One Night Read online

  I slowly nod, and watch as he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.

  Exhaling the breath I was holding, I try to regain my composure. He saw me naked. He has before, but this was different. We weren't in the heat of passion, our bodies melded together. This was from a distance, and he looked at me, all of me, with a look so hot I could feel his desire. I still feel it, burning up the room, intensifying that aching need between my thighs.

  I've got to get out of here before I do something I regret. If I'm serious about Dylan and seeing where this could go, we can't be having sex. It'll just confuse me and how I feel about him.

  No longer caring which pair of jeans I wear, I grab the top one on the pile and yank them on, then quickly put on a bra since I wasn't wearing one and pull on a thin pink sweater. I wear a lot of pink. I'm a girly girl. It goes with my romantic side.

  Hurrying to the bathroom, I put on some blush and mascara then brush out my hair and put it back in a ponytail.

  "Okay, I'm ready," I say, meeting up with Dylan, who's standing by the front door, checking his phone.

  He looks up and smiles, slipping his phone in his coat pocket. "You look nice."

  "Thanks."

  "Although you looked nice in the bedroom too. You could've just stayed like that."

  He's got that heated look in his eyes again and it's taking everything in me not to give in to him.

  "Yeah, that probably wouldn't be appropriate for a coffee shop," I say as I open the front door. "And by the way, next time I'll be locking my door. You shouldn't have barged in like that."

  He catches me as I walk out the door, his arm going around my waist. "Are you mad that I did?" His eyes go to mine. Dark. Intense. Expressing how much he wants me. I want him too. So bad.

  "No," I say, being completely honest.

  "I didn't think so." He lets me go, but takes my hand as I lock the door.

  As we hold hands, I'm reminded of that night, and how perfectly our hands fit together. They're still a perfect fit, making me think there really is some element of fate at work. A force that brought us together, knowing we're a perfect match. But does that really exist? It can't. There can't be a match for everyone. With all the people in the world, they'd never find each other.

  "Do you usually take a long time to get ready?" Dylan asks as we're walking down the street. I assume he's going to the coffee shop on the corner.

  "I guess I do, at least by guy standards."

  "How long are we talking here? Like an hour?"

  "An hour's a bit much. More like forty-five minutes. But it depends on the day."

  "What takes so long? You don't need makeup and you look hot in whatever you wear."

  I smile. "Thanks, but I disagree. And I like getting dressed up. Putting makeup on. Doing my hair. I'm girly that way. Probably because I grew up with two sisters."

  "Younger or older?"

  "One younger, one older. How about you?"

  "A brother. Younger."

  "And you said your family lives here in Chicago?"

  "Not in the city. They're way out in the suburbs. I don't know if it's even considered the Chicago metro area. With traffic, it can take almost an hour to get there."

  "Do you go home much?"

  "Not really. Between school and the band I don't have much time to go home." He opens the door to the coffee shop for me. "Let me guess," he says as we walk up to the counter. "Some kind of latte?"

  "Yeah. Mocha, made with whole milk. I'm not a skim milk kind of girl."

  "Got it." He goes up and orders it for me, along with a black coffee for himself. "And an apple danish and cranberry muffin," he says to the girl. She rings him up, then we wait at the other end of the counter.

  "You like cranberry muffins?" I ask.

  "That's for you. The danish is for me."

  "How do you know I like cranberry muffins?"

  He gently squeezes my hand, which he held as soon as he finished paying. "I might've asked Kira a few questions about your likes and dislikes."

  "Why didn't you just ask me?"

  "Because you wouldn't talk to me, and as I said before, I didn't want our letters to become an exchange of biographical information."

  "Order up for Dylan," a guy behind the counter says. We take our coffees and food and find a table by the window.

  "What else did Kira tell you?" I ask.

  "Not much. A few food preferences and your favorite type of flower. She also said that you used to kick ass in gymnastics. That you were even better than her."

