To See You

by Rachel Blaufeld

  He brought his palm over my hand and squeezed. “It’s cool. I said sushi. No worries,” he said, and it felt genuine and honest.

  This man was too good to be true. Like a fairy-tale prince, he was rescuing me, not from a villain but from a life of boredom and mediocrity. What if that wasn’t what I wanted? I’d worked so hard for so long for one thing, and one thing only. To get ahead.

  So did I want to jump on his horse and ride away?

  He enjoyed his food, savored it in a way no one I hung out with did. It was refreshing. I stared at his tongue dart out and lick his lower lip clean, and I had to mentally restrain myself from leaning forward and doing the job for him.

  “Here, take one bite. It’s not going to kill you.”

  Layton knocked me out of my trance, holding a small bite of spring roll in front of me. My tongue leaped at the chance to share the closest proximity with his fingers; it took every ounce of restraint in my body to keep it from running its tip along his thumb.

  Only eat the spring roll.

  I closed my mouth over the morsel and I might have moaned at the salty, fried goodness bathing my tongue in calories—a poor substitute for Layton’s finger.

  I should have told Janie what I was doing tonight; she would have talked some sense into me. Maybe I should have listened to my neurotic mother and met Garrett for a drink?

  Because here I was having dinner with a man I met on an airplane, a happy-go-lucky, chummy type, warm and affectionate with eyes you could drown in. A guy who liked to make me laugh and shared witty banter; he ate fried food and had probably never taken a spin class in his life.

  None of my attraction to him made sense. It was all a jumbled mess in my brain.

  “Good, right?” Layton swiped his thumb across my chin, apparently removing a stray crumb.

  “Really good.”

  “You’re not going to run five extra miles tomorrow, are you?”

  What’s with this guy? Does he spy on me?

  “Truthfully, I’ll probably be tempted. I’m a fitness editor, Layton. Practice what you preach and all that.”

  “I guess I don’t exactly fit the mold of who you normally share dinner with?”

  He asked the question quietly, his eyes not meeting mine for the first time since I’d arrived. Instead, he concentrated on the mahogany bar in front of us, running his index finger along the edge—instead of on my knee.

  “Layton . . .”

  “I know. It was overly optimistic of me to presume I had a chance.”

  This time he stared at me, his wavering confidence nothing like the Layton I’d seen thus far. I was beginning to think he wasn’t human with his super-confidence, and this glimpse of his vulnerability only made me want him more.

  He lifted his gaze to mine and gave me a small smile. “I just felt like taking a leap, trying for something I really, really wanted. Not something . . . someone. And that person is you, but . . .”

  I chugged a healthy gulp of cabernet and when I put down my glass, I released it and bravely forced my hand to move over the dark wood and settle on top of his. We’d been having all these light touches through dinner—our legs brushing against each other, his hand roaming my knee. This shouldn’t have felt electric, but it did.

  My smaller palm barely covered his large hand, and the connection when we touched was explosive. Sparks flew between us, spurring me to lean in and kiss his cheek. I kissed the heck out of that cheek, my lips lingering on his scruff.

  Oh yeah, did I forget to mention the scruff?

  A thin smattering of stubble covered his chin and cheeks—dark and speckled, scratchy and silky, delicious and sinister. It had been calling to me all night.

  And I’d just made the first move.

  A fireworks display worthy of the Fourth of July above the Hudson erupted from just a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m glad you tried. You leaped,” was all I said, running my thumb over the top of his hand.

  An ember burned in my belly, shooting warmth down to my core and back up to my chest. What would his lips taste like? I wanted desperately to know but wasn’t bold enough to make that move. Was I?

  Would he?

  His thumb wrapped over mine and held my hand steady. “Yeah? I mean, I want it to be true and I’ve been hoping all night. Each time you let me touch you, my confidence grew the tiniest bit, and . . . geez, listen to me running off at the mouth like a girl on Instagram.”

  “I’m in a weird place, Lay, but this feels more right than anything else right now.”

