Meet You in the Middle

by Devon Daniels

  But before I can, Ben catches me—it’s becoming a habit—steadying me with strong hands on my arms. When I’m upright again, we’re standing so close our chests are touching.

  Chapter 11

  I’ve never really looked at him so close up, and from this distance I register a slew of things I never noticed before: the faint five-o’clock shadow dusting his jawline; his hair, curlier than I thought, falling over his ear a little; a tiny silvery scar cutting through his right eyebrow; the kaleidoscope of colors in his eyes conspiring to make them glow so obscenely. These eyes should be illegal.

  “How’d you get that scar?” I reach up and touch it.

  He eyes me warily. “Fell off my bike when I was twelve. Flew over the handlebars. Are you ready to go?”

  I remember something and snake my hand around to his back pocket. He tenses, catching my forearm. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking back what’s mine, of course.” I pinch out my credit card and wave it in his face like a golden ticket. He blinks slowly, his expression darkening. Touchy.

  He wraps an arm around my waist and half walks, half drags me toward the front entrance. I can’t even argue, since I can’t seem to walk more than a few steps without toppling like a Confederate statue. When we make it outside, the cool air hits my face like a slap.

  “Fresh air feels good.”

  “I bet it does, Drunky Drunkerson.”

  Something about his flippant response breaks through my drunken fog, triggering the realization that Ben is really, truly here. I study him, taking a mental inventory. He’s wearing dark jeans—I’ve never seen him in jeans before—and a thin, long-sleeved green shirt. No, a sweater. I squint. Well, I can’t tell if it’s a shirt or a sweater, so henceforth it shall be known as a shirt-sweater.

  One thing I do clearly notice is how good he looks in it. Damn good.

  The color suits him, the green bringing out his extraordinary eyes. The fabric hugs every muscle and curve of his massive frame like it’s been poured over him, molding to his ridges and planes like liquid gold.

  My drunk thoughts are weird.

  “Yes, you needed some air.” He’s still propping me up, one arm curled around my waist while the other taps on his phone. “So look, I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s going to take twelve minutes for an Uber to get here. We’re near enough to your apartment to walk in that time, so that’s what we’re going to do.” He eyes me skeptically. “You think you can walk?”

  “Of course I can,” I say, indignant. I hold my arms out and heel-to-toe along the curb like a balance beam. “I walk the line,” I croon, doing my best Johnny Cash.

  Ben yanks me away from the curb, drawing me tight to his side, and sets off walking. I’m propelled forward through no effort of my own.

  “You know I had a Donkey Date tonight.”

  He flicks his eyes to mine but doesn’t comment.

  “I got stood up.”

  “His loss.”

  I start laughing, causing my stride to falter, and his arm tightens around me. “Oh, come on, don’t go soft on me now. Say I told you so. I know you’re dying to.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I sat there like a loser for an hour. My server thought I was pathetic.” I peer up at him. “Seriously? Nothing?”

  “I’m not gonna give you a hard time tonight no matter how much you want me to, so you can quit trying. It’s not a fair fight.”

  “You mean now that I’m so tragic?” I scoff. “I don’t need your pity-niceness.” My heel hits a crack in the sidewalk and I wobble, pitching sideways.

  “Okay, this isn’t gonna work.”

  Before I can ask what he means, he sweeps me off my feet. Literally, he bends down, hooks an arm underneath my knees, and scoops me up like I’m lighter than air, a feather on a gust of wind.

  “What are you doing?” I cry, fighting him.

  “Carrying you. I really don’t need you breaking an ankle on top of everything else.”

  “This is so antifeminist,” I fume. “And I’m wearing a skirt.”

  “That’s why I’m not piggybacking you.”

  I grumble but eventually stop struggling and clasp my arms around his neck. What choice do I have? Besides, walking home in these heels would be a level of torture on par with waterboarding.

  I know I shouldn’t poke the bear—especially when said bear is carrying me—but I can’t help myself. “This must be your dream come true. The knight in shining armor swooping in to save the damsel in distress.”

