“Shi-ite.” He did it again, corrected himself for me and reaching into the backseat of the cab, he rummaged around until he pulled a jumpsuit out from the floor behind his seat. “Lift,” he ordered.
And I lifted the pizza boxes. He messy-folded the clothing and laid it across my lap.
I set the boxes back down. Yes. So much better.
Finally, before he started the truck, Lennon stole a kiss. A welcomed sneak attack.
“Now we can go home.” He turned the ignition, shifted in to drive and fli-di-dipped out of the spot. Yes, I said fli-di-dipped. As in eased effortlessly. But I like my word better.
“They seem to really like you,” I said for no other reason than to make conversation.
“Well, they really liked you, too, baby. But yeah. I was having a difficult time a few years back. I ended up there one night to get out of the pouring rain. Mr. Napolitano talked to me for hours. Made pies with me.
“He and Rita took me in, had me over for Sunday meals with the family. Robert, or as they call him, Roberto, is one of their twenty-seven grandkids. That’s how I got into jumping. You know, his first name is actually Lorenzo. They started calling him by his middle name because he’s a junior and refused to go by ‘Lorenzo Jr.’, ‘Little Lorenzo,’ or any of those they tried to saddle him with as a kid.”
Talk about a small world.
And I couldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to be saddled with my father’s name. Of course, I don’t look much like a Jason, so…
“That’s an amazing story.” I desperately wanted to ask about his hard time, but if he didn’t go into it, it probably meant he didn’t want to share with a fake girlfriend. Some stories were meant for the real thing only. So I bit my lip on that. “Twenty-seven grandkids?” I asked instead.
“From how many kids? And I thought Rita was his daughter.”
He chuckled through the turn, taking us back onto the main drag. “She looks good for her age, doesn’t she?”
“She looks good for any age,” I countered and reached over to adjust the air vent so the pizza didn’t cool off too much before we got back to Len’s.
“She’s actually only ten years younger than Mr. Napolitano. They had eight kids together.”
Eight kids popped out of that tiny thing? Mind pretty much blown.
Only ten more minutes passed until we pulled into Len’s parking spot in front of his condo. He climbed out and came around my side to help with the pizza while I slid down and started for the unit door.
“It’s a beautiful night. Instead of going right in, you maybe want to take the pizza around back. There’s a pond and a nice place to sit.”
An impromptu picnic? I loved picnics. You could tell a lot about a man based on if he suggested a picnic or not. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Alright… wait here. I’ll go grab us some drinks.”
He left the pizza box sitting on the hood of the truck and jogged up to his place. The evening felt so warm still, though not stifling. The sun started to set so the land blended in with itself, all that golden-burnt orange. No insects sang to each other yet, though the air held a low hum of electricity. Static charged. I felt it as much as I heard it. We were in for one heck of a storm probably by the middle of the night, but definitely into tomorrow. Best take advantage of the outdoors before the rain came.
The hard click of a door tore my attention from the sky. I turned my head to see Len heading for me, carrying an old blanket. I want to say it had the Star Wars logo printed on the front, but the way the folds fell over his arm, I couldn’t be a hundred percent certain. Dangling from that same hand, a grocery store bag. The outline of cans pushed against the thin plastic, letting me know that was where he kept the drinks he’d gone in for.
I carried the bag with the breadsticks and antipasto salad. He picked up the pizza boxes, balancing them on the blanket with the edge of cardboard pushed right up against his chest.
“This way,” he said as he began walking toward the side of the building. His had upstairs and downstairs units. Each unit had direct outside access, like walking up to a house. No hallways like in my apartment building.
We rounded the brick-and-vinyl-sided exterior and maybe fifty feet away, the pond spread out for our enjoyment. None of the other residents had yet decided to take advantage of the night and the view. And what a view. With little to no breeze, the surface of the pond appeared as smooth as a sheet of glass.
The closer we walked, the stronger the scent of pond water and humidity hit us, combining pleasantly with that of the pizza in Len’s arms. My mouth watered.
