The Very Thought of You (24 page)

He went into the kitchen, dumped his shirt on the counter, and yanked open the refrigerator door. An assortment of fruit — apples, pears, peaches, and a couple of fuzzy brown things — cluttered the bottom shelf. A loaf of bread, encrusted in some kind of tiny, black pellets, rubbed up against a carton of eggs, a forest of celery, and a bag of sissy carrots. Three kinds of juice in half gallon-size bottles took up most of the top shelf. His mother had dropped by. Why must it be the wrong woman? He groaned.

When he'd given his father an extra key — in case of an emergency, like he got cold cocked by a steel beam — he hadn't anticipated his mother using it to steer him toward a vitamin-packed diet. It reminded him he hadn't eaten since he'd wolfed down a slice of pizza around three that afternoon. If he could possibly choke anything down, he'd send out for a couple of burritos. However, his stomach had slammed the door on the idea of food.

He reached in behind the juice and extracted a bottle of beer. He popped the cap, took a couple of giant slugs, and waited for relief. But it would take something stronger than beer to numb his mind to Molly. For once, he wished he saw the virtue in guzzling gin. He finished the beer and left the bottle on the counter. Before he started on a second, he needed a long, hot shower. If that headed him in the wrong direction, a long cold one. He unzipped his jeans and walked into the bathroom.

It took almost a full minute before the pipes spurted enough hot water. He shucked his pants and stepped under the spray. For all his body knew, the showerhead could have spit bullets at him. That's how empty he felt. He soaped up, shampooed his hair, and cursed himself for letting Molly off the hook. All she needed was a little persuasion. Didn't he used to be
the man
when it came to that? So why hadn't he used it? Ego? Nah. He was afraid to scare her away altogether. Especially if what he envisioned as a night of bliss turned into a Titanic-sized mistake for her.

The shower did nothing to mitigate the disappointment of coming home solo. He wrapped a towel around his hips, shuffled back into the kitchen, and popped another beer. One sip and he pushed it aside. The shallow breaths he sucked in only brought on lightheadedness, as if he spun around on a carnival ride. Maybe he needed food after all. Nothing packaged in Styrofoam would satisfy his hunger, though. For any kind of satisfaction he needed Molly. He leaned against the counter and tried to remember a time, not too long ago, when he'd skated on the upside of life. He was in the process of squeezing his brain for a couple of highlights when the phone rang.

• • •

Molly kept her foot on the brake, one hand on the steering wheel, and the other clutched around her cell phone. Even with the interior light, it was hard to read the numbers on the back of Nick's card. With each ring, she became convinced she dialed the wrong number or that he'd taken a detour and hadn't reached home yet. She was pretty sure she had the right building — a modern four story above an underground garage and fronted in redwood and expansive windows. A pair of glass doors scrolled with brass led to a compact lobby. It was the kind of place she envisioned Nick living in. Lights blazed from a first and third floor unit. She wondered if he hunkered down in one of those. If not, maybe he'd decided to indulge in a super-sized taco at his favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant out in the Mission.

The thought of food turned her stomach into a pit of tangled nerves. Her palm had sprouted so much sweat, it was a wonder the phone didn't slide out of her hand. Four rings and still no answer. Two more and she'd put the Chevy to the test and find out if it could do zero to sixty in ten seconds. Every reason to come this far started to sound like psychotic babble. Maybe she was just plain crazy and not just crazy in love with Nick. She let an extra ring go by. Then it cut off, and he came on the line.

“Nick here.”

Her heart took a detour into her throat, muting her.

“Hello?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them wide. “Hi, Nick. It's me.”

“Molly.” Almost a whisper. “Where are you?” he said in a stronger tone.

“I'm double parked outside your building. I drove around the block twice and across the avenue and couldn't find any place to park. Someone pulled a truck up onto the sidewalk in front of the building next door. If I do it, too, I'm afraid I'll get a ticket or towed or whatever they do in this part of town.” She couldn't stop babbling.

“Don't go anywhere.”

