that he recognizes me because his expression goes from flat to glowing in an instant. And just like that, I’m reminded of one of the things I’ve always loved about Bishop, the fact that he can make me feel like a fucking rock star for simply walking into a room.
As I make my way closer to him, I notice his gaze dip, his eyes flitting over my body in a quick motion. He’s totally checking me out. The thought heats me from head to toe. It’s not like I moved back here to profess my undying love to the man or anything, but I’d be lying if I said the thought of something more than friendship developing between us hadn’t crossed my mind a time or two in the past twelve years. Hell, he was my first crush back when we were only fourteen years old, having idiotic kissing contests in his basement.
When Bishop’s eyes land on my face again, I arch an eyebrow questioningly, and he rolls his eyes, smirking and shaking his head at me. Deny it all you want, B, I totally caught you checking me out.
When I finally stop in front of him, I drop my bag and pull him into a tight hug.
“You stink,” he complains, hugging me back just as hard.
“I had to run to catch my connecting flight, so I got all sweaty.”
“Gross,” he mutters but still doesn’t push me away. He’s about the same height as I am, but his frame is a little leaner; the hug feels exactly right and too many years overdue.
“I fucking missed you, B.”
“That’s what you get for leaving town and not coming home for twelve years,” he points out, his voice muffled by the hug.
“I forgot what home felt like until now,” I confess. Every time I thought of California, I’ve remembered how pissed I still am at Hudson or how much my family struggled compared with all the rich assholes living all around us. I forgot the good parts of home until Bishop hugged me.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, finally stepping out of my embrace and stooping to scoop up my bag from the floor.
“Starved but also exhausted.”
“Want to go back to my place and order something to eat?” he suggests as we head outside to find his car.
“Don’t you mean our place, roomie?” I tease, flinging my arm over his shoulder as we walk.
“What the fuck is up with that anyway?” he asks.
“What?”
“You’re a fancy pants lawyer; why the hell do you want to stay in my shitty apartment?”
“It’s only until I find a place.”
“I know, but why didn’t you look before you moved? Most people have a place to stay when they uproot their lives and move to a new city,” he points out. His words hit me right in my most insecure place. He’s right: this was an ill-conceived idea, hardly the type of methodical planning I’ve clung to most of my life. But it’s difficult to regret it when he’s still standing close enough to reach out and touch.
“I do have a place to stay, unless your couch suddenly vanished.”
“It was still there when I left this morning, but it can be a little shifty, so I’d place a Lo-Jack on it if you don’t want to take any risks,” he deadpans.
I chuckle. “Seriously though, I figured I’d rather apartment hunt in person rather than pick somewhere based on pictures. And I thought it would be nice to spend some time catching up with you.”
“That’s fine. I just don’t want your expectations to be too high. My place kind of sucks. I’m sure your apartment in New York was amazing.”
“Something like that,” I mutter. I considered inviting him out to visit a few times, but the fact that my place was nowhere near what I’m sure he was expecting stopped me every time. I may be a lawyer, but I haven’t managed to leave behind that kid in the hand-me-down clothes, scraping together change to pay for lunch. I have student loans coming out of my ass and living in New York isn’t exactly cheap. Something tells me his apartment is nicer than the one I left.
We reach his car, and I toss my bag in the back seat and then climb into the passenger side. I glance over at Bishop as he buckles his seatbelt and slides on a pair of sunglasses, and my heart gives a small flutter.
“Thanks for letting me crash with you.”
“Of course,” he says easily. “You’re