Part 17 (1/2)
I should say no. Picking out curtains is something couples do. Picking out curtains is something friends do. Picking out curtains is not something Miles and Tate should do if they want to stick to their rules, but I absolutely, positively, most definitely don't want to do anything else.
I shrug to make my answer appear much more casual than it is. ”Sure. Let me lock my door.”
”What's your favorite color?” I ask him once we're on the elevator. I'm trying to stay focused on the task at hand, but I can't deny the desire I have for him to reach out and touch me. A kiss, a hug . . . anything. We're standing on opposite sides of the elevator, though. We haven't touched since the night we first had s.e.x. We haven't even spoken or texted since then, either.
”Black?” he says, unsure of his own answer. ”I like black.”
I shake my head. ”You can't decorate with black curtains. You need color. Maybe something close to black but not black.”
”Navy?” he asks. I notice his eyes aren't focused on mine anymore. His eyes are scrolling slowly from my neck all the way down to my feet. Everywhere his eyes focus, I can feel it.
”Navy might work,” I say quietly. I'm pretty sure this conversation is only taking place for the sake of having conversation. I can see by the way he's looking at me that neither of us is thinking about colors or curtains or rugs right now.
”Do you have to work tonight, Tate?”
I nod. I like that he's thinking about tonight, and I love how he ends most of his questions with my name. I love how he says my name. I should require him to say my name every time he speaks to me. ”I don't have to be in until ten.”
The elevator reaches the bottom floor, and we both move to the doors at the same time. His hand connects with the small of my back, and the current that moves through me is undeniable. I've had crushes on guys before, h.e.l.l, I've even been in love with guys before, but none of their touches have ever been able to make me respond the way his do.
As soon as I step off the elevator, his hand leaves my back. I'm more aware of the absence of his touch now than before he even touched me. Each little bit I get, I crave it that much more.
Cap isn't in his usual spot. That's not surprising, though, considering it's only noon. He's not much of a morning person. Maybe that's why we get along so well.
”You feel like walking?” Miles asks.
I tell him yes, despite the fact that it's cold out. I prefer walking, and we're near several stores that would work for what he's looking for. I suggest a store I pa.s.sed a couple of weeks ago that's only two blocks from where we are.
”After you,” he says, holding the door open for me. I step outside and pull my coat a little tighter around me. I highly doubt Miles is the type of guy who holds hands in public, so I don't even worry about making my hands available to him. I hug myself to keep warm, and we begin walking side-by-side.
We're quiet most of the way, but I'm fine with it. I'm not someone who feels the need for constant conversation, and I'm learning that he might be the same way.
”It's right up here,” I say, pointing to the right when we reach a crosswalk. I glance down at an elderly man seated on the sidewalk, bundled up in a tattered, thin coat. His eyes are closed, and the gloves on his s.h.i.+vering hands are rifled with holes.
I've always been sympathetic to people who have nothing and nowhere to go. Corbin hates that I can never pa.s.s homeless people without giving them money or food. He says the majority of them are homeless because they have addictions and that when I give them money, it only feeds those addictions.
Honestly, I don't care if that's the case. If someone is homeless because he has a need for something that is stronger than his need for a home, it doesn't deter me in the least. Maybe it's because I'm a nurse, but I don't believe addiction is a choice. Addiction is an illness, and it pains me to see people forced to live this way because they're unable to help themselves.
I would give him money if I had brought my purse.
I realize I'm no longer walking when I feel Miles steal a glance back in my direction. He's watching me watch the old man, so I pick up my pace and catch back up with him. I don't say anything to defend the troubled expression on my face. It's pointless. I've been through it enough with Corbin to know that I don't have the desire to try to change all the opinions I disagree with.
”This is it,” I say, coming to a pause in front of the store.
Miles stops walking and inspects the display inside the store window. ”Do you like that?” he asks, pointing at the window. I take a step closer and look at it with him. It's a bedroom display, but there are elements in it that he's looking for. The rug on the floor is gray with several geometric shapes in various shades of blue and black. It actually looks like something that would fit his taste.
The curtains aren't navy, though. They're a slate gray, with one solid white line running vertically down the left side of the panel.
”I do like it,” I reply.
He steps in front of me and opens the door to let me walk in first. A saleswoman is making her way toward the front before the door even closes behind us. She asks if she can help us find anything. Miles points to the window. ”I want those curtains. Four of them. And the rug.”
The saleswoman smiles and motions for us to follow her. ”What width and height do you need?”
Miles pulls his phone out and reads off the measurements to her. She helps him pick out curtain rods and then tells us she'll be a few minutes. She heads to the back and leaves us alone at the register. I look around, suddenly developing the urge to pick out decorations for my own place. I plan on staying with Corbin for a couple more months, but it wouldn't hurt to have an idea of what I'll want for my own place when I do finally move out. I'm hoping it'll be just as easy to shop when that time comes as it was for Miles today.
”I've never seen anyone shop this fast,” I tell him.
”Disappointed?”
I quickly shake my head. If there's one thing I don't do well as a girl, it's shop. I'm actually relieved it only took him a minute.
”You think I should look around longer?” he asks. He's leaning against the counter now, watching me. I like the way he looks at me-like I'm the most interesting thing in the store.
”If you like what you already picked out, I wouldn't keep looking. When you know, you know.”
I meet his gaze, and the second I do, my mouth gets dry. He's concentrating on me, and the serious look on his face makes me feel uncomfortable and nervous and interesting, all at once. He pushes off the counter and takes a step toward me.
”Come here.” His fingers reach down and wrap around mine, and he begins to pull me behind him.
My pulse is being ridiculous. It's sad, really.
They're just fingers, Tate. Don't let them affect you like this.
He continues walking until he reaches a wooden trifold screen, decorated with Asian writing on the outside. It's the kind of screen people place in the corners of bedrooms. I never understood them. My mother has one, and I doubt she's ever once stepped behind it to change clothes.
”What are you doing?” I ask him.
He turns and faces me, still holding on to my hand. He grins and steps behind the screen, pulling me with him so we're both s.h.i.+elded from the rest of the store. I can't help but laugh, because it feels like we're in high school, hiding from the teacher.
His finger meets my lips. ”Shh,” he whispers, smiling down at me while he stares at my mouth.
I immediately stop laughing but not because I don't find this amusing anymore. I stop laughing because as soon as his finger is pressed against my lips, I forget how to laugh.
I forget everything.
Right now, the only thing I can focus on is his finger as it slides softly down my mouth and chin. His eyes follow the tip of his finger as it keeps moving, trailing gently down my throat, all the way to my chest, down, down, down to my stomach.
That one finger feels as if it's touching me with the sensation of a thousand hands. My lungs and their inability to keep up are signs of that.
His eyes are still focused on his finger as it comes to a pause at the top of my jeans, right above the b.u.t.ton. His finger isn't even making contact with my skin, but you wouldn't know that based on the rapid response of my pulse. His entire hand comes into play now as he lightly traces my stomach over the top of my s.h.i.+rt until his hand meets my waist. Both of his hands grip my hips and pull me forward, securing me against him.
His eyes close briefly, and when he opens them again, he's no longer looking down. He's looking straight at me.
”I've been wanting to kiss you since you walked through my front door today,” he says.