  He doesn’t react—Where is this newfound restraint coming from?—so of course, I poke again.

  “Only I don’t need saving. I could have gotten home on my own, thank you very much.”

  His look is one of thinly veiled disdain. “Sure, Kate. You probably would have gotten home, to that douchebag’s apartment.”

  “Maybe I wanted to go to his apartment.”

  I feel him stiffen beneath me.

  “Besides, I’m not an idiot. I know how to call an Uber, Benjy.” Something occurs to me. “Hey, how do you know where I live?”

  He doesn’t respond right away, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “I just do.” His voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear him.

  “Benjy, have you been stalking me?”

  “Quit calling me Benjy. It sounds like a dog,” he snaps. Oooh, cranky Benjy.

  I mock gasp. “Wait, you don’t like being called degrading nicknames?”

  He’s setting a brisk pace, my weight clearly no match for his Herculean stamina. It’s a chilly night and I should be cold, but the heat seeping from his body into my skin is relaxing me on a cellular level. It’s like being wrapped in a cozy Ben blanket. I could get used to traveling this way.

  “You know, I’m not even that drunk. I didn’t need you to cut me off.”

  “Not that drunk. Right. You’re what, a hundred and twenty pounds dripping wet? You’d be wasted after two drinks. And by the looks of you, you’ve had a lot more than that.”

  “What are you, the booze police?” I explode. “You’re so freakin’ uptight. You could use a drink.”

  “I’m uptight? You’re the one who can’t even swear properly. Who says freaking instead of fucking? You should try a real curse, you might feel better.”

  I wave my hand. “Cursing is unbecoming.”

  “‘Cursing is unbecoming,’ says the feminist.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

  “My mom doesn’t like cursing. When I do it, I feel like I’m disrespecting her.”

  “As opposed to how respectful you’re being by going out and getting wasted at a bar alone? I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see you like this.”

  I turn my face away. “You don’t know anything about my mom.”

  “Why don’t you tell me, then?”

  I’m not too drunk to recognize his diversionary tactic for what it is. I’d call him out on it, but I’m in that chatty drunk stage where I actually do want to talk about my mom.

  “Oh, she’s a lot of fun. We’re very close. She’s hardworking and focused and smarter than she lets on. Also, she’s kind of nuts. Like she just discovered GIFs and now she’ll barely communicate any other way. She’s sort of going through a secondary adolescence. It’s like a midlife crisis but without all the bad decisions. What else? She’s optimistic. A hopeless romantic.” I make a face.

  He smiles lightly. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Even though she has no reason to be.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I wave his question away as if to say, Story for another time.

  “Well, what’s wrong with being a hopeless romantic?” he tries instead.

  “Oh, I don’t know, how about everything? Let me count the ways. Putting up with crappy behavior you’d never accept from anyone else. Constantly putting you
r dreams last. Unrealistic expectations about how your life is going to turn out.” I tick them off on my fingers. “Besides, the term hopeless romantic doesn’t even make sense. It’s so depressing. I don’t know why I’m the only one who sees that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it. By its very definition, it’s saying romance is hopeless. So why do people act like it’s some swoon-worthy character trait?”

  “I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be optimistic. Glass half-full.”

  “You would think that, with your ‘perfect woman’ list. That’s hopeless if I’ve ever heard it.” He frowns. “Whatever. I’ve seen too much. In my sorority, I had a front-row seat to every worst-case romantic scenario. You wouldn’t believe how many women act like every problem can be solved with a bouquet of flowers. I mean, how dumb.” I make a retching noise.

  “Now you have something against flowers?” He looks like he’s struggling not to laugh.

  “There’s nothing wrong with flowers, per se. They’re just such a waste. If a man gives me flowers, I’m what, supposed to swoon? They require a bunch of work to keep them alive, only to die within a week regardless? How about getting me a real gift that lasts, that I can savor for longer than a few days?”

