by Tif Marcelo
“Breakfast, too, then?” I say, testing.
“Nope. Desserrrt,” she says, lengthening the word and punctuating it with a brush against my arm.
The woman doesn’t have to tell me twice. I trot behind her to the cash register ready to pay, jump, roll over, and even beg.
By the grace of everything holy, we find a parking spot in front of my building. But as I take the first step up a flight of stone stairs, I halt, noting beams of light to my left.
“What is it?” Camille asks.
“When was the last time you went to the Palace of Fine Arts?”
Her lips turn up at the corners. “It’s been a couple of years, at least.”
“Wanna check it out?”
“But the food.”
“The food can wait. We didn’t get our tourist trap in today.” I tuck our groceries into the building’s front gate, and we make our way two blocks to our beacon, the palace dome. When the path turns from cement to damp grass, Camille takes off, skipping to the edge of the man-made pool.
She’s out of breath when I catch up to her. “My parents used to take Ally and me to the Exploratorium twice a month, and we’d walk by here . . . and, oh, the weddings they would have. It was so romantic.” A beat later she says, “I miss them so much.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, not sure how much to pry. Her profile is a shadow, eyes on the water.
She rubs her arms, as if cold. “It was tough for Nonna, too. She was working full time and now she had her grandkids to take care off. I mean, the Sierra Fothills are only three hours from here, but to us it was a world away. Without my parents, and then displaced”—she looks down for a moment, then up at me—“Ally and I grew up a lot, but we were in the best care. Nonna was wonderful, and the winery she worked for welcomed us with open arms. But coming back to the city became the dream. This place is both big and anonymous and as tiny and as private as this spot, right here, right now. There’s no place like here.”
“But there are other awesome places out there. Like there’s a Navajo reservation called Four Corners, where Utah, Colorado, Nevada, and New Mexico meet. The Grand Canyon. Niagara Falls. Places with truly four seasons, places where all there is are fields. There are other countries: Germany, Japan, Guam. The Philippines.” I nudge her gently with an elbow.
Her wide smile narrows. “Don’t get me wrong. I want to travel, but don’t ever want to leave San Francisco permanently. My life is here.”
Rocked by Camille’s statement, I pause, then say casually, “San Francisco is lucky to have you then.” I’m stationed in California, for now, but there’s the deployment and the eventual change of duty station. My career hinges on travel, on flexibility.
Should this even matter, so early in the game? Or must it, because we’re no longer kids? The line between the two is smudged, and it doesn’t help that I don’t know the small details of her life. There’s no way for me to gauge if she would ever change her mind, or if she can.
And yet, despite these questions, I’m solidly in with whatever she’s willing to give me. I know enough of the big things: she’s whip smart, unselfish, bighearted, has a work ethic that rivals mine. And she can make me hot with one look through those long lashes.
Three weeks, one day, this hour. I’ll take it.
A soft smile settles on Camille’s face when I grasp her hand in mine. We walk back to my building in a settled silence.
On the way up to the third floor, Camille’s vibe becomes a fighter prepping for a match. Focused, inward. When I open the front door, I don’t have to invite her in. She beats me across the threshold and to the kitchen. And while I have a million questions for her, I’m relegated to watching as she puts on an apron, helps herself as if this kitchen was always hers, and she was always mine.
She looks good in my apartment, in my kitchen, in my life. Now, how the hell to stop time is the biggest challenge yet.
May 22
Hey Camille—I’m glad you’re here.
Drew
19
CAMILLE
I forget where I am. The pile of julienned vegetables grows and the platter becomes a rainbow of carrots, yellow squash, and shredded lettuce. My body is light, loose, my shoulder muscles warm from the endorphins humming in my brain, limbs, and fingertips.
“You are pretty damn impressive with that knife.” Drew jumps off the marble island, and the sound of his shoes against the tile stomps me back to his apartment once again. The texture of the food, the sound of his voice, and the feel of his patience blankets me as if I’m swimming in honey.
“Lesson number one: this is called a chef’s knife.” I grin.