  “It’s not because I’m a conveniently nice guy, is it?”

  He swallowed, and I watched the lump of fear pass his Adam’s apple.

  I shook my head. It wasn’t—I refused to believe that’s what this was. I’d never wanted to settle. Now wasn’t the time.

  Grinning, he leaned forward and murmured in my ear, “Then this calls for cake.”

  “Cake? Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, if we’re going to go all out and I’m going to have run a bunch of miles in the morning to pay for it, how about one of those soft-serves in a cone? Have you seen them, the trucks all over Central Park? The best ice cream in America, and cheap.”

  It was my favorite treat, especially on a hot day after a long, long, long run. The type where you set out to do ten miles but ended up doing twelve because it was just so freaking nice out. Never after a date, though.

  “Sold. Let me grab the check and we’re out of here.”

  Layton captured the attention of the server, paid, and stood again, guiding me out of my chair and out of the restaurant with his hand on my back.

  Pushing through the door into the warm New York night, skyscrapers looming over us as we walked toward Central Park South.

  “So, this is the real deal?” he asked. “This ice cream?”

  Layton’s laugh echoed down the street, and I wanted to snatch it away from anyone else who might have heard it. I felt strangely territorial, wanting to keep his goodness all to myself.

  “It’s pretty damn good. Come on.” I tugged his T-shirt, pulling him toward the corner. The hum of the food truck vibrated against traffic, horses clip-clopped and evening runners sped by us, and it was one hundred percent bliss.

  “Two cones, swirl, please,” I said to the guy behind the counter, pulling my wallet out of my tote.

  “Hey.” Layton swatted my hand. “I’m not that kind of guy. The going-Dutch kind.”

  I tossed a twenty on the counter. “Well, I’m that kind of girl. Besides, what kind of Big Apple host would I be if I didn’t buy you a treat from a street vendor?”

  I took a long lick of my cone, moaning as the creamy coolness made its way down my throat before I even put my change away.

  “I’m not waiting any longer if it’s that good.” Layton brought his tongue out to meet the ice cream, mesmerizing me again.

  “Want to walk?” he asked while I shoved my change away and grabbed a light sweater from my bag.

  Chills were forming from ingesting the cold ice cream, coupled with the searing heat between us. I put one sleeve on while licking my cone and then switched. It wasn’t even close to being glamorous or seductive, but it was never about that with Layton.

  With him, I could be the socially awkward girl who was way too ahead of herself, but was afraid to admit it.

  We ended up walking up Central Park South toward Columbus Circle, eating until there was nothing left and swapping stories. Somehow we got stuck on the topic of peanut allergies, I think because of the nut vendors on the street and different people we knew with the ailment. We agreed that while it was serious, the whole not-serving-peanuts-on-an-airplane deal was overboard.

  Then again, we weren’t parents, so what the hell did we know? Honestly, it was such meaningless banter yet heavily weighted with meaning, simply because we were doing it. Chatting like a longtime couple with plans for a future and kids with allergies.

  At Columbus Circle, I stopped
in front of the Time Warner Center. “Pretty sure this is you.”

  “It is.”

  We stood there quietly, no more laughing over peanuts and long-gone ice cream cones to busy our hands with. After an awkward moment, he broke the silence.

  “We could have a drink. You could come up?”

  As he watched me, waiting for an answer, I studied him back, nearly sighing at how his brown eyes looked like a warm honey amber against the twinkling skyline.

  Oh. My. God. I was a cheesy girl falling for a guy, the star of my own romantic comedy.

  “I’d like to,” I answered, grinning from ear to ear. “Want to play me some of the music you heard today?”

  His face lit up like the Empire State Building. “You’d want to do that?”

  “I would.”

  He linked his hand with mine and practically dragged me into the hotel lobby and toward the elevators.

  We rode to the seventeenth floor and made a right off the elevator. I should have felt awkward going to Layton’s hotel room, but I didn’t.