  "That's not true." I glance out the window. "She's exaggerating. She's the one who went to nationals."

  "She said you would've gone too if you hadn't quit. So why'd you quit?"

  "I just wanted to do other things."

  "Because gymnastics wasn't important to you anymore?"

  "It was, but..." I don't finish the thought.

  "What?" He puts his hand over mine, stopping me before I peel the wrapper from my muffin. "What were you going to say?"

  "Nothing."

  "Amber." He pauses until I look at him. "I know you're not telling me the whole story here. So what is it? Why'd you quit gymnastics?"

  "There's no other story. I told you, I wanted to do other things. I got into cheerleading, which took a lot of my time, and then I joined some clubs and did some volunteer work and I just didn't have time to keep up with gymnastics."

  "And?" His eyes bore into me, urging me for the truth, the other reason I quit.

  But I'm not telling him. I never even told Kira, and she's my best friend. The truth is, I quit because I thought it was tearing my family apart. I thought it was the reason my parents weren't getting along. Gymnastics used to consume my life, and the life of my entire family. My parents were constantly taking me to practice and meets and competitions out of town, which took time away from them being a couple. They couldn't have date nights. They had no alone time. And all my training was expensive. It put a strain on their finances and they started fighting about money.

  By high school, I realized I had to quit before things got even worse. But it didn't do any good. They fought even more. So I can't say for sure I was the reason for their relationship problems, but if it was even a possibility, I had to end my gymnastics career.

  "You ever regret quitting?" Dylan asks.

  "Sometimes, when I see a competition on TV. Or when I watch the Olympics. Kira and I both dreamed of going to the Olympics. But dreams change and now here we are." I force out a smile and pull my hand from his and peel the wrapper from my muffin.

  "So now what's your dream?" he asks, sitting back in his chair.

  "I don't know. I haven't decided. How about you?"

  "Not sure. I kind of just take things day by day and see what happens. In a way, I kind of feel like I'm already living my dream. I always wanted to be in a band and I have been for years now." He picks up his coffee and takes a drink. "You ever going to come hear us play?"

  "I've heard you play," I say, tearing off a chunk of muffin. "I went to one of your concerts back in August."

  "That was months ago. I think it's time you come hear us play again." He smiles. "I'm your boyfriend. You've gotta come hear me play at least few times."

  I smile back. "You're not my boyfriend. We're not even dating."

  "We write each other love letters. Well, at least I do."

  "Hey, I—"

  "I'm just saying. I'm pretty sure the guidelines of an old-fashioned romance would say that writing love letters signifies a relationship, or a courtship if we're using old-fashioned terms. That would mean I'm your boyfriend, or beau, if we're continuing with the old-fashioned terminology."

  "Then what does make me? In old-fashioned terms?"

  "Hmm. I'm not sure what the equivalent for beau is. Sweetheart? Darling? Kitten?"

  I laugh. "Definitely not Kitten. I'd feel like I should be walking around in a cat suit."

  His eyebrows rise. "I'd actually like to see that."


  I point at him. "Stop it. Wholesome thoughts only. Got it?"

  He takes the hand I was pointing with and holds it in his, leaning across the table. "You can't control my thoughts. I can think whatever I want. Imagine you wearing all kinds of things. Or nothing at all."

  He's going to kill me with his flirting. Kill any resolve I had to stay away from him.

  Clearing my throat, I say, "So going back to names, I think girlfriend will do. Or just friend. Either one works."

  "I think I'll go with sweetheart. It fits you."

  "Why does it fit me?"

  "It's classy. A little old-fashioned yet still in style. And it says a lot with just one word. It doesn't need explanation."

  I'm trying to figure out what that means. I think he's complimenting me, saying I'm classy and a mix of modern and old-fashioned. But what does he mean when he says it doesn't need explanation? Is he referring to the fact that he knows what I'm thinking without me saying it? If so, that's true.

  So I guess sweetheart does fit me.

