"Think it's much better now that I can do this," he said, sliding his fingers between mine.
"Yes," I agreed, lips curving up. "Much better."
"You want dessert?"
"Do you?" I asked, watching as his eyes went from warm to molten.
"Oh, I can go for a little dessert," he told me. "But they're not serving what I'm hungry for here. Or, he went on, not wanting to pressure me. "We can go get some coffee and donuts, then each go home to our separate places," he said, though I swear it sounded like genuine pain in his voice at the idea.
Pain.
Over the idea of not sleeping with me.
"Take me home with you," I suggested, letting my fingers squeeze his a bit.THIRTEENKateI know I had carefully arranged my room to accommodate having company. And, in a way, I might have been more comfortable in my own space, around my own creature comforts.
That said, I was curious about Rush's place.
So we left Famiglia and turned in the other direction from the way that would lead back to my place, heading instead to a nicer apartment building than mine.
It was a four-story-stucco building with black window casings and black balconies, giving it a more sleek, modern look.
The main areas inside were noticeably sparse as all apartment buildings were, but meticulously clean.
Rush lived on the top floor, nestled in the back corner.
"I'm half-expecting model cars lining the walls," I joked as he unlocked the door.
What I found, instead, was a neutral gray color scheme, lighter on the walls, darker on the sectional. The cabinets and tables were all black. The walls didn't host pictures of his family, but rather, large canvases.
"These are lovely," I told him, walking over toward a wall of canvases, finding muted colors—black, gray, deep blue, hints of green—showing various different landscapes. Some looked to be from the States, others were decidedly not.
"Atlas," Rush explained.
"The brother who never stays in town for long?"
"That's the one. He comes home and makes us some drawings of the places he's seen."
"He should sell these."
"He's been told," Rush agreed. "Repeatedly. He's a stubborn-ass. No ambition either. He just wants to explore and then show us what he saw. Then disappear again. Before you ask," Rush went on, shooting me a smirk, "No. Art is not a family trait. The rest of us can't draw for shit. No one ever wants to be on my team for Pictionary," he added, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked boyish and bashful. As if I needed more reasons to like the man.
"I'll be on your team on Pictionary. I mean, we will lose. I can't draw a straight line. But we will lose splendidly," I told him, shooting him a hopeful smile.
"And we'd kick everyone else's asses in Scattergories," he agreed, making my heart dance around happily at the idea of him seeing us doing that. Playing board games. With his family.
"Oh, they'd go down," I agreed, bumping my hip into his playfully.
"This is the part where I am supposed to give you a tour," he said a second later, turning away from the canvases. "This seems pretty self-explanatory," he went on, waving out toward the open space that served as the living and kitchen area. He didn't have a traditional dining room table, but he did have a black console table pushed up against a wall across from the main part of the kitchen with two chairs butted up against it. I imagined, like my dining set, it only got used when he had company.
"Then through here," he went on, leading me over toward the small hall, "we have a something they have the audacity to call a spare bedroom," he told me, opening the door to reveal a room that was, admittedly, more of a large closet than a bedroom. He had various things stored there in the somewhat laissez-faire, haphazard way men tended to store things. Half-collapsed boxes overflowing with old clothes butted up against a set of matching luggage. There were skis, a surfboard, and various sports equipment—balls, kettle bells, even a yoga mat.
"Yeah," he said when he saw me eye the yoga mat. "Not my purchase or my idea. I fucked up my back a few years back while attempting surfing for the first —and last—time. One of the girls suggested yoga. I figured I would give it a try."
"Not a fan?" I asked, interested only because it involved him. As for me, the concept of exercising was as foreign as giving up carbs.
"I might have fixed my back, but I threw out my shoulder trying to get out of one of the positions."
"So this is the place where your grand ideas for starting new workout regimens goes to die?" I asked.
"Something like that," he agreed, chuckling. "Though, I haven't tried the skies. Those were a Christmas gift from Atlas who spent a whole winter on the slopes once. I had every intention of going, but..."