Authors: Melissa F. Miller
A
t eight o’clock
, I was curled up on my lumpy excuse for a couch with a bottle of red wine, a container of Trader Joe’s dark chocolate pretzels, and an extra-large portion of self-pity. The plan was to wile away the hours watching cooking shows, so I could at least pretend that I was doing something marginally productive. The first time the intercom buzzed, I ignored it—mainly because Alton Brown was midway through his explanation of brining. I just love the way that guy marries science and food. The second time, whoever was downstairs leaned insistently on the button effectively drowning out my stand-in date.
I harrumphed my way over to the button. “Who is it?”
Felix’s voice was conciliatory even through the static. “It’s your very sorry boyfriend. Please may I come up?”
I nearly choked on my pretzel, but luckily, I still had my glass in my hand. I took a big gulp of syrah to wash it down and sputtered, “Um, sure.” I buzzed him in and then raced wildly through my apartment, clicking off the television with a silent apology to my boy Alton.
I tore through my closet in search of a cute, casual outfit that Felix hadn’t seen yet and settled on a filmy cream-colored tank top and a flouncy skirt. I tossed my tee shirt and sweats on the bed and hurried to pull on the dressier clothes. I brushed my teeth with my right-hand while pulling a comb through my hair with my left. I ran a lipstick across my mouth and slipped my feet into my sandals, then hightailed it back to the kitchen and grabbed a second wine glass. I refilled my glass and poured one for Felix, then leaned against the counter, panting to catch my breath. For the first time ever, I was grateful that my building’s ancient elevator took its groaning time moving from floor to floor.
My heart rate had slowed almost to normal by the time Felix knocked on my apartment door. I exhaled and walked over to answer the door, trying to keep my nerves in check.
I unlocked the door and swung it open. “Hi,” I said, standing aside to let him in.
“Hi yourself, gorgeous.” He moved toward me like he was planning to kiss me, but I closed the door and evaded him by heading for the galley kitchen.
“Wine?” I asked, picking up both glasses and extending one toward him.
Uncertainty flashed in his eyes as if he’d just realized this wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he’d assumed.
Good,
I thought, sipping my wine.
Gah.
Freshly brushed teeth and red wine were not a winning combination. I managed to convert my grimace into a smile.
“Uh, thanks.” He reached for the glass. “To makeup sex. The best kind there is,” he said, raising the glass toward me to toast.
I pinned him with a frosty look and took another drink, concentrating hard on not imagining what he had in mind.
He waited for a second, realized I wasn’t going to toast or respond, and then rested his glass on the counter.
He closed the distance between us. “Rosemary, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I snapped at you in the kitchen. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did when you came upstairs to talk. I’m just … really sorry. There’s no excuse for the way I treated you.” His voice dripped with sincerity and his chiseled face wore an expression of pain.
My anger melted. Not just because he apologized, but also because I thought about all he’d been through recently. Although no one was exactly mourning Amber, her murder had been a shock. His father’s relationship, another shock. His father’s arrest for murder, yet another. And even his crappiness toward his dad was the result of his own hurt about having to give up music school.
“Apology accepted,” I breathed. I put my wineglass down, raised myself on my tiptoes, and wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling his head down so his full lips met mine. Detective Drummond’s warning echoed in my mind, but I swatted it away like the annoying insect it was and let my euphoria wash over me.
After a long, long kiss that tasted like wine (and I hoped no toothpaste), Felix pulled back and searched my eyes.
“Good. Now that we’ve settled that, will you still come over to the apartment?”
I swiveled and scanned the room. What was wrong with my place? Shabby, cramped, and dated though it may be, it
was
habitable.
He must have sensed what I was thinking, because he flashed me a lopsided grin. “I had Alayna pick up some food and deliver it to the apartment for me. If you’re still willing to cook, we can have dinner in the garden and then …” His voice trailed off and his eyes traced my body.
“Sounds great,” I croaked through dry lips, my pulse hammering in my ear. I even ignored the fact that he’d sent the maid to do the grocery shopping, and I’d have no control over the menu.
