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“Then go out with me so we can change that.”
“When?”
“Now.”
I smack him in the sternum, which might as well be made of granite. How did an artist get this freaking buff?
“Be serious.”
“Iamserious. Have you eaten yet?”
I grimace. “I had a beer and a bite of hotdog.”
“That’s the awesome thing about Harrison. He’s rich as shit but never serves high class food. Some even call him cheap for it, but nobody ever walks away from it.”
His dark eyes sparkle at me, still molten. How does he do that? It’s like he’s peering into my soul.
“Come to my place.” He continues his attempts to persuade me, his breath fanning out across my ear, neck, and throat. I’m shivering all over again. “I’ll cook for you, something even tastier than ballpark style hotdogs. That way, I can show you more of what I’m working on. I also want to hear more about the mysterious P.E. teacher who has only been here a few months. Discover what makes her tick.”
Dragging me into a nearby and slightly more clandestine corridor, he nibbles just below my ear and I shudder. I can’t believe he did that but despite this, I’m eager for more.
So much more.
“Yeah, all right. Let’s go.”
Five
Sam
I’m tempted to break every speed limit in town on the road back to my place, anxious beyond measure to be with Amanda. And any concerns I have about her not following me evaporate as I spot her pulling up behind me in a burgundy Honda sedan.
I grin into my rearview mirror whether she can see me or not.
Something about her calls out to me like a siren. I haven’t figured out if it’s how she challenges me at every turn, if it’s basic chemistry or what, but my zipper is cutting off circulation to my favorite lower extremity just thinking about her.
The only thing I can think about is what could transpire between us tonight.
We arrive together, and I help her out of her car and lead her into my house through the garage, glad I finished the project I had going in here last month. Otherwise, with the paintings spread out every couple of feet all over the floor and splashes of acrylic everywhere, it would’ve looked more like a kindergartener had been finger-painting in here instead of a professional.
But then, scuttlebutt claims that she’s a professional, too, so maybe she’d understand that my work spills over to my home. A woman who’s such an excellent basketball player that she came within a hair’s breadth of making it into the WNBA. A woman pursuing her master’s degree in education. As someone who knows what it means to choose a path that’s not the easiest, I admire ambition. Amanda seems to have this in spades. I like that. A lot.
Yet, her insecurity has made itself known, as well, and I’d love to get to the bottom of that. If things go the way I want them to, there will be all the time in the world to explore that at some future date.
Now, I have other irons in the fire.
“How do you feel about stir fry?” I ask her, forcing myself to focus on feeding her. I don’t want to scare her off, and there’s proof that under certain circumstances, she can be a flight risk.
“I love it. Though, I’m allergic to tofu.” She raises an eyebrow and I understand that she really just doesn’t like it.
“Do you have shellfish allergies?”
“No. I adore seafood.”
“Then, it’ll be shrimp to the rescue,” I proclaim, throwing some frozen shrimp into my wok along with a half a stick of butter as I season it to taste. Once the meat component is the correct texture, I toss in the broccoli florets and baby carrots from my fridge.
It’s as I’m slicing onions that I notice her watching from my kitchen’s doorway. It’s a galley kitchen, which, while narrow, means all my ingredients are in arm’s reach.
But I forgot something.