“Ah. Got it.”
“Lesson number two: the key is keeping your first two fingers on the blade.” I demonstrate the proper hold, showing how my index finger and thumb alone can support the knife. “See? Complete control. Then again, I think you should practice with a butter knife first. Might be a little safer.” I smile, effortlessly now. The start of our date was awkward at best, with Ally’s overt questions and the conversation that followed. But his giving me space to be free and take over his kitchen has allowed me to think. And while I’m not 100 percent sure he and I are on the same page—heck, I don’t really know how I feel—I know he’s willing to go with my flow.
“Oh, the teasing again. You know you can’t tease without following through, right?” He approaches me from behind, and I feel his body against mine. His breath on my neck coaxes me to set the knife down. His lips hover behind my ear, his breath trailing down the nape of my neck. My body responds with a million goose bumps, all wanting to be attended to.
Yes. I’m definitely in the flow now.
His arm reaches underneath mine and I instinctively shut my eyes. He’s going to do it. He’s going to kiss me now. But he keeps going and grabs several strands of bean sprouts from the pile in front of me. He steps back and stuffs the strands into his mouth, grinning. “Just like that.”
His move stuns me, and my face heats with an intimacy I’ve never felt before. I’m left vulnerable and flustered.
And I can’t let him get away with it. Twisting a kitchen towel, I crack it against his ass as he walks away. He jumps dramatically, as if actually hurt. “Oweee!”
“How about that for a follow-through?”
He rubs his butt, his face twisted in playful pain.
“Don’t walk away now. Can’t waste all of this.” I motion to the food. “Or there will be more where that came from.”
“Only if you promise.” He rewards me with a wicked grin that causes a tremor in all the right places.
“If you really made soup with your mom—if you can work a microwave—then you can wrap spring rolls. In fact, I seem to remember you successfully cooked an egg with a microwave in home ec.”
The dimples in his cheek deepen. “That stank to high heaven. Mrs. Orsay had to open all the windows, remember? Nasty.”
“Gross.” I wrinkle my nose. The memory solidifies, down to the shrieks of our classmates when the egg smell wafted through the room.
“Yeah. I guess I could have dropped the class, but there was you.”
His candor stills my hands. He’s getting to me, and I know I shouldn’t let him. But I summon all that is cool and collected. “I think someone’s trying to get out of cooking.”
His arms fold across his chest. “I seem to remember it was your idea to cook. We could be sitting in a perfectly good restaurant right now.”
“Ah. So you’re casually forgetting the challenge you made?” One of his eyebrows scrunches forward, the action too adorable and right out of a movie. I squelch the squeal inching up my throat. Get ahold of yourself, Camille. “You said, ‘If you can get all this damn food up three flights, I’ll help you cook.’ And here we are.”
“Wait. I carried everything up the stairs.”
&nb
sp; I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Challenge complete.”
“Ugh, fine. Step aside, Marino.”
I slide over as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt so they expose his muscled biceps. I know my gaze lingers too long because the muscle starts to tense and relax, tense and relax. When I look at Drew, who I realize is now flexing on purpose, he’s beaming. “You like?” he asks.
“Whatever.” I laugh and show him my palm. But I don’t bother denying I was staring. What’s the point? He is a beautifully built man.
Drew washes his hands automatically, which impresses me, and when he turns back around, he’s got his hands up like a surgeon. “The apron?”
“Right.” I tug at the strings behind me, which I realize I tied into a triple knot. My fingers work at the strands.
“Here let me.” He leans in, wrapping his arms around my waist. I grow still, the heat of his neck warming my lips. His breath fans against my chest, and it shoots me off into the clouds, back to that first night when I couldn’t help but unbutton his pants. The feeling is primal, innate, its only mission to be satisfied. He was the one who had the restraint to stop, but will he tonight? Will I?
The apron peels off me, and a rush of warmth invades my cheeks despite my layered clothing. My mind fast forwards to if and when he takes off more of my clothes, and I squeeze my legs against the ache spreading south. He flips the apron around and tugs it behind him, too cool, as if he doesn’t notice me falling over myself.