By the time she reached the point of telling him she'd try the next block once more in case someone left to go on a late date or to work the night shift — babble, babble — he had charged out the front door of his building. Shirtless, his jeans were open at least a couple of inches below the waist. She sucked in her breath.

“Oh,” she exhaled into the phone. “You're here.” She reached over and unlocked the door.

He slid into the seat beside her. A shock of dark hair fell across his forehead and curled close to his ear. Damp. Not from the rain. That had stopped while she'd sat in her car in SoMa for twenty minutes and debated whether or not to follow him home. Finally, the self that controlled her heart won over the measured one that programmed her head. He didn't touch her. Maybe he feared he'd frighten her off, which was silly. Now he was so close, only the gear shift kept her from leaping into his lap. Her nerves had settled; she'd made the right decision.

“There's no place to park.”

“The stall next to mine is empty. My neighbor drove down to LA and won't be back for a few days. Back up and pull all the way into the driveway in front of the grate. I'll raise it from inside the garage.” He slid halfway out of the car, then ducked his head back in. “Don't go anywhere.”

She smiled.

Once outside, he sprinted back into his building. Anxious? A moment later, he reappeared in the underground parking area. He engaged something on the side wall, and the security gate rose. She pulled ahead, and he climbed back inside the car and guided her into an empty slot.

He didn't touch her until he helped her out of the driver's seat. As they walked toward an elevator, he held her hand. Then he put his arm around her while they ascended. She leaned against him. Neither spoke. She had no trouble figuring out his apartment when they reached his floor. It was the one with the wide open door.

“Someone was in a hurry.” She stepped inside.

He pulled the door closed, then took her in his arms and held her. His heart thumped against her chest. Now that she was calm, he seemed nervous.

“I'm glad you changed your mind.” Then he kissed her slowly, gently, as if she were made of fine porcelain and liable to shatter if he pressed too hard. Hmm. She liked that he hadn't backed her up against a wall and started groping her private parts. He understood something she thought important about a sexual encounter, at least the first one. Don't morph into Cro-Magnon Man.

When the kiss ended, Nick took her hand and led her into the living room. Although dim, furniture shapes stood out — sofa, club chair, coffee table. Only one picture hung on the wall — the Golden Gate Bridge lit at night. No clutter. Not even a beer bottle or program guide on the coffee table.

“You're pretty neat.”

“I don't spend much time here.”

Out on the prowl a lot? She stopped before she almost blurted it. Why remind him about other women in his life? Even if it turned out she wasn't destined to be
the
one.

“Is that the kitchen?” A light burned behind a glass panel above the stove.

“Yeah. Are you hungry?”

“Hmm.” Now that her stomach had settled and her nerves were behaving like good little children, she could eat a twenty-ounce T-bone steak. Wasn't a craving for food supposed to happen
after
sex? “Are you?”

“I guess so. I could order something in if you don't mind waiting.” He sounded as enthusiastic as a man stuck out in the open in a lightning storm.

“Isn't there anything in the refrigerator?”

“Well, yeah, but nothing fit to eat.”

She smiled and gave him a quick hug. “I could go for some junk.”

She headed for the kitchen before he could stop her. He followed a step behind. She dropped her purse on the table. He hung up the phone, grabbed his shirt off the counter, and threw it over the back of a chair.

“Let's see.” She opened the refrigerator door and took a quick inventory. She gathered a few pieces of fruit and laid them on the counter. “Oh, good, I love kiwi.”

He frowned. “Stuff like that will make your hair fall out.”

“We'll see.” She rinsed off a waxy red apple. “Do you have any knives?”

He opened a drawer and handed her one. She sliced up half the apple. “Here.” She offered him a couple of thin wedges.

“If that's what it takes.” He pushed the apple slices into his mouth.

“How come all the healthy food?”

“My mother is on a crusade.”

“She worries about you.”

He shook his head.

Molly smiled. “Try this.” She held up a peach. He eyed it as if it might explode on contact with his mouth. “Come on. You survived the apple.” She brushed at the wayward lock on his forehead. “You still have your hair.”