We found a perfect spot under a late-blooming magnolia tree. Another layer of beauty and fragrance to set the scene. It rested in that perfect zone—close enough, but not too close, to the lake for us to enjoy all that surrounded us.
“You want to hold the boxes a sec?” he asked, handing them over before I answered. So rhetorical.
Careful to grip them by the edges, so as not to burn my hands, I held on while Len set the drink bag on the ground, unfolded the blanket—Star Wars, just as I’d thought—and spread it over the supple grass. Before he sat, he took the pizza back and waited for me to sit.
Once situated, he pulled a couple cans of a sparkling “hard water” beverage for each of us out from the first bag. Then he pulled the antipasto salad, breadsticks—and Rita had even packed two thick paper plates and plastic forks for us, which he pulled out from the second bag, handing one set off to me.
Carb city—no, carb universe. We transported to a delectable carb-filled universe and I loved every second of my visit. It was no secret I liked to keep the veg-to-carb ratio of my meals higher with the veg. But we’d had such a wonderful day, and I felt like I could eat my own foot with my hunger reaching DEFCON two after exerting so much energy today. Plus, I felt no urge to hide my bread-loving persona under some false pretense of trying to impress him. If he didn’t like it, he could stuff it. I mean, he was “dumping” me at the end of the month. So what did it matter?
I plucked two buttery, oregano-and parmesan-crusted breadsticks from the smaller box, then used my fork to pile antipasto salad onto my plate. Lastly, I went for the Margherita. The cheese oozed and dripped, along with oil and sauce, and I never wanted to leave this carb universe.
Before doing anything else, I bit off a large chunk of the triangle point and honest-to-goodness moaned.
The slices had cooled off enough on the drive so as to not scald my mouth. After chewing sufficiently and swallowing, I looked up from my plate to thank Len and noticed him not eating. He sat with an empty plate watching me devour my food.
A sudden bout of self-consciousness hit. “Not hungry?” I asked, setting my plate down on my lap.
Not answering right away, he leaned forward and used his finger to swipe across my cheek, next to my mouth. “Got some sauce on you,” he said, then stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked it clean.
I reached back into the bag Rita sent with us to pluck a small pile of napkins out, using one to wipe my face.
“Are you going to eat now?” I asked uncomfortably.
“Oh, I could definitely eat,” he answered. But I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t talking about pizza or salad.
Nine:
I swallowed. Hard. What else could I do? Len’s gorgeous stare enraptured the strongest of women on the best of days. So when he caught you with that next-level look, all heated and lustful—no can defend.
And what he pinned me with right now definitely constituted the look if ever I saw it.
“Your, um, food’s going to get cold.” As lame as it sounded, that was the best I could come up with. Hey, I challenge anybody to speak beautiful, thought-provoking prose in the face of Len’s look.
“Put your plate down, Kam.”
Uh… what?
When I didn’t react, he repeated himself. “Put the plate down, Kam.”
No. I could not put the plate down. The plate remained my only barrier b
etween Len and deliciously bad decisions.
He rose to his knees, his empty plate spilling onto the blanket, and crawled over to me, placing my full plate on top of the pizza box. Then with his arms wrapped around me, he lowered my back to the blanket, his lips hitting mine at the same time my back hit the ground.
Those angels singing in chorus and trumpets sounding from this morning were joined by Satan’s low country, Cajun jazz band out here in the wide open. Even if he—Len, not Satan—hadn’t started removing any pieces of clothing yet.
I swore my possessed legs opened to allow his hips to fall between them completely of their own accord. Or Satan’s. I was not the get-it-on-in-public type of girl.
Len pulled his lips away. “No one can see you from here, not with the dark descending. The tree, shadows, and the way the light hits the back building, we’re covered.” He bent in to kiss me again. “But I won’t ask you to go further than you’re comfortable with.”
With my rational mind visiting the Grand Canyon or maybe the Baja Peninsula of Mexico, I found right then, being in Len’s arms, that I was comfortable with a whole lot I wouldn’t normally have been.