“That is so you.” I test my tongue, to make sure it hasn’t gone numb. Because Drew in an apron is sexy and funny all at once. He winks. “Okay, Julia Child—”
He clears his throat, then in a husky voice says, “Julio. Julio Anak. Anak is child in Tagalog by the way.”
“Oh, okay, Julio Anak. Time to wrap these babies for consumption.” I point to the ingredients. “It’s easy. Easier than your microwaved egg and infinitely less stinky.”
“Julio hopes to impress you more than his stinky egg did.”
“Oh dear, Julio is talking about himself in the third person.”
“Apparently.”
“Okay, focus, why don’t you? I’m starving.” A part of me wishes he wasn’t watching me so closely.
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes.
I scan the room to see what window I can open, because I’m steaming up. “Take one wrapper. Load up the veggies, wrap like so.” My fingers demonstrate in slow motion. “First fold the sides down, then roll it to the top, sealing it with a little egg wash.”
“Oh yeah, girl, I got this.” Drew does everything correctly, deftly, except for sealing the roll. It flops open, and the filling bursts through the wrapper. When it happens a third time, he sighs, then looks at me.
“Hey, you said you got it,” I remind him.
He makes a puppy-dog pout, and I can’t lie. His expression squeezes my heart.
I sidle up next to him. “All right, Julio Anak, I’ll help you.” He begins by rolling up the vegetables in the egg roll wrapper. I stick my finger in the egg wash and swipe it across the top. I guide his fingers with mine, like my nonna would have done. But the electricity that shoots back through my body, right down to my toes, is definitely not something I would have felt with Nonna. And as much as I know I should lift my hand up right away, when we successfully seal the roll, I don’t.
Drew doesn’t move his either.
Yet there’s no awkwardness. Nor is the vibe playful or teasing. He threads his fingers through mine, then leads my arms up and around his waist, where he lets go and cups my face.
“Are we done cooking for now?” He nibbles on my bottom lip, then kisses the spot behind my ear that hasn’t been touched nearly as often as it should. I become dough in Drew’s hands. And he knows it.
“I think we can subsist on two egg rolls.” I earn a laugh, right into my neck. Two egg rolls, these kisses, and his fingers now threaded through my hair.
“I’m sure we can find something to enjoy besides the food.”
I’m not sure who moves first. His apron unravels. My shirt unbuttons, courtesy of his deft fingers. My chest heaves as I shrug off the shirt. He sucks in a breath, sending delicious vibrations through me. This, and the lust in his eyes, tells me he likes what he sees.
But I want to see him, too.
As if he hears my deepest wish at that moment, he peels off his shirt. A gasp escapes my own lips as I see his tattoo in the full light of the kitchen. My fingers yearn to trace it, to kiss the compass across his chest.
Our lips seek solace in each other, as if quenching a thirst, but I want more. The first, the second, or the third kiss isn’t going to satisfy the need between my legs.
I want him.
Our shirts become bread crumbs along his gleaming hardwood floors, and I follow his lead as I pad backward, away from the kitchen. I feel the mattress behind my legs, and Drew eases the pressure on my lips, coaxing and helping me to bed, ever the gentleman. I fall back onto the cool white down comforter, waking every cell in my body. I simmer, shy of a full boil.
Drew props himself above me on a forearm, a specimen of ridged muscle, tilted sideways as his other hand lands on my hip. It’s a firm grip, and I relish the thought of being someone’s, of belonging to him, even just in this moment. “Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes.” My tone lifts at the end of my answer.
“Cami, we don’t have to . . .”
“I, I know.” I bite my lip, remembering our first times making out. How he was so patient, and how I never knew how far I wanted to go until I got to my limit.
“I’m still me.” He grins. “Same old rules apply. You say when, and I’ll stop.”
