I TOLD LARRY (and Karen and Joanne) everything the minute I walked into the apartment.
Because for the entire flight home, including the extensive five-hour layover in Chicago, my brain had been filled with explicit images of Max. I couldn’t seem to think about anything but the things he’d said and done, both to and with me, so I needed to unburden myself if I was ever going to recover.
I sat down at the table and spilled it all, right down to my stairwell admission that I’d brought condoms with me to Detroit, and Larry got so pissed at me for not listening that he took the cats for a walk, leaving me alone in the apartment. (Rose was at a Nelly concert with her nephew.)
So I went for a run at eight p.m., hoping that would clear my head.
But ten minutes in, my phone buzzed.
Max: Did I just see you run by?
I looked over my shoulder but didn’t see him behind me.
I slowed to a stop, stepped over on the sidewalk, and texted: Where are you?
Max: On my balcony. I glanced down at the street and I swear to God you sprinted past me.
No way. I responded with: Which building is yours exactly?
I knew he said he lived pretty close to me, but I didn’t know precisely where.
Max: Jackson Lofts.
What? He did not live in the Jackson lofts. Technically, his building was only a few blocks from mine, but a few blocks up-freaking-town. I texted: You live IN the Old Market??
Max: Yeah.
I knew Max had a good job at a firm his dad either owned or was a partner in, but those lofts were IT. Exposed beams, high ceilings, big windows, and in the center of the coolest part of the city.
How could he afford a place like that?
Me: I had no idea you were so fancy.
Max: Fuck right off. You should come up.
My heart skittered to a near stop, both from the idea of going into his house and also the combination of the word fuck and him inviting me to his abode.
I texted: You just want to have sex with me again.
I grabbed my foot and stretched while I waited for his response, wondering if he’d changed his mind, while knowing that he absolutely had not.
Max: We will not be doing that, Steinbeck, but come up and we’ll discuss.
Oh, this sounded fun. Did I really want to subject myself to his friendly rejection? I’ve run five miles since you saw me, totally on the other side of town by now.
Max: I expect to hear your buzz in no less than four minutes.
I sighed and texted: Fine.
When I got to his building three minutes later, I walked through the two big glass doors and pressed the button for parks 504 in the vestibule.
“Take the elevator to five,” I heard.
“Thanks,” I muttered, grinning as I walked over to the elevators.
As the car traveled up to the fifth floor, I realized I was nervous.
Why was I nervous?
This was my friend Max, the partner in crime I always felt comfortable with, even when he was looking at me naked.
So why were butterflies going wild in my stomach as the doors opened on the fifth floor?
I knocked on his door, but when it opened, I wasn’t ready for it.
I wasn’t ready for the absolute kick in the sternum it was to come face-to-face with the man I’d been having sexual replays about all day. He was wearing those glasses again—God help my lady parts—with a plain gray T-shirt and a pair of black basketball shorts.
Very innocuous outfit, but on him, it was the male equivalent of lingerie.
The shirt was soft and loose but clung to his broad chest, the baggy shorts a foil for the hard muscles of his strong thighs.
And he smelled freshly showered, reminding me of fourteen hours ago, when I’d showered with him.
And thoroughly explored those rock-hard thighs with my mouth.
“Hi,” I said, feeling like a complete slob in my messy ponytail and threadbare Huskers T-shirt.
“Hi,” he replied, pulling the door open further and giving me a very nice smile. “Come in.”
“Gee thanks,” I said, not really sure why I was being sarcastic but feeling a little . . . off-kilter.
I walked into his condo and holy shit. He lived in a corner unit, so the living room had full floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. Luxurious hardwood floors made from something unique like bocote, brick walls, exposed ductwork—it looked like the New Girl apartment but bigger and filled with sleek, minimalist furniture.
“Nice place.” I cleared my throat and tried to be cool while I looked over at a kitchen that was like the size of my apartment.
And I lived in a good apartment, damn it.
There was a huge midcentury modern kitchen table with eight chairs around it, carved out of textured, contemporary wood. It was the kind of piece you’d see in Architectural Digest, not in the apartment of an under-thirty bachelor.