“Good.” He took my hand and led me to the door. I grabbed my handbag on my way out.
As we waited for the elevators, our fingers interlaced and our hips brushing, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Your shirt is on inside out.”
What?
My eyes darted down to the front of the spaghetti strap tank. It looked fine to me.
“It’s raw-seamed,” I explained. “That means the seams aren’t finished. I guess it’s trendy.”
“Your tag is on the outside, too,” he countered gently, reaching a hand under my hair to tug on the tag. I shivered at the touch of his hand on my back.
“Oh.”
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside. My face burned.
Smooth, Rosemary. Really smooth.
He followed me into the car with a smirk. “Don’t worry about it. You won’t be wearing it much longer.”
I
t felt
weird to be back at the apartment after the whole Pat and Antonio / police scenario. The rooms felt closed up and smelled slightly musty, even though someone—Alayna, probably—had opened some windows and turned on the old-fashioned paddle-style ceiling fans.
“Hasn’t anybody used this place since, um, that night?” I asked as I rifled through the produce and seafood in the fridge.
“No. We just haven’t had a need,” he said. As he passed by me with a box of kitchen matches and a handful of candles, he gave my behind a playful bump with his hip and I pitched forward into the fridge.
“Hey, watch it!” I protested in mock outrage. But he was already gone, out on the patio, lighting candles, turning on the music, and generally setting the stage for a night of romance.
Involuntarily, I glanced toward the door to the bedroom just off the kitchen. The door was ajar, and I could see candlelight flickering off the windows behind the king bed. A soft bedside light shined on the bed, highlighting the blue and silver bed linens. I started to feel warm and stuck my head back in the fridge for a moment to get myself under control.
Felix wandered back in. “Can you make something out of what’s in there?”
I closed the refrigerator door and turned to face him, smoothing my skirt over my hips in a nervous gesture.
“Sure. We’ve got scallops, avocado, limes, heirloom tomatoes, and a jalapeño. I can make a nice ceviche. Or I can cook the Arborio rice in the cabinet and make a seafood risotto, if you want something more substantial.”
A lazy smile played across his lips. “Let’s go with the ceviche. I think a light meal’s called for. Plus it won’t take so long to get to dessert.”
I hadn’t noticed any ingredients that would work to create a dessert, but I had a feeling I knew what he had in mind. I gathered my ingredients and headed for the butcher block island in the middle of the room.
I concentrated on squeezing limes and dicing tomatoes. He busied himself making a pitcher of margaritas. We worked in comfortable silence—the only sounds were the rhythmic thud of my knife against the cutting surface and the faint strains of the music wafting in from the garden patio. I was glad for the lack of conversation. My body was a live wire. I was buzzing with excitement, nervousness, and anticipation.
He placed two glasses with salted rims on the island, stood behind me, and slipped his cool hands under my top, resting them on my warm stomach. I started at his touch and nearly dropped my knife. His hands spanned my body, tight around my waist.
“You feel hot. Maybe we should eat inside. I can close the windows and turn on the air conditioning.”
“No,” I said too quickly. “The patio’s fine. It’s a beautiful night.”
He nuzzled my bare shoulder. “Mmm. Sultry.”
I didn’t know if he meant me or the evening, so I let that go unanswered. I got to work assembling the ceviche and arranging the tomato-avocado relish on top while he got to work running his tongue over the nape of my neck. His hands were dancing across my torso, up, down, always teasing.
I inhaled sharply. My knees were made of jelly. I swallowed hard and leaned forward against the island for support. I eyed the margarita. I’m well passed the stage of life where fueling myself with liquid courage seemed smart. But I was going to pass out before we ate if I didn’t settle my nerves somehow. I reached for the glass and took a long drink. Salty, sweet, bitter. The liquid rolled down my throat, and I rolled my spine back like I was in Pilates class, bumping right up against his hard thighs and taut chest. He gripped my hips and held me tight.
I swallowed hard. “I’m nearly done here. Why don’t you wait outside on the patio?”
He held me for another long moment then released me. “Good idea,” he said in a strained voice. Then he scooped his drink up from the island and left the kitchen without another word.