He took the peach and bit into it. Then he handed the rest to her. She consumed everything, even the bits that clung to the core, which she dropped into the sink.

She skinned half of the kiwi, sliced off a section and put it in his hand.

“Is this the penalty phase?”

“Have you done anything to warrant a penalty?”

He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Not yet.”

She bit down along the side edge of her bottom lip.

“I won't play rough, Miss Molly.”

She almost cut her finger as she skimmed off another piece of kiwi.

He swallowed the fruit and grimaced.

“Do you want any more?”

“Uh-uh.”

Moist green particles clung to her fingers. “Do you have something I can put this in?”

“Yeah.” He took what was left of the kiwi and tossed it in the sink. The knife followed. Then he took her hand and sucked her fingers one at a time. He went about it with slow, erotic deliberation, as if enjoying the taste of the fruit this time. He kept his eyes on hers, eyes that had darkened with need and wanting.

That triggered a hot, tingly sensation that never made it to Molly's toes. It pit-stopped right at her deepest core, and she got all twitchy. She'd been with men before, well, three, anyway, and this feeling had never hit so fast or so hard. She hadn't been in love with any of those others. She was in love with Nick.

When he finished tasting her fingers, he kissed her palm. She wanted him to start on all her other body parts, but she didn't want to rush him. He put his hand on the back of her neck and drew her in close. The fragrance of fresh fruit mingled in the air with the scent of manly soap that clung to him. She laid the back of her hand against his bare chest. Hair tickled her skin. The dark swirl trailed down his chest, over hard muscles, and into the partial opening of his jeans. She squashed the impulse to follow its path. Tonight, sex in his kitchen held no place on her menu.

His fingers threaded through her hair. His mouth came down on hers with a passion that stilled her breath. Whatever had pumped up his heartbeat earlier had apparently quieted, and he was back in full command. His mouth tasted like fruit salad, and Molly wanted to eat her way through every last speck of it. His tongue did a circuit inside her mouth, and he pulled her in so close she felt his ribs against the undersides of her arms.

Finally, he let her go. “I guess that's one way to get your vitamins.”

She looked at him and grinned. “And I practically had to force you.”

“Not anymore.”

He lifted her onto her toes. She pressed her fingertips into his broad shoulders and tried to climb onto his hips. Her skirt scotched the attempt.

She didn't have to give him instructions. He released the button, opened the zipper and drew the skirt down her legs. She stepped out of it, and he tossed it in the direction of a chair and caught the seat.

“Well, you fixed that problem.”

He nipped the tip of her ear. “That's me. Mr. Helpful. No job too big or too small.”

She was left wearing shoes, panties, her bra, and a blouse. He rubbed his hands up the backs of her thighs, and her muscles rippled.

“Want to try that last maneuver again?”

“You bet.”

He put his hands on her butt and lifted her up onto his hips. She wrapped her legs around his waist and twined her arms around his neck. Her heart beat in quick-step time. She pressed close against his bare skin and the toned muscles beneath it. Her pulse ricocheted when he kissed her throat. His fingers slipped beneath her blouse. Goose bumps that must have equaled robin's eggs popped up across her back.

“Another thing,” he said.

“What's that?”

“Your bra is too tight.”

“I suppose Mr. Helpful can do something about that, too.”

“Quicker than you can say, ‘Open sesame.'”

He undid the buttons on her blouse as well. A minute later, she was down to shoes and panties. God, the slow pace drove her crazy. Maybe he waited for her to pick it up. She didn't know his preference — did he like aggressive women or did he prefer to take the lead? When it came to sex, she'd never been a take-charge kind of woman. The anticipation of being with him changed that. Now she couldn't wait for him to get right to it. Her body slid a few inches down his. He was rock hard. How long could he last?

“Let's continue this in the bedroom.”

“Mind reader,” she whispered in his ear.

Seconds later, she was in a room where slanted blinds let in diffused light. The bed was king-sized and covered with a white top sheet. A large mirror hung above a double dresser. She watched herself and Nick in it as he set her down on the foot of the bed and knelt to take off her shoes.