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“So, tell me about this small business dream of yours,” I prompt.
James rolls to his back and sighs, stretching his arms over his head until his hands touch the headboard. His legs are so long that he has to bend his knees to keep them on the bed. He seems entirely too big for a full-sized mattress. He would probably fall out of one of the dorm beds.
“You sure you want to hear my story?” he asks.
“You heard mine,” I respond.
A soft smile rests on his lips as his head rolls to the side. He studies me for a few seconds.
“My grandfather—I call him Papa—he owned this cool little store where I grew up. It was a bodega, or as close to a bodega as you can get in south Boston. He had all of these strange foods in there, and he was always getting new things in for people to try. He had a whole spice section with stuff people flew in from all over the world. Some of the city’s bigtime chefs sometimes stopped in and picked stuff up for special dishes. My grandpa would talk with them, and I think he even shared a recipe or two.”
“Wow. I wonder if they got famous off of his recipe,” I say, a genuine question. That’s my father’s upbringing kicking in—always looking for reasons to get litigious.
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t have been his anyhow. My great aunts were the ones with the recipes. Papa just stored them in his head. He was a decent cook, but my mom . . . she’s an artist.”
Seeing him talk about his mom with so much reverence, holding her on a pedestal for something so personal and domestic, fills me with envy. It’s a sweet envy, one wrapped in appreciation. But envy, none the less.
“Anyway, you probably know how Boston real estate goes. Someone bought a building then changed the lease structure, so the smaller businesses had to leave, and the bigger ones expanded, and blah, blah, blah.” He rolls his head in a circle then shifts so he’s on his side again and staring at me.
“And that’s your dream?” My eyes pull in, my focus on the weight in his. His smile dims, but it’s as though it’s hanging on for hope, the curve of his lips clinging to the dimples in his cheeks.
“That’s my dream. I want to reopen Delgado’s and add on a small restaurant concept for my mom. That’sherdream.” Those last three words seem to breathe life into his smile. It grows.
“So, your dream is makingherdream come true,” I say.
His gaze holds on to mine for several long seconds, and the farther I fall into the deep pools of blue and green, the dizzier I become. Long breaths grow soft and faint, until I’m holding mine just like him.
“Come here,” he finally utters.
Our eyes remain open, locked on one another, as I scoot into him. He sweeps an arm behind my head and the last vision I have is of the strong, stubbled line of his jaw and the soft invitation of his lips a breath before he kisses me. It’s soft and chaste, his lips lingering against mine, his tongue taking leisurely passes against my skin. The lust-filled neediness of our last intimate moments isn’t there, instead replaced with an adoration. I feel adored by his mouth—cherished and wanted, but in a way that feels less transient. There’s a steadiness in his kiss. His mouth is strong but his intimacy measured, as if he’s not just taking his time but enjoying the slow dance of it all. I’ve never been kissed like this. And I have no intention of stopping it anytime soon.
Chapter12
James
It’s strange to know I’m in the middle of a dream.
I’m fully aware that I am sleeping right now. I keep trying to convince my body to join my mind and will my eyes open, but the picture in my head is too sweet. The lapping of the ocean water and smell of salt in the air seems so real even though I know it’s not. In the real world, I’m in a bedroom at a school I still don’t quite feel at home at with a beautiful girl in my arms.
I tried to stay awake. Planned on it. I kissed Morgan until my lips were raw. And then I ran my fingers through her hair until her body stilled and her breathing evened out and I knew she was asleep. The silky feel of her hair slipping through my fingers was like some sort of physical hypnosis, and I don’t know if it was an hour or only minutes after she fell asleep that I did, but I did. And now, I’m clawing my way to awake because there is no way it is not early morning.
The thump against the wall does the trick. My eyes snap open and my body jolts, which brings Morgan out of her slumber.
“Oh, shit!” she whispers, pushing against my chest and sitting up.
We stare at one another’s wide eyes, somehow silently agreeing to make as little noise as possible. Neither of us breathes.
I mentally run through the sounds I recognize, matching up what I hear with what might be going on behind my door. Morgan taps the screen on her phone which is nestled between us on my bed. It’s four a.m. It’s not my mom we hear.
Thank God for old plumbing. The moment my dad turns on the shower, the pipes vibrate inside the wall between my room and the bathroom, and the high-pitched whine of the water coming out fades as the temperature heats.
“You’ve gotta gonow,” I say through a really panicked laugh.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Morgan says, rushing to the foot of my bed and shoving her feet into her boots.
Her hair is a wild mess, and I help her comb through it with my fingers, which she quickly slaps away.
“Stop it. That’s annoying,” she whisper-shouts.
