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“A four, a two and a zero,” I comment. “Are you moving?”
“No!” She laughs as she says it, her head turning in my direction, her hair falling in a curtain around her. “Like the four-twenty highway shirt I almost bought in Vail. I’m going to hang these on the wall over my bookcase. It’ll remind me of that day.”
Then she smiles. And fuck, that does things to me.
“Great idea. I’ll get a set too,” I tell her. “Help me find three more.”
So that’s how we end up with an entire box of used house numbers spread around on the ground while we inspect the available options of fours, twos and zeros until we both have the mismatched set we like best. And fine, I’m starting to see the appeal of other people’s used shit. Because this is fun. Chloe is fun.
Everything with Chloe is more fun. Donuts and shopping and traveling on the candy plane—it’s all better when she’s around. Errand-running and laundry and hours spent at a flea market. I’ll take it. Because I know that every day I spend with Chloe is the best day of my life.
We poke around the market for another couple of hours. I’m happy to find someone selling coffee. Chloe is happy to find enough old wooden toy blocks to spell out Christine. She insists my sister will love them for the baby’s vintage-chic nursery. I don’t have a fucking clue, but I nod and agree anyway. We walk back towards my place on Pine Street, which turns out to be antique row in Center City, Philadelphia. Two blocks of shops filled with a variety of kitsch, vintage and antique stores. Which by my way of thinking is a bunch of garage sales located inside of storefronts, but I’ll admit once we step inside a few they have some pretty cool stuff. I even manage to find a really cool original sketch of the hospital Sophie’s husband works at. I get it for him even though he’s an annoying fuck. He does love my sister.
When we make it back to my place Chloe runs upstairs to move her laundry into the dryer and I grab my tool box and follow her up.
That’s not a euphemism. I have an actual tool box. I want to hang the numbers we got today over my dresser so I’ll see them every morning when I wake up.
Jesus fuck.
Why don’t I just beg her to marry me and get it over with?
Once Chloe finishes with her laundry she watches me affix the numbers to my wall, helping me decide on the placement.
Then everything goes to shit.
“Do you want to order something in for dinner or go out?” I ask her.
She’s sitting on the end of my bed watching me pack up the toolbox. I snap the latches closed and glance at her.
“What are we doing, Boyd?” She waves her hands by her face, her fingers spread wide like little explosions. “I mean seriously. What are we doing?” She grabs a strand of her hair and starts twirling it around her finger, her movements rough and slightly panicky. Her legs are crossed and the foot touching the floor starts to bounce.
Shit. All I mentioned is dinner. I haven’t even mentioned the five-year plan for a house in the suburbs. Which I shouldn’t be thinking about, but I do. Because this girl is a fucking whirlwind to my common sense. She makes me think about forever with her when I haven’t even nailed her down to the next date.
“We should break up,” she says. “I’m a disaster. I’ll fuck everything up. I always fuck it up.” Her voice is distressed and she looks like she’s on her way to hyperventilating. “And you’ll leave. Everyone leaves. And I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You can’t break up with me. We’re not dating,” I reply calmly and cross over to her, taking her hand so she’ll stop twisting the hell out of her hair.
“Oh.” She exhales in an audible puff as she tilts her head back to look at me. She swallows. “I can’t?”
“Nope.”
“Then what are we doing? Why are you so nice to me? You’re always so freaking nice to me, Boyd. And attentive. And good in bed. And—”
“We’re just Chloe-and-Boyding.” I cut her off before she gets any more worked up.
“Chloe-and-Boyding?”
“Yes,” I say then brush my lips along the shell of her ear. “Trust me, Chloe.” I give her a gentle push back, because I’m not above distracting her with sex. Not one bit. I lie on the bed beside her and pull her to me. “And you can’t go when there are so many fucks I haven’t given you yet, Chloe. I’d like to give you all the fucks.”
“All the fucks?” The tension eases from her body and her eyes flare, but in excitement instead of panic.
“All of them. The bossy fuck.” I slip my hand under the hem of her shirt and lift it up and over her head. “The rough fuck.” She lifts her hips as I grip the waistband of her leggings and tug. “The shower fuck.” She sucks in a breath at that and swallows. “So many fucks, Chloe.” I brush my lips against her ear. “The dirty talk fuck. The ass play fuck,” I whisper. “Do you want to miss any of those?”
“No.” She shakes her head and flexes her hips against me, already looking to move this forward. “I want all the fucks.”
“Good. Then we’re on the same page. Take off your bra.”
I watch her slide a hand behind her back and unclasp it. It lands on the floor a second after my shirt.
“Don’t move,” I advise, holding up my hand before walking to my closet. When I come back she sits up on the bed, eyes wide.
“Is that your shoulder holster?”
I nod. I’ve never attempted to restrain a woman before with it, never wanted to, but I suspect Chloe will be game.
“Arms over your head,” I tell her as I loop the holster in half and approach the bed. She nods eagerly, lying back and stretching her arms above her head. I don’t have anything to attach this to, and I’m fairly certain she’ll be able to wiggle out of this contraption if she wants to, but that’s not the point.
She watches fascinated as I slip it over her wrists and tighten the adjustable straps.
“It’s government-issued, right?” she asks, wetting her lips with her tongue.
This. Fucking. Girl.