“Thanks,” he said, leading me toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Beer? Water?”
“Water would be great, thank you.” I leaned my hip against the large center island and set my phone on the marble countertop.
He took a glass from one of his cupboards and filled it. “So, how’s Larry? Did you tell him what we did?”
My mouth dropped wide open when he turned around, because how could he know me that well?
He grinned and shut off the faucet. “So you did. What did he think?”
“That we’re ‘Captain Dipshit and the Brainless Twit,’ to quote him,” I said, taking the water from him.
“Please tell me I’m the captain.”
“You wish, twit.”
A huge orange tabby walked into the kitchen, meowing loudly.
“Oh, my God,” I said, dropping to a squat as the adorable beast came right toward me. “What’s its name?”
“That’s Cookie,” he said as his cat immediately started purring loudly when I petted his head. “He’s kind of an asshole.”
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I said as the little guy leaned his face into my scratch.
“He is a cat, Steinbeck, not my offspring.”
“Says you,” I murmured as the cat rubbed against my legs and then ran in the other direction.
“Sit,” Max said, pulling out a stool for me.
When I sat, he took the stool beside me and jerked mine closer to his so we were facing each other and his legs were kind of . . . around mine.
I suddenly didn’t remember words, couldn’t recall why I was there or what I’d even been doing a second before, because his muscular legs that slept with mine all night long were now almost touching them again.
“So let’s talk about the sex.” His voice was casual, but there was electricity crackling all around us in his kitchen. I felt like the tiniest touch could set me off.
The ruby-red match tip, dragging against the friction, teasing out a fizzing flame.
“I’m not going to rate you,” I said, my body doubling down on its nervousness as he smirked at me like he could hear my every thought. “So if this discussion is meant to be an ego stroke for you, I’m out.”
“Soph.” His face remained unchanged in its patient, overconfident knowing smirk. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“We are.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
I sighed because it was obvious he was going to make his speech, regardless of what I said. “Tell me what’s on your page, then.”
“Okay.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “So when you said that kissing me was the most sexually gratifying thing that’s happened to you, it completely knocked me on my ass.”
Damn it, damn it, damn it, I thought, regretting the admission.
“Because I realized I feel the exact same way.”
“You do?” Regret rescinded.
“Absolutely. Every time we kiss, it’s like a fucking experience, like this event that gets tripped up on an infinite loop in my head every minute I’m awake.”
Oh, wow. He’d described it perfectly. I’d had plenty of good kisses in my life, but he was right—the kisses with him were events.
No, not events. Events were too . . . ordinary. Kisses with Max were like holidays. Like birthdays. Like monumental, butterfly-inducing extravaganzas.
“All I can think about,” he said, his eyes dropping to my lips for a second, “is what it was like to kiss you and when I’ll get to do it again.”
“Same,” I agreed, shocked by his honesty but grateful for it. It felt nice to not play any games.
Maybe it was because we knew it was going nowhere that it felt safe to talk about it so freely.
“But now sex is in the picture. I don’t know how or why, but last night—and this morning—fucking dropped me. If the kisses destroyed my ability to think about anything other than your mouth, then the sex has obliterated every corner my consciousness.”
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t pure serotonin, the way he made me feel when he said that. Maybe it was just because I’d felt so . . . unwanted after Stuart, but hearing those words warmed me from the inside.
“Sounds like Maxxie is obsessed with me,” I teased.
“That’s kind of what I’m worried about, smart-ass,” he said, setting his palms on my knees and squeezing ever so lightly.
The warmth of his hands immediately awakened all the nerve endings in my body.
“I know you don’t believe in love, or flowery romantic feelings, but I do. I think they suck and I don’t want anything to do with them, but I know they’re out there. And I know that I’m playing with fire every time my mouth and my hands touch your body.”
I felt a little light-headed. “Are you saying, that, um . . .”
He just watched me, his eyes daring me to utter the words.
I shouldn’t say it, but suddenly I wanted to know. I took a deep breath. “You think you could fall for me if we . . . ?”
