by Noelle Adams
“Not even an hour.”
“You should have woken me up.” He wraps his arms around me, which is an impressive feat since I’m still holding the broom.
“No, I shouldn’t have. I should have let you sleep, which is what I did.”
He kisses me in a slow, lazy way that makes me smile and shiver at the same time. I’m still wearing nothing but his shirt—half-buttoned and with the sleeves rolled up so they don’t hang over my hands. His fingers stray under the hem of it and slide up my bare skin. He makes a humming sound of pleasure.
“You must have used my toothpaste,” I say, pulling away briefly so I can grin up at him.
“Of course I did. I wasn’t going to ruin what could be a very good day with morning breath.” There’s a playful glint in his blue eyes. When I first met him, I never would have guessed he was capable of looking that particular way.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure that would have ruined it.”
He leans down to kiss me again, but I put a hand on his chest to hold him back. “What?” he demands with a faint scowl at my preventing him from reaching me. “Are you not into morning sex?”
“I’m sure I’d be just fine with morning sex, but we’re not going to try it right now or my muffins will burn for sure.”
“What if I promised to be quick?”
“I doubt you’ve ever been quick in your life. Anyway, they’re almost done. You want some coffee?”
“Yes. That would be great. I can make it.”
“The french press is in the sink, since I finished what I made earlier, but the coffee is in the cabinet to the right of it. Go ahead and make some more.”
He doesn’t look particularly disappointed as he goes over to work on the coffee. In fact, I wouldn’t blame him at all if he was glad to get some coffee before he had to exert himself for sex. I pull out the muffins to let them cool as I finish the sweeping I’d not quite completed because of Richard’s appearance.
Then we sit down with our coffee and muffins and read our phones for a while.
When we’re done, Richard is still in the mood for sex. I can see it in his eyes. So I tell him we can go back to bed as soon as I’ve put up the dirty dishes. He helps by drying the ones I don’t put in the dishwasher, and he opens all my cabinets to learn what goes where as he puts them up.
After we’ve finished, I dry off my hands and turn to face him, only to discover that he’s wandered into my living room and he’s staring at an empty spot on the mantle above the gas fireplace.
I don’t know how he figured it out—instinct or acute observation or sheer luck—but he’s found the spot where I had placed the champagne flutes.
“They’re in the closet,” I say, coming up behind him. “I put them up. After I got back from Saint Thomas.”
He nods, silent for a moment before he turns to face me. “You were really serious about ending things.”
“Yes. I was. I didn’t know there was any other option. I thought you were just... And I had real feelings. I was going to get hurt.”
“I know you were.” He leans down to brush his lips across mine but doesn’t linger. “You were a lot wiser than I was. I kept telling myself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just sex. And that, sure, it was the best sex I’d ever had in my life, but it couldn’t be anything deeper than that. I thought, as long as you were fine with having no strings, there was no reason we shouldn’t enjoy it. Because if anyone got hurt, it would just be me.”
“Why were you so convinced it couldn’t have been more than sex?”
“Because I didn’t think I was capable of more. I didn’t think it was in me. To feel this way. To be this man.” He licks his lips and then glances away. “And I was sure that, even if I could, even if I was, it would never be more than that for you.”
My brows draw together as I stare up at him. “What? Why did you think that?”
He gives a half shrug, casually dismissing what’s anything but insignificant. “Because I couldn’t imagine you would ever want me that way. For sex? Sure. Of course. But for more... for something real...” He shakes his head, still not meeting my eyes. “I knew you’d eventually want that from someone, but I never dreamed you could want that from me.” His voice grows slightly hoarse at the end.
He means it. He’s as confident as a man can be when it comes to business, to culture, to sex. But in anything that goes deep, he’s as vulnerable as anyone else. Maybe more so. It actually never occurred to him that I might fall in love with him. Not for real. Not in a way that matters.
It’s been a really long time since this man has been loved. Decades.
He didn’t think it was possible again.
I make a little sound in my throat as my face twists with emotion. Then I wrap my arms around him and hold him against me.
He hugs me back, burying his face against my neck for a few moments. He’s feeling this deeply. As deeply as I am.
“You want to go back to bed?” I ask at last. “I’ll show you exactly how much I want you that way.”
He smiles at me. He’s going to say yes. And then we’ll head to the bedroom and spend a long time proving how much we feel for each other. I can see the promise in his eyes. I know it’s in mine too. But he’s only just taken my hand when my phone beeps.
I frown in surprise. “That’s the buzzer from the street. No one should be stopping by to see me this morning.”
“Maybe it’s just someone trying to get in.”
“Maybe.”
I answer the buzz and am shocked when it’s Ashley’s voice on the other end. “Hey, Gillian! Is it too early? Sean and I were in the neighborhood. We got you one of those cinnamon rolls you like. Is it a bad time?”
“Oh.” I’m so startled by her friendly, casual voice that I have no idea how to respond. I hear myself saying, “It’s fine. Thanks. Come on up.” I press the button to open the exterior door of the building.
I look over at Richard, who’s arching his eyebrows.