  He stopped outside a corner suite and pulled a key card from his back pocket, then slipped it inside the door and popped the lock open. “Welcome to my humble digs.” He held the door for me, turning the privacy lock after we were both inside.

  “Pretty sweet suite,” I joked.

  For one or two beats, I wanted to run, to go home and snuggle with Lucy, but then Layton looked at me. Not with his usual smile, but an entirely different expression. It looked like hunger or a need to be close—a look I’d really never experienced before.

  “Let’s have a drink.” He took my hand and led me to a small sofa in the sitting area. “Let me see what the minibar has in stock. Sit,” he said, commanding and calming my nerves, but doing little to cool my hormones. “There’s cab or a pinot noir, or would you like something stronger?”

  “Cab is good.”

  I watched his hands, the ones I was becoming more and more fascinated by, open the travel-sized wine bottle and pour it into a glass and then open a small bottle of Lagavulin and toss it into a lowball glass.

  “I always think those minibottles are so cute, like they belong to Barbie or something.”

  “I always think they could be a bit bigger,” Layton said, carrying the drinks to the couch. He sat and handed me my wine. “Cheers! Again, I’m damn happy it didn’t end like last time.”

  “About that . . .”

  “Don’t.” He winked. “Don’t ruin this with an explanation.”

  “So, back to la-la land tomorrow?”

  He nodded.

  “Who’s with the infamous Harriette?”

  I wondered if he had someone he was seeing in LA. He was the kind of guy someone snatched up and didn’t share, right? A good, dependable guy. Kind and considerate. Just the right amount of command and take-charge.

  “My neighbor. She loves Harriette.”

  I felt the corner of my mouth turn up and willed it to change direction. No such luck. Happiness ghosted through my veins.

  “She likes the company since her son went to college. She and her husband are good to Harri. They walk her, give her lots of love. I’m lucky.”

  “Oh?”

  “I mean I’m luckier to be here now.”

  Another oh? slipped from my mouth. What was I fishing for with this guy?

  “Yeah.” Layton leaned over and took my wineglass and set it on the table, placing his tumbler next to it. He ran his hand down my cheek, a small callus on the side of his thumb grazing my skin.

  “I want to kiss you. Is that okay?”

  Molten pools of chocolate stared at me. All I could think about was when I was ten years old and my parents took me on a trip back east. We stopped overnight in Hershey, and I remember wanting to dive into the vats of chocolate . . . just like I wanted to dive into Layton right now, despite him being all wrong for me. A lot like chocolate, I guess.

  My overachieving brain was running circles inside my head. Pros and cons floated around in there, jumbling with my hormones, but the hormones were winning. Thank God.

  “You should,” I whispered.

  And he did.

  Layton leaned in, and the scent of clean rain filled my senses as he touched his lips to mine. They weren’t too soft or chapped, but were just right, tasting mine with a confident firmness. At first, his kiss was simple, chaste even, not demanding anything from me as he watched me through half-closed eyes. I drank in his gaze for one last second before closing my eyes and allowing the sensations to overcome me.

  He inched closer, and I basked in his warmth as his knee bumped mine and his hand came down to rest on my leg. He brought his other hand up to sift through my hair, eventually allowing it to settle on the back of my neck, keeping me close. And he never let go of my lips.

  A small nip at my lower lip encouraged me to open my mouth and allow him to deepen the kiss. When I did, his tongue swept through my mouth, looking for mine and tasting like chocolate ice cream.

  God, sinful chocolate. It was all I could think about, a big sundae of all my naughty vices—the guy and the chocolate candy and the ice cream.

  We stayed like that for a while, kissing and exploring as we sat on the sofa. Both of us needing to breathe, we broke free for a minute and stared at each other as our chests rose and fell in sync.

  What was Layton doing to me? I met the guy on a plane in a down time in my life, and despite the fact that I wasn’t nice to him, he pursued me through e-mail. I had to be the dumbest girl in America despite all my academic and business success.