“I do.” His voice was quiet but resolute, as if he’d given this a lot of thought and there was no doubt. “And neither of us want that, right?”
I got a little stuck, looking at him, and it was tough to break our eye contact.
We didn’t want that, right?
I inhaled through my nose and swallowed.
“Right,” I managed, but my voice cracked and barely had sound to it. He thinks he could fall in love with me?
“So you agree that we should stop.” His eyes were intense and hot as he waited for my answer, almost as if he wanted me to say no.
But that would mean. . . .
No.
He definitely didn’t want me to say no.
I nodded and my knees pressed into the front edge of his stool. He was so close, his mouth right there, and I felt almost . . . hell, almost sad at the thought of never kissing it again.
“I do,” I said, my voice a near whisper as I felt sleepy-tipsy. The pads of his fingers were warm on my skin, and I leaned forward, just a little, my eyes distracted by his mouth. “But do you think we should . . .”
“What?” he replied quietly, his fingers tightening as he leaned forward to meet me where our breaths hovered, suspended in the shared space between our lips.
“I don’t know,” I breathed, “maybe have one last kiss, just as a farewell to . . .”
“To . . .” he said in a near whisper, his eyes on my mouth.
“To . . . whatever this was . . . ?”
“Steinbeck,” was all he said as his lips found mine. The teasing nip of his teeth, the slide of his tongue, the way his hands traced up my thighs and flexed for grip. It was familiar and comfortable, this sweet pull of lust, and I reached for his face, wanting to feel his hard jaw as I held him in place.
“It’s probably not a good idea,” he said against my lips, raising his hands to push the hair from my face.
My thighs missed the pressure of his hands immediately, the hot familiarity of his grip on me.
“It’s not,” I said, meaning it as a question, but it came out as a sigh as he lifted his lips off mine.
I could still feel them, hovering just above my mouth as if waiting for a word or a command that would change his mind. His eyes were dark and unreadable, gazing down at me, and my fingers itched to pull him back.
“So we’ll just,” he said, lowering his hands, “not do that anymore. Right?”
I felt like I was waking up from a dream as I wrestled with being disappointed that we weren’t kissing and utterly blown away by his confession that he thought he could fall for me. I cleared my throat. “Correct.”
“We can still play it up for social media and everyone else, though, since it seems to be working.” He turned his stool back to the counter, stood, and went over to the refrigerator, moving with that long, relaxed gait that made it seem like nothing concerned him.
“Absolutely,” I said, gathering my wits about me and standing.
“You sure you don’t want a beer?” He opened the industrial-size fridge and grabbed one for himself.
“No, thanks, I should get going.” I needed to get out of there. Why did I feel so shaky?
“Any shot of you letting me go with you, just to make sure you get home okay?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said, needing a little distance. “I’ve got Mace and I steer clear of dark alleys.”
“And you’ve got that headlock,” he said, giving me a knowing smile as we both remembered that first wedding. “I pity the idiot who tries messing with you.”
“Right.” I picked up my phone and opened Spotify, returning to where I’d been in my running playlist as he came back to my side. “RIP them.”
“Wait.” His finger slid over my app, searching until he found another playlist. “Try mine.”
I tried taking a deep breath, but my lungs seemed to be broken as I looked up at his face, so close as he messed with my phone. His finger traced over my screen, and my eyes followed, fixated on the motion, my heartbeat trapped in my throat as I remembered the way his fingertips felt on my skin.
His knowing eyes lifted to mine, and his voice was soft when he said, “There. Give that a shot.”
“Ah, thanks.”
As I ran home on shaky legs, Max’s music pounding in my ears, I couldn’t get things right in my head. Everything he said made perfect sense and it was the correct way for us to proceed, not carrying on with the physical part of our relationship.
But for some reason, it felt wrong. Maybe it was just because it’d been so good between us, but it felt like we were cutting something important from our relationship, like we were losing a closeness, even though that something hadn’t even been a part of our relationship before.
Although, shit, we didn’t have a relationship at all, did we?
Clearly I was tired, because words like relationship were entering my thoughts when it came to me and Max.
Which was absurd.
We were just friends.
And that was all.
Right?