“Shit,” I murmur. “Why did I say they could come up?”
Richard chuckles. “Because you were caught off guard. It’s fine. You want me to hide in the bathroom or something?”
I glance over at him, momentarily tempted since it would prevent a lot of awkward questions.
But I don’t want to lie to Ashley. And I don’t want to hide Richard from her. From anyone. He’s a part of my life now, so I might as well start now. “No,” I say. “No need to do that. Although it might not be a bad idea for you to put some pants on.”
He’s still wearing nothing but a pair of gray boxer briefs. “Good plan.” He disappears into the bedroom as I hear a knock on my apartment door.
I go to open it, feeling nervous and flustered.
Ashley is grinning as I open the door, but her friendly greeting fades as she gets a look at me.
That’s when I realize I probably should have put something else on too. I’m wearing Richard’s shirt. It covers me completely, hanging almost to my knees, but it’s obviously a man’s shirt.
“Oh shit,” Ashley breathes. “Did George...?”
I’ve almost forgotten that I had a date with George the night before. More rattled than ever, I stammer, “Oh. No. No, it’s not... I mean it’s...” I step out of the doorway instinctively to let Ashley and Sean in, glancing back at my bedroom door.
Richard is coming out, wearing his trousers from last night and pulling down the undershirt he just pulled over his head.
Ashley’s mouth falls open.
Sean puts a hand on her back in a silently supportive gesture and gives me a wry smile. “Looks like we maybe didn’t choose the best time to pay a visit.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say in a rush. “It’s totally fine. I’m happy to see you. Come in and meet Richard.”
It’s better once they get inside the apartment and I close the door. Richard comes over with a smile, shaking hands with each of them in turn and introducing himself with the ease and charm he alwa
ys shows to the rest of the world.
Ashley’s husband, Sean Doyle, is the richest and most successful person in what I would consider my circle of friends. He’s about Richard’s height. About the same size in terms of frame. He’s not nearly as handsome as Richard is—and not just because I can’t view Richard objectively. Sean is one of those people you wouldn’t consider all that attractive until he starts to talk. He’s brilliant and funny and sexy in an unexpected way. He’s got a really good heart, and I’ve always liked him a lot.
Right now he’s smiling but also eyeing Richard up and down, taking a silent assessment of him. Richard is doing the same to him.
Maybe the two men could become friends, but right now they’re doing that kind of instinctive inventory that men often do to each other.
Ashley’s slanting me an apologetic look. She’s embarrassed. She wanted to pay a spontaneous visit because she knew I’ve been kind of down this week, and it turned into something she didn’t expect.
I smile, trying to wordlessly assure her that it’s fine. It does make me feel self-conscious to have them show up here to find me with Richard when it’s clear from both Richard’s and my condition that we spent the night together. But I want my friends to meet Richard. I want him to be a real part of my world.
If he can’t be, then we won’t have any sort of future together.
Richard is asking Sean what he does and then asking a lot of insightful follow-up questions about Sean’s real estate development business. It’s an easy conversation. It sounds relaxed and pleasant. And it gives Ashley the opportunity to give me the box with the cinnamon roll she brought me and then whisper as we go into the kitchen to put it up, “I’m so sorry, Gillian. I had no idea. I thought you might still be kind of sad, so—”
“I know. I know. It’s totally fine. It was really nice of you. I promise it’s fine.”
“So what happened?” Her eyes are wide.
“He just showed up last night. He wants a real relationship.”
“Seriously?”
I nod. “Seriously. He’s serious. So we’re going to try.”
She scans my face quickly. For a moment it looks like she wants to say something, and I feel a tightening of defensiveness in my stomach.
But all she does is smile and murmur, “Then I’m happy for you.”
Relieved, I walk back toward Richard. He pulls me to his side when I approach, and he keeps his arm around me.
We chat for a few minutes. Richard shifts from Sean’s job to Ashley’s (she’s a lawyer specializing in real estate, which is how she first met Sean). Finally Sean manages to get a few questions in and asks about what Richard does.
He’s vague, the way he always is. Business consultant. And he smoothly puts off Sean’s inquiries for more information.
Then Ashley and Sean leave, and the encounter is over without any problems.
Richard kisses me lightly as I close and lock the door. “Do you feel weird about this? About me?”
“No. I’m good.” I search his face. “Do you?”
He smiles. “I’m good too.”
“Then maybe we can be good together.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
WE SPEND THE REST OF the weekend together, only leaving the apartment to get some groceries so we’ll have something to eat. He stays until Sunday evening, but then he has to leave. He needs to catch a plane to Atlanta so he can be at a new job first thing Monday morning.
I hate for him to leave, but it doesn’t feel as bad as every other time I’ve left him. Because this time I know it won’t be the last. I’ll see him again. This coming weekend. He says his job will definitely be over by then, so we can spend next weekend together.
More than that would be unreasonable. We live in different cities. We both have demanding jobs. We’re not at the point where we can make major life changes because of our relationship. We need to give this time first. See if we can even make it work.
So I hug him hard just before he leaves, recognizing how much I’ll miss him, how much I want him to be with me, but also having no regrets or false expectations about who and what we are.
