Читать книгу What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan? - Jill Knapp - Страница 10

“Thank God you cooked!” I clapped as I walked into Nicholas’s studio apartment.

His place was dimly lit, all of the lights were off except for the overhead light in the kitchen.

“Oh, were you hungry? I think I may have some leftovers in the fridge,” Nicholas replied jokingly, wryly smiling.

I dropped my purse onto the bed and kicked off my new ballet flats I had just picked up at Necessary Clothing. My bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor, but it felt good after the nine-block walk. I walked over to Nicholas and kissed him hello.

“Ha! You are hilarious,” I smiled. “Thanks for agreeing to eat dinner at five like a senior citizen. I wanted to make sure I got to see you today and my class is going to end late tonight.”

“Honey, of course! Besides if I didn’t cook for you, you’d most likely die of malnutrition. After all, one cannot survive on pasta and whiskey alone. Why do most of your classes start so late anyway?” he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

I was waiting for him to become irritated with my always having to run off to class or to the library, but he never did. Nick was the perfect boyfriend; patient, understanding, and insanely cute. I watched him cooking for me and I think I fell a little more in love with him.

“Um, I assume it’s because most people work until about five or so; so they schedule most graduate level classes at six-thirty or seven,” I replied, stroking his hair.

I motioned to him for a hug and placed my head on his chest; my head fit perfectly under his chin, making me feel safe.

“And I don’t only survive on pasta and whiskey,” I insisted. “There’s also scotch and dark chocolate to consider.”

He gave me a wink and a quick kiss on the forehead. I crossed over to the fridge and grabbed myself a bottle of water, suddenly feeling warm.

“So, how did last night go?” he asked, catching me off guard.

“It went fine.” I answered quickly. “Cassandra met a guy named Bryce something and I started to feel like a third wheel, so I just headed home early.”

I felt guilty for lying and couldn’t look at him as I answered. I turned to walk out of the kitchen when he grabbed my arm and passionately pulled me towards him, my face less than an inch from his.

“You’re burning,” I whispered, before he could kiss me.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

I sheepishly replied, “The chicken, it’s burning.”

I bit my bottom lip and looked up at Nick. After all of this time I was still intensely attracted to him. Whenever I caught a glimpse of those big, gorgeous eyes, I could feel myself melt a little.

Nicholas twisted the knob on the stove, turning off the flame. I let out a small laugh and realized I probably wasn’t going to be eating dinner tonight. Then without saying another word he lifted me up and carried me onto the bed. Carefully placing me down, he began removing my clothes while kissing me tenderly. His mouth enveloping mine, sending goosebumps down my back. He quickly peeled off his shirt and jeans, and threw them on the floor. He then stopped and began to look me up and down, admiring every inch of my body. I thought about how lucky I was to have a boyfriend who was so into me, and how I never had to be self-conscious around him. He placed his hand under my chin and looked deeply into my eyes. I felt a surreal moment of tranquility and said, “Take me, I’m all yours.” He began kissing my neck, and then my stomach, and then came back up to my lips.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” I said jokingly.

“The microwave works,” he said seductively smiling back at me. “We can reheat it.”

I never did make it to class that night. Instead, Nicholas and I finally got around to eating dinner after an amazing hour in bed, opened a bottle of Merlot, and then re-watched our favorite movie, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, for what had to be the twentieth time. I glanced at the clock; it was a little past midnight. Nick and I had gone to bed about forty minutes ago and he had quickly slipped into a blissful coma-like state. I on the other hand, was wide awake. I felt an overabundance of guilt as I looked over at Nick, because for the past half hour all I could think about was Michael. More specifically, the run-in he and I had last night as I was leaving Oliver’s Tavern. I turned on my back and replayed last night’s scene in my mind.

“Heading home?” Michael had asked. As soon as he spoke I felt a shiver of excitement rush through my body.

“Yeah. I’m beat,” I answered, trying to sound as casual as possible.

I felt the need to keep the conversation going, but a cold gust of air hit my face and made it impossible to think of something charming to say. I glanced down the street behind Michael and I noticed a young couple walking by. Their arms were linked as they made their way into a subway entrance. I wondered if they were in a relationship, or merely a second date.

“So, um. What are you doing in this neighborhood, alone?”

I knew Michael lived in midtown, East 60th street; not exactly close by.

“I just left a friend’s apartment, they live nearby. I needed to walk for a bit and clear my head.”

I felt a sense of worry and intrigue, as if he wasn’t telling me something important, his usual composed and refined disposition seemed a little shaky.

“Are you alright? I mean, do you want some company?” I asked as I reached out to touch his arm.

“I was just going to head back to my apartment, why don’t you come over for a drink and you can tell me what’s bothering you?”

Shit! What was I doing inviting him back to my apartment, at night? I couldn’t stop myself, though; it was as if my mind had no control over my speech. I was suddenly eager to help Michael in any way I could, and apparently that meant inviting him back to my apartment.

“I—” he started. Then he paused for a minute, and I silently braced myself for rejection. “Amalia, I would love to come in for a drink. I could really use someone to talk to.”

“Great!” I said, a little too eagerly. “I mean, that’s cool. Let’s get going.” I tried to sound more composed, motioning toward the crosswalk.

He smiled and moved a bit closer to me. I immediately went weak at the knees. In all of my anxiety, I hadn’t noticed how great he looked until right now. Michael always dressed well but for some reason I took extra notice of his fitted black button-down shirt, dark denim jeans free of distress of any kind, and loafers to pull the look together. I realized I was still staring at him when he pulled me in for a hug.

“Thank you, Amalia. You’re a great friend,” he whispered.

I felt strong sense of disappointment and a little foolish as he let go of me. A friend? A buddy? Is that all Michael thought of me as? More importantly, why did I care so much?