  How did this happen? I wasn't even supposed to see him today, maybe not even for weeks. And yet now I'm having coffee with him and we've given each other names. And kissed.

  God, that kiss. I want to do it again. And so much more.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dylan

  "Ready to go?" I ask.

  Amber and I have been sitting at this coffee shop for an hour and I'd love to stay but I have to work on a paper that's due tomorrow that I haven't even started.

  "Oh, um, yeah." Amber quickly gets up. I think she wanted to stay. She says she wants us to spend time apart but I know she doesn't mean it. Her reluctance to leave just proved it.

  As we walk back to her apartment, hand in hand, she points to the cars parked on the street. "Which one is yours?"

  It's odd that we've declared ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, and had sex, and yet she doesn't even know what kind of car I drive. Our relationship is not traditional, to say the least, and yet I love it. I love whatever this is we're doing. It's not the typical romance. It's different and strange and quirky and unexpected.

  "It's that one," I say, pointing to the silver Prius. "It was my dad's back when he decided to be environmentally conscious. But after a few months he decided being comfortable was more important than going green. He's 6'5 so didn't really fit in it, so I got the car."

  "But you're also tall."

  "I'm 6'2 so I fit in it better than he does. I'd like a larger car but this one is new so I can't complain. I used to have an old pick-up. It was my grandfather's. He had a farm in Wisconsin so he always drove trucks. When he moved to a retirement home he gave me his truck, but it was a piece of shit and broke down all the time. So what do you drive?"

  "I have a Ford Focus. It was my mom's. She got a new car so I got her old one. But it's only five years old so fairly new."

  We're at her apartment building now and stop in front of it.

  "You don't have to walk me upstairs," she says.

  "It's the gentlemanly thing to do. Old fashioned romance, remember?"

  She smiles. "Then let's go."

  She turns to head to the door but I keep hold of her hand, stopping her. "Wait."

  "What?"

  "Come here." I tug on her hand until she turns back around, then I step closer to her and wrap my arms around her waist.

  "What are you doing?" she asks.

  I nod toward some people walking by. "We're in public."

  "Yeah? So?"

  I lean down and kiss her, and not a short goodbye kiss, but a real kiss. Slow and drawn out and expressing what I feel for her, which is more than I should feel for a girl after knowing her for such a short time and yet I still do. My feelings for Amber are more than I've felt for girls I've dated for months. But why? Why do I feel this way? Was it the sex? Did that one night mess with my head, making me think I love this girl after knowing her for just a few hours? That can't be it. I've had sex plenty of times and never felt this way.

  Someone's car alarm goes off and I force myself to back away.

  "You weren't supposed to do that," Amber says in a soft, breathy voice.

  "You said I could if we're in public."

  "But I didn't mean—"

  "No changing the rules now. If we're in public, I can kiss you. That's what you said."

  "Fine, but it doesn't matter because we're not going out like this again. We're going back to the letters. You said you'd try it so that's we're going to do. No texts. No emails. Just letters. You broke the rules today by coming here but we're going to get this back on track."

  I just smile at her, then wrap my hand around hers and lead her inside. We go up the elevator and when we're at her door, I say, "I didn't break the rules."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "By showing up here, I didn't break the rules of our arrangement."

  "Yes you did. You were supposed to just write letters."

  "And do romantic gestures. That's what you said. And today was a romantic gesture. I showed up at your apartment unannounced. I surprised you. Surprises are romantic gestures."

  "Oh." She looks perplexed. "Well, that's not really what I meant."

  "You can't define romantic gestures. They're different for everyone. And to me, surprising you like this was a romantic gesture, as was buying your favorite muffin."

  "But what if I didn't want the muffin? Speaking hypothetically, because I kind of did want the muffin."

  "If you didn't want it, that's fine. You didn't have to eat it, but that doesn't mean I can't buy it for you. A gesture is meant to convey a feeling for someone, an affection, and whether or not that's reciprocated or wanted or appreciated isn't the point of the gesture."