We’re saying goodbye, but this is good. I’m happier than I ever realized I was capable of being.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he murmurs against my ear.
“And text when your plane lands.”
He pulls away, his brows pulling together a little. Like he’s surprised. Like it never occurred to him that I’d want to verify his safety, hear about the progress of his travels.
Like no one ever checked on him that way before.
“I’d like you to text,” I add, reaching up to cup his face. “I want to know you’re safely on the ground again.”
His face softens. He lets out a long exhale. He pulls me into another quick, hard hug before he says, “I will. Goodbye, baby.”
“Bye. See you next weekend.”
I stand in my doorway and watch as he walks down the hall and disappears into the stairwell. I’ve never done this. Said goodbye to a boyfriend.
I’ve never even had a boyfriend.
Is Richard even my boyfriend? It sounds weird—not quite right—but what the hell else can I call him?
Saying he’s “my man” might be true, but it sounds even weirder to me.
But he is my man.
I have one now.
For the first time in my life, I have a man I can say is really mine.
Eight
THE NEXT THREE WEEKS are some of the best of my life.
I’ve had good weeks before. Really good weeks. But these genuinely rival them. I’ve always heard people talk about a certain kind of high you get when you start dating someone new who has a lot of potential. I had a taste of that high that one evening with Matt, but it ended almost as soon as it began back then.
This high... this one doesn’t go away. Not while I’m working (and I do have quite a bit of work to do). Not while I’m going about my daily routine. And not when I go to bed or wake up in the morning.
I’m thinking about Richard—my body buzzing with excitement and pleasure and a lot of warm, soft thoughts—most of the time, at least with a small part of my mind. Even when the rest of it is occupied with something entirely different, I occasionally get quick little flashes of pure giddiness out of the blue when I remember that Richard and I are together.
Maybe this is normal. Maybe it’s something everyone goes through when they find someone new.
Or maybe it’s because this is the first time for me.
For whatever reason, the weeks are good, even when Richard and I aren’t together. He sends little texts throughout the day, after he realizes that it makes me happy to hear from him (something he didn’t automatically know). And he calls every night before I go to sleep. No matter where in the world he is, he works the timing to suit my schedule. The first weekend, he comes back to Boston, and we don’t leave my apartment the entire time. The second weekend, I go down to New York and stay at his place—a sleek one-bedroom in Manhattan with minimal furniture and a fantastic view. We do get out and about that weekend, eating at a couple of his favorite restaurants.
People clearly know him in his building. They nod and smile, and some of them greet him with what looks like real friendliness. A couple of them give me looks of obvious scrutiny, like they’re trying to figure out who I am to Richard. He doesn’t introduce me to anyone, however. I don’t think it’s because he’s trying to keep me a secret.
I think it’s because he’s not close enough to anyone to want to introduce me to them.
He’s spent most of his life holding other people at arm’s length. Maybe he’s attempting to turn over a new leaf with me. Try something new. Open himself up to possibilities he never allowed before. But it doesn’t happen overnight. And, for right now, as far as I can tell, he doesn’t really trust anyone but me.
It’s something to work on. Maybe when he realizes that he can make a real relationship work, he
’ll want other kinds of relationships too. Friends. Not just professional contacts and miscellaneous acquaintances who owe him favors. (He has a lot of those.) What he doesn’t have is a real community.
He needs it. Everyone does.
On the third weekend, I’m finishing up a job in Seattle, and I don’t get back in town until late on Sunday afternoon. Richard has been working too, and he leaves for a new job Monday morning, so we resign ourselves to not getting together for this one weekend.
It’s disappointing but not the end of the world.
We’re both mature, reasonable adults. We can go two weeks without seeing each other without completely falling apart.
I’m feeling his absence, however, when I get back to my quiet apartment on Sunday. I’m tired from a difficult job. There was a lot of pressure because the company wanted the work done very quickly, and stress like that wears on me emotionally, which is one of the reasons I prefer working for myself.
I head for the shower first thing and stand under the hot spray for a while, trying to relax and shake off the lingering threads of anxiety. That little voice that still occasionally creeps in to tell me I’m not good enough and that eventually people will find out. I cry a little bit in the shower and feel better afterward. I pour myself a glass of the cabernet Richard had shipped to me from California when he was there last week. Then I get to unpacking my stuff since otherwise the still-packed suitcase will haunt me like a ghost.
I’ve managed to get my suitcase onto the bench at the foot of my bed and unzip it when my phone rings. I left it on my nightstand before I took a shower, so I lunge for it with so much vigor that I nearly knock the nightstand off-balance.
Fortunately, no one’s around to see that embarrassing move. And it’s all for nothing because it’s not Richard on the other end of the call.
It’s Ashley, checking to see if I’m back in town.
We chat for a few minutes. I tell her about my business trip, and she tells me about a hilariously egotistical client she just got. When she asks about Richard, it’s casual. A natural question. So I tell her he’s fine. He’s leaving for London tomorrow morning, so we’re not seeing each other this weekend.
