I promised her an eleven. It’ll have to wait.
“Come on. Let’s go inside so I can find out what color panties you have on.” She’s laughing that familiar laugh as I grab her hand and walk her toward the house. I can already tell I have nothing to worry about. She’s the same Fallon I remember from last year. Maybe even a little better.
So . . . maybe that means I have everything to worry about.
Fallon
I wasn’t expecting this when he said to meet him at his house. I was more or less expecting an apartment, but this is a fairly modern two-story house. A house-house. He closes the front door behind me and heads for the stairs. I trail behind him.
“You didn’t bring luggage?” he asks.
I don’t want to think about how little time I’ll actually be here. “I’m heading back tonight.”
He stops mid-step and faces me. “Tonight? You aren’t even staying the night in California?”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I have to be back in New York by eight in the morning. My flight is at ten thirty tonight.”
“The flight is more than five hours,” he says, concerned. “With the time difference, you won’t even get home until after six in the morning.”
“I’ll sleep on the plane.”
His eyebrows draw apart and his mouth tightens. “I don’t like that for you,” he says. “You should have called. We could have changed the date or something.”
“I don’t know your phone number. Besides, that would have ruined the entire premise of your book. It’s November 9th or nothing, remember?”
I think he may be pouting, but I do recall him being the one to make that rule.
“I’m sorry I was late. We still have six hours left before I have to head to the airport.”
“Five and a half,” he clarifies. He begins walking up the stairs again. I follow him all the way to his room, but now I feel like he’s upset with me. I know there were probably ways around flying in and out on the same day, but to be honest, I wasn’t even sure he would show up. I thought he probably had crazy, spontaneous days with fake girlfriends all the time and he wouldn’t even remember me. I figured I wouldn’t be too embarrassed with myself for believing he would show up if I was able to get right back on the plane a few hours later and pretend it never happened.
But not only did he show up, he was still waiting two hours later.
Two hours.
It’s extremely flattering. I would have probably given up after the first hour, thinking he stood me up.
Ben opens a door and motions for me to walk in first. He smiles at me as I walk into his room, but his smile feels forced.
He has no right to be upset with me. We agreed to meet today and yes, I was late, but I showed up. I spin around and put my hands on my hips, ready to defend myself if he says another word about how little time we have. He closes the door and leans against it, but rather than bring it up again, he begins to kick off his shoes. The disappointment is gone from his face and he actually looks . . . I don’t know . . . happy.
After his shoes are off, he steps quickly toward me and shoves me. I let out a shriek when I fall backward, but before I can panic, my back meets a cloud. Or a bed. Whatever it is, it’s the most comfortable thing I’ve ever lain on.
He steps forward with a smirk on his face and a gleam in his eye. “Let’s get comfortable,” he says. “We have a lot of talking to do.” He stands between my knees and lifts one of my legs to remove my shoe. They’re just flats, so he slides it off easily. Rather than drop my foot, he runs his hand slowly down my leg as he lowers it to the bed.
I forgot how hot it is in California. He really needs to turn on a fan.
He lifts my other leg and removes that shoe in the same fashion, moving his hand down my leg at a torturous pace, all the while grinning at me.
Is the elevation different here than in New York? God, it’s so hard to breathe in this room.
Once I’m barefoot, he steps around me and takes a seat at the head of the bed.
“Come here,” he says.
I flip onto my stomach and he’s lying on a pillow with his head propped up on his hand. He pats the pillow next to him. “I don’t bite.”
“Damn shame,” I say as I crawl my way to where he is. I lie down on the pillow and face him. “Ninety percent of our time together since we met has been spent on a bed.”
“Nothing wrong with that. I love your hair.”
His words send me into a tizzy, but I smile like I hear it every day. “Why, thank you.”
We quietly take each other in for a moment. I was starting to forget what he looked like, but now that I’m in front of him it’s like I never even left. He looks less like a teenager now than he did last year. And it makes me wonder if, when I see him again next year, he’ll look just like a man. Not that there’s any difference between a man and a nineteen-year-old, because they’re the same thing.
“We don’t have much time,” he says. “I have a ton of questions. I have a book to write and I know absolutely nothing about you.”
I open my mouth to argue, because it seems like he knows everything about me. But then I clamp it shut, because I guess he doesn’t really know much about me. We only spent one day together.
“Did you write anything this year?”
He nods. “I did. Did you kiss anyone this year?”
I nod. “I did. Did you?”
He shrugs.
“Did you, Ben?”
He nods. “A few.”
I try not to let that affect me, but exactly how many constitutes a few?