  "Did you look up the definition of gesture? Because you seem to know a lot about them."

  "Not really. I'm kind of learning as I go. This is all new to me. I've never had all these dating rules before."

  "I know it seems strange but I warned you I was a little crazy when it comes to romance. And given the way we met, I just feel like we need to step back and start again. I don't want us to just be about sex. I want more."

  "So do I." I kiss her cheek. "I have to go. I'll call you—I mean, I look forward to your next letter."

  She smiles. "I'll put extra time into it."

  "I hope so," I say, walking to the elevator, "because if it's like the last one, I'll fall asleep before I even finish reading it."

  The stunned look on her face is the last thing I see before stepping into the elevator. It's fun giving her shit about that letter. She knows it was crap and I could tell she was embarrassed by it. I can't wait to see what she writes me next to make up for it.

  ***

  When I get home, Van is on the couch in the living room watching TV. He must've just got back. He took a road trip to Kansas City this weekend to see a band that he likes. I didn't feel like going so he went with a buddy of his from class. Van's a music major but doesn't know what he's going to do with his degree. He doesn't like to plan ahead or set goals. He likes to just live his life and see what happens.

  "How was the trip?" I ask as I hang my coat on the hook behind the door.

  "Damn car broke on the way home." Van lifts his legs up on the coffee table. "I knew we should've taken mine. Jason's car is a piece of shit. We ended up stuck on the freeway just outside Kansas City."

  "So what'd you do?"

  "Had it towed. Jason's still down there, waiting for it to be fixed. I rented a car to get home."

  "Was the concert any good?"

  "It was great. And afterward Jason and I went to a bar and met some girls." He smiles. "Had a good time. Speaking of girls, I heard you dumped Allison."

  "You talked to Austin?"

  "Yeah. He said Allison showed up in a trench coat and nothing else. Why'd you dump her, man? That girl gave you sex whenever you wanted. And she's hot." He shakes his head. "Damn, she's hot. If she hadn't been with you, I'd do her in a heartbeat. So why
'd you dump her?"

  "Austin didn't tell you?"

  "No. Why? What happened?"

  "I finally heard from Amber."

  "No shit?" He sets his feet down on the floor and sits up. "She called you?"

  "No, she came over and dropped off a letter. I didn't see her. The letter was left at the door."

  "Letter? Who writes letters?"

  "She does. She thinks they're romantic. It's a long story. Anyway, the letter said she wants to try going out, except we're not actually going out. We're writing letters."

  "Writing letters? What the fuck you talking about?"

  I can't explain this to him. He won't understand. He's not into romance. He'll take a girl to dinner or the movies or to hear a concert, but those are just dates, not romance, at least not what I would consider romance.

  "Just forget it," I tell him. "You wouldn't understand." I go in the kitchen and open the fridge to see if we have any food. That apple danish I had at the coffee shop did nothing to kill my appetite. I'm starving.

  Van bursts through the kitchen door and sits at the table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "So let me get this straight. You've wanted this girl since you met her. You wrote a song about her. You searched for her for months. You finally find her and find out she's interested, but you're not dating her. You're just writing letters."

  "Pretty much." I shut the fridge and turn to him. "You want to go get something to eat?"

  "I just ate, but if you order a pizza I'll have a slice."

  "Pizza. That sounds good." I get my phone out and order an extra large.

  "Sit your ass down," Van says, "and tell me what's going on with this girl."

  "There's nothing to tell." I take the seat across from him. "We're taking it slow. She thinks letters are romantic so we're writing letters."

  "That's completely stupid."

  "It's not stupid. It's different. Just because nobody does it anymore doesn't make it stupid."

  "Why are you agreeing to this? This girl left you hanging for months. She treated you like shit. She should just be happy you're talking to her, not making you write some dumbass letters."

  "She didn't treat me like shit. She just wasn't ready to continue what we started. And we were both dating other people. Now we're not."