I waited until I gained sufficient control of my movements that I was reasonably sure I could slice the fleshy scallops without cutting myself. Then I raced through the final steps of preparing the ceviche and left the dish to marinate on the counter for fifteen minutes or so. My hands were still shaking slightly when I lifted my glass and headed out to the patio to join Felix.
I
was too keyed
up to do much more than pick at my dinner, but Felix ate like a starving man—or a man in a hurry. He shoveled the ceviche into his mouth like he was being timed, pausing only to take a few gulps of his drink.
“That was amazing,” he said when he finished, pushing away the cocktail glass I’d used as a serving dish.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I mean it. You’re really talented.”
I smiled modestly and decided not to tell him that ceviche was one of those big-bang dishes that are super-easy to prepare but have a huge impact. Instead I dabbed my lips with my napkin and pushed back my chair. During our short meal, I’d managed to get a grip on my nerves. Something about the fragrant garden air, the gentle sound of the fountain water tinkling over the rocks, and the soft jazz music soothed me enough to replace my nervousness with sheer anticipation.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for dessert,” I said boldly as I pushed back my chair and stood.
His eyes widened, and he crossed the patio to join me. He stared down at me for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever.
“Oh, I’m ready for dessert,” he said throatily.
I smiled up at him.
What happened next is seared in my mind in slow motion. He lowered his head toward mine. Then, when his face was just inches from mine, he pitched forward and his stomach gurgled loudly, sloshily. His face stretched, contorting in horror and pain, and his Adam’s apple seemed to jump in his throat.
Somehow, I
knew
and managed to squirm away from him, jerking to my left just as an arc of vomit poured out of his mouth.
“Ahh,” I gagged. Other people’s puke always made me puke, too. It was some kind of reflex thing. I raced for the bathroom.
After I lost my dinner, I rinsed my mouth with the mouthwash someone had helpfully left on the sink. Once I felt somewhat human, I slinked back outside to check on Felix. I expected him to be mortified or, at least, embarrassed. Instead, he was immobile on the cobblestone, face down in a pool of tequila and half-digested scallops.
With bile rising again in my own throat, I hurried to roll him onto his back. “Felix!” I shouted.
He groaned and tried to raise his head off the ground but didn’t seem to be able to.
Fear crowded out my disgust, and I grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him, calling his name. His eyes met mine registering understanding but he didn’t respond, and when I let go of him gently, he fell back, limp and still. I caught his head before it bounced off the hard stone and eased it back then raced to the kitchen to grab my purse, dug out my cell phone, and dialed 911 with trembling fingers.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” A calm female voice said immediately after the first ring.
“My boyfriend’s sick. He vomited and now he seems to be paralyzed or something!” I blurted out frantically as I hurried back to the patio.
“Has he been doing drugs?”
“What? No. No, listen, there’s something wrong. I think he’s really sick.” I took a frantic look at Felix. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath he took. His breathing seemed labored, but at least he was breathing. His Roman brow was slick with sweat, and he was pale, almost gray, under his tan.
“Has he been drinking alcohol?”
“He’s had a margarita. Maybe two. That’s not it, okay? Please—”
“Ma’am, I’m going to help you. I just have to determine if we’re dealing with a possible overdose,” the operator assured me evenly.
“I understand.” I took a ragged breath. “He didn’t overdose. He’s a perfectly healthy twenty-two-year old. We just finished dinner and he got sick. I went to the bathroom to … um, clean up. When I got back to him, he was just laying there. It looks like he’s having trouble breathing.”
“Okay, ma’am. What’s the street address?”
I had no idea. I took another look at Felix, who hadn’t moved, and raced to the front of the house.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry, I’m still here,” I shouted into the phone, while I pawed through a stack of glossy magazines looking for an address label. The way my hands shook made it harder than it should have been but I found the address and rattled off the house number and street then listened to the clacking of keys on the other end of the phone.
After a moment she spoke in that same calm voice. “An ambulance is en route. In the meantime, I need you to make sure his airway is clear.”