”
I jump and slap a hand over my chest. “What are you, part secret agent?” He laughs with a shake of his head. “Don’t sneak up like that.”
“Didn’t mean to.” Another chuckle leaves his lips. He presses his front to my back as his arms snake around my waist. “Just saw you here and didn’t want to disturb you.” Warm, soft lips press against the skin beneath my ear. “I like seeing you in my space.”
I wiggle out of his arms and twist to face him. “And how many other women have you delivered that exact line to?” The question is meant to be a joke, considering all the women that have left Roar on Micah’s arm.
But guilt swirls like a waterspout beneath my diaphragm as his face pales. Shit.
“The women I left the club with… they never set foot in this house.” His eyes close as he inhales deep. On the exhale, his eyes reopen. “The last woman to step foot in this house brought another man.” Dark, starry irises swallow me whole. “You being here… let’s just say it’s a big step.”
Wow. Just wow.
Way to make an ass of yourself, Peyton.
“I didn’t—” I fumble over my words. Unsure how to pedal back and fix my mistake. “Sorry.”
A hand brushes mine before our fingers intertwine. “Let’s eat.” He nods toward the couch.
We plop down on the sofa and I open the pizza boxes as Micah scans a list of movies on the television. When I look up, he selects Pulp Fiction, presses pause and sets the remote on the table.
“Want a drink?” He rises from the couch and ambles toward the small, yet spacious kitchen. Whoever designed the kitchen knew how to make the most out of the limited space.
I follow Micah with my eyes. Take in his relaxed demeanor and attire. Drop my gaze down his backside and swallow. Something about gray sweats and a snug cotton tee…
He fetches a pitcher from the fridge and sets it on the small island while getting glasses. The island sits askew in the open space, three barstools on the side facing the living and dining area. The overall vibe of the kitchen is a blend of dark wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and light granite counters. A large window over the sink faces the backyard. For someone who doesn’t cook, his kitchen is dreamy. I would cook in it.
Wait. What?
Why does being here—in Micah’s space, his home—feel so natural? So comfortable? Why does it conjure thoughts of us wrapped up in each other? Laughter and flour handprints and water fights with the sink sprayer.
“Water, please,” I croak out and turn to face the television.
Snap out of it, Peyton.
When half of my pizza—and all of Micah’s—vanishes, I set the box on the table and pat my belly. Micah scoots over until our arms bump, and then he rests a hand on my thigh. The contact is simple and non-suggestive. Yet it warms me more than the summer evening.
