sounds so good that I almost melt into a puddle right there on the floor. The mere idea of sleeping all by myself is almost sensual. But I have some busywork assignment for one of my online classes that needs to be finished by tomorrow, and if I’m up then I might as well make a pie because I have the crust chilling in the fridge, and I can see the way this night is gonna go. It’s not going to involve bed in any way, shape, or form until at least 3 A.M.
“You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?” Nick asks, his voice uncertain and low. And I don’t know what it is. If it’s the fact that rain has always made me feel safe, or the fact that everything’s built up so much that it has to explode, or that I’m so tired. At least if I’m talking about my shitshow of a life, then I’m not thinking about how Nick’s ass looks in his jeans, which is obviously not an appropriate place for my mind to wander.
I don’t know why Nick is asking me, what’s making him push his way into the uncharted waters of my personal life, but I don’t even hesitate before I unload it all on him.
I lean against the broom handle, one hand on a hip like I’m about to start a stand-up set. “Well, my dad’s been accusing the staff members at his facility of stealing from him, which is a real bummer because they definitely aren’t and so he’s worked up and they keep calling me and it’s all a big mess. Since no one else is around to take care of him, it’s kind of my problem. And, as you know, Milo’s back in town, but he hasn’t given me an apology or anything for leaving me here to care for our father. He did, however, expect me to help him move into a terrible duplex that, oh yeah, is owned by a grown-ass man who chooses to call himself Mikey Danger. Also I have business school homework. And I need pie but pie doesn’t currently exist.”
I take a deep breath. “Oh, and my back hurts. I’ve been standing all day.”
Nick walks toward me, closing the gap between us in a couple of long-legged steps. I stop breathing when he’s in front of me, the way you do when you step outside into freezing weather; his nearness is a shock to my system.
He puts a hand on my arm; that’s all it is. A hand on an arm, but it feels like more than that. “That sucks, Chloe,” he says.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, desperately trying to avoid the small fire burning under his hand. “Shouldn’t you be making fun of me or something? Or complaining about how I’m not working hard enough?”
Nick gives me a half smile, one eyebrow raised. “I think we both know how hard you work.”
I swallow hard as “Steal Away” ends. And then, as we stand there staring at each other in the empty coffee shop, broom forgotten, the opening notes of “Steal Away” start to play. Again.
“Chloe,” Nick says, and I really wish he would stop saying my name, because every time he does I imagine him saying it in other contexts and in other places, like against my lips or in my ear. “Didn’t we already have a conversation about the song ‘Steal Away’?”
“Perhaps,” I whisper.
“And what song is playing on repeat right now?”
I take a breath. The words come out shaky. “‘Steal Away’ by Robbie Dupree.”
He still smells like a sexy grandpa, and I hate that this is turning me on.
The lights go off again, and this time, they don’t come back on after two seconds. We stand there in silence and darkness, except for a lightning flash that illuminates Nick’s face. He is too close to me, and his hand is entirely too on my arm. I can barely see him, but I can feel him, the warmth and Nick-ness of him right in front of me, the heat from his chest radiating toward me like he’s a portable space heater. I want to hold out my hands in front of his chest to warm them.
I should take a step back, away from his hand. I should go find my coat, walk home, let the rain function as a cold shower, and then go to bed, where he can haunt my erotic dreams and nightmares.