pictured Simon as a child here, running around after his big brother in that yard. It made my heart ache with nostalgia for something I’d never actually seen.
Finally I shook it off and headed up the front walk. When my foot hit the porch a light came on, so he’d either seen me lurking outside or there was a motion sensor. I hoped for the latter.
My hand shook as I rang the doorbell, but I pushed the button before I could lose my nerve, then struggled to take a breath over the pounding of my heart. What was I doing here? Taking advice from a random piece of paper in my Chinese takeout? This was crazy.
Nothing happened at first, so for the space of a few heartbeats I was awash with relief. He hadn’t seen me lurking after all. Then a few more heartbeats, and the door still didn’t open, and the relief drained away, replaced with dread. He knew I was there and he wasn’t going to let me in. How long should I stand on the porch like an idiot, hoping he’d come to the door? Should I ring a second time? Should I slink back to the car? Should I—
The door swung open. My heart rate spiked until I could feel it in my throat, and for a second neither of us spoke. Simon looked like his usual unflappable self, but different at the same time. More casual. The times he’d been out of costume he’d been in his usual button-down shirts and crisp jeans. Simon wasn’t a dress-down kind of guy.
But at home he was, apparently. At home he wore a faded gray University of Maryland T-shirt and a pair of well-past-broken-in jeans that sat low on his slim hips. This was not someone who had plans to go out, much less entertain visitors.
“Emily?” My gaze flew back up to his face. He’d obviously taken a shower after Faire like I had; his hair was still a little damp and fell over his brow. I’d seen him with that smoldery guyliner around his eyes so often that he looked oddly vulnerable now without it. The silver hoop still hung from one ear. He cocked an eyebrow, and my face flushed. I’d come to his door and then stood there staring without saying a word.
“Hey,” I finally said, trying for a smile and mostly failing.
“Hi.” He looked down at the bottle of rum I held in my arms. “You know I’m not actually a pirate, right?” But he stepped back from the doorway and waved me in.
“Oh, I bet he’s in there somewhere,” I said with an airiness I didn’t feel as I walked past him and inside. His house looked . . . settled. Lived in. The front hallway was lined with what looked like thirty years’ worth of rows of family photographs. But the kitchen gleamed with new appliances, and the old kitchen table only had one placemat, with an open laptop and a pile of paperwork on the other end. He’d been in the middle of something, paying bills maybe, and I’d interrupted his quiet Sunday night.
Simon walked past me into the kitchen, where he got two shot glasses down off a shelf. I opened the bottle of rum, and he poured us shots.
“So what are you doing here?” He slid one of the shot glasses across the kitchen counter to me.
Good question. I downed the shot in an effort to stall and shuddered at the bite of the alcohol. So many questions bubbled to the surface of my brain in answer to his. So many things I wanted to know. About him. About us. Was there even an us? Where could I possibly start?
Sensing none of my inner turmoil, he sipped from his shot glass, savoring the rum, keeping his eyes on me. He looked as placid as always, while the top of my head was about to fly off. How dare he kiss me like that and not give a shit about it afterward.
There was a good starting point. “You kissed me.” I spat the words out, accused him.
“Ah.” He set his glass down and fiddled with the cap on the rum bottle. “I did.”
“More than once. You kissed me today.”
He picked up his shot glass again and knocked back the rest of the rum before splashing in a little more. “I did. In character.”
“What?”
“Your character likes my character. The pirate.” He picked up the bottle of rum, sloshing the liquid in