It’s safe to say things got a little heated, and Len was more than happy to remove some of my clothing to help cool me off. Though, through the magic of his lips, the opposite occurred and I got even hotter. He actually stopped us before it went too, too far. And once I regained my senses, I was actually pretty glad of it.
As he’d removed a bit more clothing from me than I had him, while I put myself back together, he loaded up his plate with Napoli’s wonderful dinner. Then, sitting by the pond on a beautiful summer night, I ate the best cold pizza, no-longer-soft breadsticks, and soggy salad of my life.
When the breeze started blowing in, chilling my arms faster than I was able to rub the cool away, we packed up our trash and rolled up the blanket. Then, with my head resting on his shoulder, Len and I strolled back to his condo.
He let us inside, dumping the boxes in the trashcan by the back door. “Why don’t you get ready for bed while I close things down? Just wear the T-shirt you wore last night.”
It was only a few minutes later that he walked into the bedroom, pulled a clean pair of sleep pants from a dresser drawer, dropped trou to pull them on, and belly-flopped onto the bed, causing us both to bounce. Then he got silly, handsy-touchy as he situated himself under the covers next to me.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re so much better than a body pillow?” he asked as he draped a leg over my leg and an arm over my arm, essentially trapping me underneath him. And I had to admit, even if only to myself, that he was the better pillow.
He pecked my cheek, then whispered, “Night, baby.”
I might have possibly sighed and closed my eyes to try and sleep. Ah, Lennon… jumper out of airplanes, maker-upper of lyrics to Bon Jovi music crooner, and best fake boyfriend possibly ever.
The next morning my eyes blinked open to see Len staring at me, big, cheesy smile smiling down on me.
“What’s with the grin?” I asked instead of granting him a good morning.
“Nothing… well, no, it’s something. I think we should take the day off. Go out, have some fun.”
“Haven’t we been having fun?”
“Yes, but our fun had a purpose. And everyone knows too much fun with a purpose quickly turns to fun-work. We’re shooting for fun-fun today.”
I pushed up to sitting. “Everyone knows, eh?”
“Everyone,” he agreed.
But we had a problem. I lacked the proper leaving the house attire. As in, I’d been wearing the same pants for a few days now. “I need clean clothes. Those jeans could get up and walk on their own. No legs required.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I asked your boss, Dion, to stop by your place and pack a bag, while you were in the back finding the box to pack your stuff in. The idea hit when he said he’d water your plants. I figured he had a spare key.”
Um… “What?”
“He seemed super excited about doing me this solid. I like him, you know. You need friends like him in your life. I got his number, then texted him my address.”
“Again, what?”
“Check the closet. Some days I’m brilliant. Apparently, yesterday was one of those days.”
Pushed up from the mattress, I stormed over to the wall closest to the foot of the bed (even though not mad, more confused) and threw open the closet door half-expecting my a-ha! moment proving he had not spoken with my boss, to which he’d respond with a “Ha ha! Fooled you.”
But I didn’t get an a-ha moment. My pretty hot pink, lemon yellow, and apple green paisley print travel bag sat on top of a pile of shoes on the floor.
“He dropped it on my front stoop while we were out back picnicking last night. I left it out by the sofa and brought it in here last night when I got up to pee.”
“Why didn’t you just take me back to my place? Why go through the bother?”
“Frankly speaking, I was afraid if you went home, you’d decide to stay there, and I like you here with me.”
He liked me here with him? I didn’t know what to do with all that sweetness. And he was right, despite how much fun we’d been having over the past couple of days, I’d have probably found a reason to stay home. Like to freak out over the fact that I was to set sail with Len at the end of the month as Meredith Lowenstein’s personal stylist. I blinked my eyes several times hoping to blink away the tears. It didn’t work. So I took the only option left to me, grabbed the handle of my travel bag, and hauled butt to the bathroom.
