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Needless to say, my soap supply has depleted much quicker since meeting Shelly.
But I won’t pressure Shelly into anything she isn’t ready for. This woman… she is worth waiting a lifetime for. I want every other part of her too, not just the physical. Her heart. Her trust. Her soul.
“Your room is not what I expected,” she whispers into the dimly lit space.
I twist to face her. Take in her inquisitive eyes as they roam the space. “No?”
She shakes her head. “Don’t laugh.” Heat pinks her cheeks. “I expected to see more color. Paintings on the wall and sculptures on the dresser.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and fight the smile on my lips. “Not laughing. Promise.” I let my smile loose. “However, I do find it cute that you’d think my room would be vibrant.”
Shelly shrugs. “You’re a hard man to read sometimes.”
Every now and then, I felt the same about her—that she was difficult to read. Simple things that made Shelly happy were easy to see—her love for minimalism and simplicity, her food and drink preferences, the way she regarded flowers as she placed them in paper or vases.
What I wanted to learn were the things that made this beautiful woman tick. Where to touch her with fingertips and lips that would make her back bow and lungs gasp. The sights that captivated her, so I could take her to each one and memorize the way her smile lit up the sky. What quenched her soul, so I could gift it to her more often than not.
I lace my fingers with hers. “You haven’t seen it yet, but my studio is kind of chaotic. Organized chaos, if you will. Which is why my bedroom is the complete opposite.” I stare around at the bare pewter-painted walls. Scan the pale oak dresser free of clutter. Glance at the two nightstands in the same pale oak; soft light glows from selenite lamps on both. Then I take in the king bed with cream bedding, four pillows and nothing more. “After spending all day in a kaleidoscope of color or deep in thought, I need a blank slate. A way to reset myself.”
“Never thought of it like that, but it makes sense.”
Walking toward the door, I lead us back out to the main part of the house. “C’mon. You can help me make dinner.” Back in the kitchen, I set Shelly up to chop and assemble salad ingredients while I work on root vegetables for roasting.
By no means am I a pro in the kitchen, but I watched too many shows on Food Network in college and some of the easier meals stuck. Bless my dorm mates. At the time, I hated how often I heard about mincing garlic and dicing carrots. They used it as background noise while working on projects. And after weeks of it, I grew to love the channel too. Not just for the distractions I desperately needed, but also the skills it taught me.
We work in silence and it’s as comfortable as every other moment with Shelly. Every now and again, I glance her way and watch her work. Her precision with a knife reminds me of how intricately she assembles a vase of flowers. Arranging is her version of art, and it is so damn mesmerizing.
Once the chicken and vegetables are in the oven, I clean up. Shelly finishes the salad then pours the ingredients for a vinaigrette into a mason jar and shakes. While waiting for the food in the oven to finish, we head to the living room and set up the table and television.
When the timer buzzes, I remove dinner from the oven. After plating the chicken and vegetables, I carry the plates and salad bowls to the living room and we park ourselves on cushions on the floor. Food and wine and episodes ofDarkon the screen. It all feels so natural and sublime and effortless.
When our plates and bowls are empty, I take them to the kitchen and leave them for later. On my return, I bring the wine bottle and two slices of black forest cake I snagged from the grocery store bakery.
“This looks so good,” Shelly says as she twists the plate left and right to inspect the slice enough for two.
“Wasn’t sure what you liked, but these looked too good to pass up.”
She twists in her seat and gives me the smile I love too much. “Good choice.”
We devour the cake in no time then move up to the couch and I flip off the light. Shelly curls into my side as we continue another episode. When this episode ends, the plan is to flip over to the broadcast of the ball drop.
The closer it gets to midnight, the louder the neighborhood gets with fireworks and party cheers. And the more my stomach wrings with nervous energy. A sensation that has become more familiar in recent weeks. A ball of chaotic energy just beneath my diaphragm that, if I tried to translate it on canvas, would look like a maddening swirl of blue and red and yellow. Bright and vibrant and begging for attention.
Shelly’s breath heats the skin of my neck as the room goes black at the end of the episode. Much as I want to relish in the feel of her so close, I pick up the remote and switch the television to the channel broadcasting the festivities.
With less than a half hour to midnight, the crowd in Times Square is so boisterous I feel their excitement. For the first time, celebrating a holiday feels significant. All because of the woman in my arms.
“Hey,” I whisper, unsure if Shelly is still awake. All I get is a lowhmmin return. “I’m going to clean up in the kitchen. Need anything?”
Shelly uncurls herself from my side and I immediately miss her warmth and touch. She lifts a hand to cover her mouth as she yawns. “No. Might go splash my face so I don’t fall asleep early.”
With a light chuckle, I press my lips to her forehead. “Take your time.”
While Shelly heads for the bathroom, I clean up in the kitchen. It doesn’t take long to rinse the dishes, put them in the dishwasher and start the load. With a glance at the clock on the stove, I note it is seven minutes to midnight. Uncorking another bottle of wine, I wander back to the living room and stop when I reach the threshold.
In the corner of the couch, Shelly is curled up with the throw blanket, eyes closed and chest rising and falling at a slow rhythm. I take in the sight of her, inhale deeply, and tiptoe toward the couch. Setting the bottle on the table, I gingerly sit next to her, hoping not to disturb her from sleep. But the moment my weight shifts the cushion, her eyes pop open.
“Did I miss it?” she asks, voice thick with exhaustion as she scoots up to a seat.
