“Of course. I’m a man of my word.”
“Even if it’s a chick flick?”
I sigh melodramatically into my wine glass. “Even,” I intone, “if it’s a chick flick.”
“Yay!” She hops off her barstool and embraces me again. I rest my chin on the top of her head, folding her into my arms. She’s still warm from snuggling in a blanket on the couch. I rub absent circles on her back with my thumb, and she hums contentedly against my chest.
“This is nice,” she says. “Maybe we can just do this all night.”
I chuckle, kissing her on the top of the head before spanking her lightly on the ass. She squeals in surprise and pulls away, eyes wide open in mock affront.
“What was that for?!”
“Just to remind you that there are more things we can do tonight.”
“Oh, really?” She tilts her head and grins. “Like what?”
“Like this.” I nudge her chin up and kiss her deeply, drinking her in. She melts every time, and this time is no exception; I feel every ounce of tension in her arms and shoulders release. I’m used to women enjoying kissing me because I know what I’m doing, but Bailey reacts as if my lips are her personal panacea, curing her of all of her worries and woes.
I feel her smile against my mouth, and I pull away, tucking a curl behind her ear.
“That was nice,” she says, a hand still pressed to my chest. “But…”
“But?”
“Shouldn’t you be ordering a pizza?”
I can’t help it. I laugh, playfully swatting her ass one more time. She dances away, giggling, her wine glass back in her hand, the liquid threatening to slosh out.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving a hand as I dial the closest pizza place on my cell. “You’ll get your bacon and pineapple soon enough, little miss.”
“And cheesy bread!” she insists, plopping back onto the couch to no doubt search for the cringiest rom-com she can find.
“And cheesy bread,” I sigh to the kid on the phone.
I never have it in me to resist her.
Food ordered, I settle onto the couch beside Bailey. We instinctively find our usual position: me with one arm on the back of the couch, her cuddled into my right side. I play with her hair, rubbing the silky curls between my thumb and forefinger. Whatever hair products she uses smell tantalizing, all vanilla and exotic flowers, and as I kiss the top of her head, I breathe her in.
As she browses the movies, each one looking more lame than the last, Bailey suddenly asks, “Did you like college?”
I’ve known her for so long that I sometimes forget she knows very little about my life before she entered it.
“I did, and I didn’t,” I say, trailing my fingers up and down her arm. “It was four years, so it’s hard to encapsulate the experience with a simple “yes” or “no.” Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this right before you go off to school, but it felt largely like wasted time.”
“Why?”
I think before I speak. Maybe it was my own fault because I studied, sure, but I also spent a huge chunk of precious time partying and chasing girls, sometimes even doing whatever drugs were popular at the time. I decline to tell Bailey this.
“It didn’t prepare me for my career the way I expected it to,” I say instead, which is also the truth. “Working as a handyman was infinitely more valuable to me. Experience trumps studying any day.”
Bailey sighs, putting down the remote.
“I’m kind of worried that that’s going to be the case with me,” she says. She shifts, leaning against the side of the couch while placing her legs in my lap. “Like, I’m excited to go off to school, but I’m not sure that it’s going to prepare me for what I actually want to do.”
I realize that I have no idea what she’s going to school for. Something like embarrassment—or is it shame?—boils in my chest. We’ve spent so much time together over the past few weeks and yet we still hardly know one another. I know every curve and dimple of her body, sure, but I want to get to know the rest of her--her inner workings. She may be years younger than me, but she’s still an adult, and a smart one at that. I shouldn’t be treating her like a sex doll.
“What are you going to study at school?” I ask.
“I haven’t declared a major yet,” she says, taking another sip of her wine. “But I think I want to…” Bailey stops, looking shy, which is not a typical look for her. I rub her leg, encouraging her to continue. “I think I want to go into interior design,” she says finally, and laughs. “I’ve never told anyone that.”
I’m honored to be entrusted with this top-secret information, and press a kiss to her hand to let her know.