  As we gazed at each other, saying nothing, his hand roamed my waist at the bottom of my shirt, his thumb tracing the fine line of skin at my waistline. His finger was smooth against my skin, never snagging or scratching.

  It was heaven, I decided, but not for me.

  “I have to go. This is a lot to take in, okay?”

  Layton’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry if I pushed too fast. Stay, Charli,” he said while scooting to the far side of the couch. “I’ll keep my hands and lips over here.”

  “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  Mortified, I grabbed my forehead and took a deep breath. “I did not just use the most cliché line ever, did I?” I mumbled, refusing to look up for fear shame or regret would be plastered on Layton’s face.

  “You did, but it’s cool. I get it. This is unexpected.”

  I looked at Layton sitting there, his AC/DC tee stretched across his chest and riding up a smidge on his hip, his dark hair a mess, his jeans unfashionably loose, and those Chucks.

  Could this be me? Here with this guy? Then I saw his dimple and the stubble and the way sincere worry transformed his face, and I thought . . . yes, it could, but I didn’t know if I wanted it.

  “I have to go,” I repeated. “I just need to collect my thoughts.”

  “Okay,” Layton said, but he didn’t move.

  “I’m going to catch a cab downstairs.”

  Please e-mail me.

  Please don’t hate me.

  Keeping those thoughts to myself, I stood and grabbed my tote, noting my half-full glass of wine on the table. Is my glass half-full or half-empty? I was starting to believe I was a half-empty kind of gal.

  “Do you want me to walk you down?”

  I shook my head. “Thank you, but no.” I headed toward the door.

  “Why don’t I stay an extra night?” he suggested. “We could do drinks here, on the rooftop of the hotel. I hear it’s pretty outrageous at night. We can just relax, have a couple of drinks, and end this on the right note. Not like now.”

  “Okay.”

  I might have agreed but I knew I wouldn’t show up. My inner bitch was winning out, and I hated her. I deserved a lifetime of being alone. I had to get out of there.

  “Seven again?” he asked.

  God, he was still trying. He was so nice. “Sure.”

  I gave Layton a quick peck on the cheek and ran right the hell out of there—my lips furious at m
e for rushing them away from his perfectly stubbled cheek.

  Eight Months Later

  I half sat, half leaned at the bar waiting for her. It was an overpriced, cliché hole-in-the-wall in Manhattan she’d suggested. Best burgers in New York, she’d written in her e-mail. She’d assumed I’d want something big and heavy to eat, overselling the place to me and avoiding the fat fucking elephant in the room.

  Which was me, so I didn’t take the burger suggestion as a slight. I deserved that one. Especially after the sushi debacle.

  But I wasn’t one bit hungry for burgers—not tonight. To be honest, I was famished for her. I was so fucking starving for this woman, I’d gone without an apology, showed up like a good little puppy without even as much as an apologetic whisper. No sorry or a single freaking misgiving about what had happened the last time we saw each other. Zip.

  Now I sat in the bar area like one of those big whales at Sea World, waiting in line for a dead fish. It was dingy and dimly lit, but the Yelpers loved this joint. Of course I’d googled it, making sure I was hip enough to show my face in the establishment.

  Impatient, I swirled the Scotch in my tumbler, the ice clinking against the glass. Out of habit, I pulled my shirt down at the waist, making sure it covered my waistband. It was a habit I still couldn’t quite shake. I’d worn a waffle-knit shirt and khakis, the new trendy kind, elastic at the ankle and a drawstring at the waist—all the bells and whistles.

  I wasn’t sure why I felt like I had to forgo my usual look. The only other times we’d met up, I’d been wearing a music tee and jeans. Except for the premiere, but tonight was different from the other times . . . I hoped. That assumption was probably false and premature on my part.

  As I took a sip of my drink, the liquid burned the back of my throat and warmed me all the way going down, heightening my arousal and calming my nerves at the same time.

  Tiny bells chimed above the door, signaling it was opening—a touch that was out of place for New York City, but I assumed it was part of the charm of this joint.