  He blinks. “Wow. You really aren’t a romantic.”

  “When you think about it, flowers are really the perfect metaphor for relationships,” I muse. “They’re beautiful for a time, then they start to die and they stink and you work desperately to save them and bam! They’re dead. It’s over.”

  “You should write greeting cards.”

  A laugh bubbles out of me. “You’re funny tonight.”

  He nudges my shoulder. “I’m always funny. You just don’t want to admit it.”

  “And humble too.” I fight a smile. “Anyway, I suppose what really gets to me is the expectation that some guy is just going to swoop in and carry you off and all your problems will be solved. The end.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. When I realize why, I flush. “Present situation excluded, of course.”

  He smirks, repositioning my body to gain a better grip, and I watch his considerable muscles flex and stretch as he resettles me in his arms.

  It is sexy as hell.

  In a flash of memory, I recall something I’ve been dying to know and span my hands around his biceps, stretching my fingers to see if I can get them to touch. It isn’t even close.

  “I knew it!” I yell in jubilation. “I need a third hand!”

  He looks at me like I’m certifiable. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your muscles, of course.” I sigh, petting his sweater-clad arm like a pony.

  A surge of exhaustion suddenly hits me like a tidal wave. The last couple of days have been so draining and I’m tired to my bones. I close my eyes and let my head fall to his shoulder, reveling in the feeling of being taken care of for once. I can hear him breathing in little huffs, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath me. It’s hypnotic.

  Being so close to Ben is a peculiar thing. It’s doing strange things to my brain. For the first time, I can smell him. He smells like . . . like . . .

  I press my nose into his neck, inhaling deeply. His stride momentarily falters.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Smelling you.” I inhale again. There’s a faint, intoxicating cologne scent and . . . something else. “You smell like a forest mixed with cinnamon and . . .” I sniff again. “Soap.”

  The ghost of a smile curves his lips as he resumes his previous pace. “Oh yeah? Well, you smell like vanilla and coconut.”

  “I do?” I try to sniff my chest.

  “Not right now. Right now, you smell like a distillery.”

  “Oh.” I pause. “My shampoo is coconut.” I toss my hair in proof and his entire expression changes, his face going slack. He drags in a heavy breath but says nothing.

  “So I guess this means you’ve smelled me before?”

  His eyes dart to mine for a split second, then focus back on the sidewalk ahead. “Maybe.”

  “Huh.” I wonder idly if he likes my scent, because one thing’s for sure: I like his. I like his a lot.

  I ponder what intriguing blend of products would produce an aroma of pine and cinnamon—if I stalk the men’s grooming aisle at the store, I’m sure I could figure it out—but I’m interrupted from my musings when he shifts me in his arms again and I start to feel self-conscious.

  “Am I too heavy? I can walk.” It’s a halfhearted offer that fools no one.

  His look is pure scorn. “Please.”

  “I know I’m not exactly the daintiest gal around, even if you do make everyone else seem tiny by comparison.”

  “You’re dainty enough. Though dainty probably isn’t the word I’d use to describe you.”

  “Ooh, how would you describe me then? This should be good.”

  A devilish grin climbs his face. “The words that come to mind aren’t appropriate to say in front of a lady.”

  I smack him upside the head and he laughs.

  “Fine, I’ll do you first.” I squint at him as if I’m thinking hard. “Let’s see, you are big. Manly. Annoyingly smart. Hilarious.”

  He looks at me sharply, but when I take notice and stop speaking, he faces forward again. Interesting. I monitor his expression closely as I continue.

  “You’re maddening. Overprotective. Disciplined. Misguided. Incorrigible. Entertaining.” I purse my lips. “Secretive.”

  His eyes flare a bit on that one. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “And one more I just learned tonight. Kind.”

  This time when his arms tighten around me, it almost feels possessive.

  The silence is deafening. “What do you think? How’d I do?” I bounce in his arms, an eager little perfectionist craving validation.