Dion had hooked me up the way only a BFF could. He knew everything about me—my favorite outfits and how I did my hair. Twenty-five minutes later, I emerged from the shower scrubbed, hair thrown back in a ponytail, fresh makeup applied, clean clothing on my body and well in control of my emotions.
Len must have showered in the other bathroom as he sat on the sofa, one leg crossed over his knee, sporting some killer dark jeans, a light blue button-down with tiny white horses embroidered over the whole shirt, his sleeves turned up and these upscale slip-on tennies. He dressed like a young urban professional. The kind of guy who frequented cider microbreweries instead of beer, had a wine of the month club membership, and snacked on avocado toast points.
The look worked on him in a big way.
“Hey, fearless. You look beautiful today, baby.” He stood and walked over to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me in for a cheek kiss.
I was no slouch. Today I decided to go full-on girly. I wore a pretty white sundress with overly large pink roses printed on the fabric, the most comfortable pair of nude-colored wedge sandals in the known universe, and a white three-quarter sleeve fitted denim jacket thrown over top in case I got chilly. Yes, we were in the middle of summer, but as Len had yet to reveal our destination, how could I know if the place he’d choose for us to go jacked up the air conditioning?
“Thank you,” I responded. I felt pretty today. Felt happy today. So it was safe to say that Len picked a good day for our fun-fun adventure.
“Shall we?” he asked as he moved us to the door.
We landed first at a pancake house. So many varieties of delectable pancakes and like twenty syrup flavors. He and I had so much in common. I mean, he drove us there without asking for input. As if it were a given that I’d love the place because he loved the place. He’d been right. Pancakes are life. After that stop, we moved next to a little mom-and-pop coffeehouse, where he got me a salted caramel mocha. Yes, those exist and mine was phenomenal.
Over an hour on the highway later, he clicked his blinker and took an exit that led to a zoo. I hadn’t been to a zoo in years.
Len paid for us both again, even though I tried to pay for my own ticket. Then we spent the next couple of hours having a blast. In front of the monkeys we took a selfie of us together, puffed-out monkey faces, posed in our best monkey-impersonating poses.
Another visitor took pictures of us pretending to
run screaming away from the lions. Len had quite the sense of humor, which caused me to crush even harder. How could I not?
When I got too warm wearing my jacket, Len carried it around the park for me. About halfway through the day, we stopped to get a snack. He paid about four dollars each for two bottles of water and bought us a large box of what they called zoo-corn, which was caramel corn with candy-coated chocolate-esque carob rounds, nuts, dried blueberries, and coconut flakes.
I didn’t remember ever having so much fun at the zoo.
We left about five o’clock and drove over an hour home. By the time we made it back, after all the fresh air, sun and walking around, my stomach was on the verge of consuming itself.
The need to tell him so evaporated when he turned toward the section of downtown where all the fancy-schmancy restaurants, eateries, and bistros clustered for our dining convenience.
He parked in one of the downtown’s many paid parking lots and we walked the block and a half to the place he wanted us to eat.
A place called Ceibo.
I’d never been here before, but even without the sign telling us so, I knew it served nouveau Argentinian cuisine. Seeing as I’d never tried old-veau Argentinian cuisine, I got pretty excited.
He held the door open and I stepped inside. His hand found the small of my back as we moved into line. There were two couples ahead of us, the front-most couple being led away by a server. The next couple moved up in line, up to the hostess counter. We moved up a spot, too.
“Don’t you need a reservation for this place?” I asked.
“Yep,” he replied, wearing a Cheshire cat grin.
“I’d love to go here, but I’m super hungry. We’ll be waiting—”
The jerk pressed a finger to my lips to shut me up and moved us up another spot so we stood in front of the hostess counter.
“McCartney, party of two.”
McCartney? That was interesting. Here I’d spent two nights with the guy and never thought to learn his last name. Gone on countless adventures with the guy and never thought to learn his last name. Moreover, what did that say about me? Was I confusing fearless with reckless, again?
Skydiving, Skinny-Dipping Page 8