In his words are a safety I relished when we were together, and Drew’s acknowledgment becomes an aphrodisiac. It inflames my craving for him, and my body rises to meet his. I lick the hollow spot on his neck, the spot that drove him mad wild when we were kids. I trail my tongue in circles to his Adam’s apple and under his chin. And when he groans, oh my, it’s a beautiful sound. To know it’s me who’s pleasuring him is everything.
His abs call to me, flexed, strong. My fingers draw the lines between the two-, four-, six-pack, all the way down to his low-slung jeans. I know what’s under the denim, and my hand palms the bulge, seeking heat.
He sucks in a breath. “Fuck, Cami.”
“Does that mean you like it?” I tease, then pop open the button. The sound sends my heart rate to running speed, at both my bravado and my ability to do that with one hand.
“Hell yeah, but you’re not in charge here.” He pins my hands above me, locking them with one hand. “I know you make the calls in the kitchen. But here, in my bed, I lead.”
This feeling of openness, half naked in the bright lights of his apartment, fills all of my senses at once, and I’m overwhelmed. And as if he suspects it, he lets go of my wrists and threads his fingers through mine. My insecurity squelches. I react by raising my torso, seeking his, my legs wanting purchase around him.
“My turn to teach.” His grin is wicked. His fingers graze the top of my breasts, then pull down the fabric of my demicup bra. I watch his tongue flick against my nipple before taking it into his mouth, the sight and sensation making me squirm and buck. He moves on to the other breast, paying the nipple the same attention while his hands crawl down, to my belly button, south, under my jeans.
“Oh . . .” My words come out as a gasp. My hands are still above me while his lips work gently, methodically. When he explores me in circles, with one finger, then two, I can’t catch my breath. “Drew . . .”
“It’s me, Cami. It’s me,” he whispers into my ear as my body coils into itself, until I’m wrapped into a spiral and there’s nothing left but to do exactly as he says, and engage all five senses. Sound, sight, smell, feel, and taste.
May 22
Dear Drew,
Your egg rolls have potential.
Camille
P.S. I’m glad I’m here.
20
DREW
I hesitate before I open my eyes, my breath hitching. A feeling of dread washes over me, and even in my half-awake state I anticipate the worst. That I’ll find myself in the same predicament as the last time I went to bed with a beautiful woman.
That I’ll wake alone.
I took it a step further with Camille last night. Ran the extra base while she held my hand. I pleasured her with my hands, my fingers, my lips. We didn’t have sex, nor did I want to. Scratch that—I wanted to, more than I thought I could handle, but I didn’t push because it wouldn’t have been right. Yeah, I caught the blip of hesitation in her tone preforeplay. That alone set the limits for the night. Kept the head in my pants in check. When we finally have sex, she has to be unequivocally at 100 percent. I shouldn’t have to coax her to home base.
I respect her too much.
But did I go too far? She moaned like she enjoyed it, spoke my name, cursed in this sexy, heart-stopping way. But did regret push her out the door early this morning like it did the last time? And what would she leave me now? Cinnamon rolls? Cake pops?
I count a slow ten, fingers crawling across the covers of my bed. My insides clench at the expectation of ice-cold sheets.
But there’s a dip in the mattress. Two inches farther, the heat of a body. I sniff deeply, taking in the undeniable scent of Camille—citrus and vanilla—with a touch of garlic from the lumpia we made and ate last night.
Yes. Yes!
Only then do I allow my eyelids to flutter open. I’m met with the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the thick mane that now grazes the line of her spine.
And I grin like a fool, lips stretched as if I won the lottery.
Maybe I have.
I scoop her into me, two tightly fitted spoons. She’s wearing panties and one of my white T-shirts, and, if possible, she feels even softer this morning despite the seconds, minutes, hours of her in my arms.
“Mmm?” Her voice croaks at my not-so-gentle nudge and she turns. The tendrils of her hair drape across her cheeks and I finger them away from her face. “Oh . . . oh. Good morning.” She smirks as her hand moves down my chest. My eyes shut as it disappears below the sheet and my erection is greeted by her sure grip.
