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“I didn’t know you lived in Cherry Creek. How long?”
“Four years. I went to undergrad school around there. My favorite Italian restaurant is there, which is on my list of places to hit while I’m here.”
I perk up. “North?”
“North,” he confirms. “You like it?”
“Love it. My favorite, too.”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
We have this moment of connection then, that isn’t really over North or Cherry Creek, but rather us. Just us and the pull between us that refuses to be ignored. “Then North it is,” he says finally, revving the engine and backing us up. “How’d you end up in Cherry Creek?” he asks once he’s driving us through the parking lot.
“I went to a lunch there with my mother when I first moved here and fell in love. It reminds me of home. Well one the quaint little areas, at least.”
“New York City?” he asks, pulling onto the highway.
“You’ve read up on me,” I say to the reference of my home state.
“Of course, I did,” he says, offering no apologies or explanation.
“Is there a file I can get on you?”
He casts me a sideways look. “I’m right here. Just ask me.”
“As if you’re that approachable.”
“I am,” he says, glancing over at me again. “Tonight, I am.”
“Why tonight?”
“It’s time.” He doesn’t give me a chance to press again. “Why does Cherry Creek remind you of New York City?”
“We lived in a tiny pocket of the city there. Everything we wanted was in a small space. Cherry Creek is like that in that everything is right there, within reach, minus the smog, rats, and crush of people. It’s quaint and safe, hidden from the rest of the city in so many ways.”
“It’s the hidden part I liked,” he says. “It’s like a small city boxed off from the rest of the city.”
“Yes,” I say. “One hundred percent yes.” Then I dare to test his open book. “So, after your undergrad, you went off to Harvard?”
“Yes. And then I went off to Harvard before joining the Navy. And yes, that’s a complicated story.” He turns us into the Cherry Creek neighborhood. “And yes, you can ask me about it while we eat.”
“I will,” I say, “and actually, I live two blocks from the restaurant. You can park there if you like. Though, I guess if you’re at the Marriott, North is practically next door.”
“I’m at the Marriott, but I’ll park at your place.” He doesn’t ask me where I live. He just cuts right and then left and pulls into the driveway of my gray-finished house, then around to the back. “The address was in your file and I have a photographic memory.”
I look at him. “As in literally?”
“Yes. Literally.” He opens his door. “I’ll come around to get you.” He exits the car and I hear the trunk pop. I open my door and by the time I’ve settled my legs on the ground, he’s in a sleek black leather jacket, and pulling me to my feet and to him.
He shuts the door, and I end up against the car with his hand on the side of my face, this warm, intimate blanket surrounding us, consuming us. There are no lies, no doubts, no divide. There is just this crazy, hot connection we’ve always shared. “I’m going to have to kiss you now, Harper.” His mouth comes down on mine, his tongue pressing past my teeth in a slow, deep stroke that has me gripping his jacket and leaning into him.
He eases back, his mouth just a breath from mine, lingering there before a band seems to snap between us and we’re kissing again, and this time he doesn’t hold back. He kisses me deeply, completely and when I whimper with just how much I need more, he pulls back. “Let’s go eat, sweetheart. We need to talk and we won’t talk if we walk in your door.”
“Sweetheart? Not princess?”
His hands go to the lapels on my trench coat. “You were right. I use it to divide us. No more princess.”
