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“You’re welcome. Grab your purse.”
The thing is, it’s hard to say no to him. He’s got this way of looking at me that makes me agreeable. He looks at me like he really sees me, which is thrilling, yet totally terrifying all at the same. So I follow him to his car and I get in.
It’s not far to his place—less than two miles—but it’s Center City, Philadelphia, so we sit in some traffic. He pulls into a covered parking spot that appears to be assigned to him and parks, then we head in. The building is very modern and urban and the interior hallways have an almost hotel-like feel. But then we step inside his unit and I realize it’s a loft. A show-stopping, jaw-dropping loft. Hardwood floors play off the concrete ceiling and exposed ductwork. The walls are a mix of drywall and cement to break up the space with perfectly placed artwork and a wide screen television mounted to the wall. There’s a dining room table that would easily seat six but looks like it’s never used and a kitchen that’s the perfect blend between modern and warm with stools around an enormous island that I imagine is used all the time. An industrial metal staircase leads up to what I assume is a bedroom loft, while floor-to-ceiling windows line the opposite wall.
Whoever decorated this place would twitch over my own second-hand decorating style, but I don’t hate it. Quite the opposite. It’s very inviting. I don’t make any play at being polite, instead I walk around and investigate.
“What do you think?” Boyd asks when I turn back to him.
“When I was a kid I had this book about a mom bear and a dad bear and their twelve baby bears. And all the baby bears each had their own tree trunk—except the youngest. He was too little to have his own tree trunk, so he was still with Mom and Dad. Anyway, the other eleven baby bears each had a tree trunk and each one was different. Decorated to match their personalities. I was kinda obsessed with it.”
“So you’re saying you like my place?”
I laugh. “Yes. It suits you.”
“Laundry is upstairs,” he says. “Follow me.” And then he jogs up the stairs while I trail behind him. I was correct in assuming there was a loft bedroom at the top of the stairs. The half wall is solid, offering privacy from below. But from the top, you can still experience the stunning windows and views. I’m eyeing the bedroom layout—and his bed—when I realize Boyd already has the water running into the washer in a laundry room attached to the bedroom and is dropping my towels into the machine.
“Hey!” I enter the laundry room and tug at the clothes basket. “You can’t actually do my laundry.”
“Yes, I can,” he replies, straight-faced. “Who do you think does mine?”
“No. I mean, I’m sure you’re capable but you’re not touching my underwear and stuff.”
“I’ve been inside of you. I don’t think touching your underwear is encroaching on your privacy.”
And just like that, things are weird. I blush. I actually feel my face turn red. I glance into the washer and watch the water pour in and wonder if this weirdness is all me or if he felt it too, but I don’t want to look at his face to find out.
“Chloe.” He says my name softly, but I can still hear it over the rushing water. He says it carefully, his tone easy, and I lift my eyes to meet his. “This doesn’t have to be weird.”
Okay. So he felt it too. I exhale and nod.
“No?”
“No. Besides, these are just the towels.” Then he leans over me to reach the detergent. I stop breathing for a second when his body presses against mine. The memories of last weekend flash though my mind and I feel tingly all over. A moment later he’s stepped back, detergent bottle in hand, and I exhale and watch as he measures the liquid and dumps it into the machine then snaps the lid closed.
I just stand there and stare at him, not moving. He cocks an eyebrow and then places his hands on my shoulders and turns me around.
“Now lunch,” he says.
“Now lunch,” I agree. I pause at the top of the stairs and wave at the windows. “This must be amazing at night,” I say and then cringe. Holy cow, did that sound like I was inviting myself to stay? “I mean, I can imagine that it does,” I add and then shake my head and jog down the steps. “Hey, do you know why Adele crossed the road?”
“Nope.”
“To say hello from the other side.”
We reach the bottom of the steps and I turn to look at him. He’s staring back at me with a dubious expression. “Come on, that one was good.”
“It was something,” he agrees. “What do you want for lunch?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “A sandwich?”
“Then I’ve got just the place.”
***
We leave his place and head east on South Street to 5th then cut across Bainbridge to 4th Street. He offered to drive, but I opted for walking. It’ll be only too soon before the weather turns and makes walking miserable. It’s still nice for now, might as well take advantage of it.
“Thanks for helping me get the bookcase home,” I offer as we walk. I’m not sure why we’re still together. Why he wanted to have lunch, offered to let me do his laundry at his place.
“No problem. Gotta work off those favors I owe you, right?”
Favors? “How many favors do you owe me?”
“Two.”
“Two?”
“Yeah. It was three, but I paid one off with the bookcase. So two.”
“When did we decide you owed me three favors?” This guy totally does math like a government employee.
“Didn’t we?” He looks totally nonplussed with his bad accounting of favors. “We’re here.”
“The Famous 4th Street Delicatessen,” I read from the sign as Boyd holds the door. “I’ve never been here.”
“What? Chloe.” He shakes his head and makes a tsk sound. “What kind of a Philadelphian are you?”
“Well, I’m from Connecticut, so…”
“Weak excuse, Chloe. Weak.”
We get a table and Boyd orders two cream sodas. The place has a retro old-fashioned feel that makes it feel like it’s been there forever, which a glance at the menu tells me it just about has. ‘Since 1923’ is proudly printed on the front. I read through the menu and when the waitress comes we both place the same order—a turkey sandwich.