  He swallows and I watch the movement of his throat up close. “I think . . . that was a lot of big words for someone who’s inebriated.” His voice has dropped an octave and it comes out sounding husky and rough, like he’s just woken up.

  “Ooh, inebriated. Look at you with the SAT words! And here I thought you were only good at math.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “All right, do me now.” He clears his throat and I wonder if he also noticed my unintentional double entendre.

  He goes quiet, and all I can hear are the night sounds around us: the occasional car whipping by, a dog barking, the blare of a faraway car horn. Hurry up, hurry up, I prod in a mental gallop. We’re approaching my block and I don’t want to run out of time. My liquid courage has given us a fleeting window of opportunity for candor, and now I’m desperate to hear what he really thinks of me.

  “Kate, you are headstrong. Clever. Competitive. Determined. Distracting.” His voice does something funny on this one, catches, and he shakes his head slightly as if to clear it. “You’re tough. Humorous. Reckless.”

  He glances at me, his gaze lingering on mine for the briefest of moments, and the look in his eyes makes my breath hitch. It’s as if he’s considering something, and whatever he sees in my eyes gives him his answer.

  “Striking.” He says it with finality, the word echoing around us like a sonic boom.

  What does striking mean? Attractive? Beautiful, even? Or just memorable? That I stand out, but in a bad way? I stare at him as I attempt to puzzle this out, but I’m distracted from further analysis when my apartment building comes into view.

  “That’s where I live!” I shout, pointing. I have the attention span of a gnat right now. I’m like a dog that’s spotted a squirrel.

  “I know.” Ben is amused.

  “How do you know?” I realize now he never answered my question. Sneaky Benjy.

  “Because I live across the street. I’ve seen you walking home.”

  I look at him
like I’m seeing him for the first time. Ben lives this close to me and I didn’t know? He really is so mysterious.

  I’m oddly disappointed to be home; I wish we could keep walking. He’s so . . . not his usual self tonight. It’s unexpected. Pleasant. I can almost pretend he’s a normal guy I’ve met out somewhere, some strong, dashing, and witty fellow with big, sexy muscles that—who knows—I may get to feel up when I get home.

  I really must be drunk. Sexy? Pah. Ben is not sexy. Ben is my adversary, a dangerous opponent I’d do well not to underestimate. The man who’s currently carrying me like a newlywed groom is the same one who promised to make my life a misery just a few weeks ago. Ben is not a nice guy.

  Though he seems to be doing a very good impression of a nice guy tonight.

  He continues to hold me as we walk into my building and onto the elevator and all the way up to my floor, which seems a bit like overkill, but who’s complaining? When we reach my door he sets me down gingerly, keeping one arm anchored around my waist. I fish through my purse for my keys, then hand them to him to unlock the door.

  I look up at him dreamily. “This was very nice of you.” I’m clinging to his arm like a toddler with separation anxiety. As he fumbles with the lock, I place my hand over his, halting his progress.

  I graze my fingers from his wrist slowly up his arm, stroking the muscles visible through the thin fabric of his lovely shirt-sweater. He’s so warm, and touching this man has become my sole desire, my only focus, our feud be damned. I let my hand blaze a trail up his arm—biceps, triceps, deltoid—feeling every curve of his incredible physique. When I reach his shoulder, I pause. There is really something to be said for these huge muscles.

  His whole body has stilled. “Kate. What are you doing?”

  It’s the same low, suggestive voice he used earlier, and I’m quivering at the sound all over again. There’s a dull ache in my stomach that’s getting sharper and heavier by the second.

  “I’m not doing annnything,” I say, my own voice slurred with desire and intoxication. I’m afraid he’s going to stop me, so I slide my palm over his collarbone to his chest before he can, appreciating his well-defined pectorals, the heat radiating from his rib cage. My hand winds a slow, meandering path downward, exploring the miles of firm torso beneath my fingertips. I brave a glance up at him, and he’s staring at me intensely, his eyes alert and blazing green.