Her forehead creases. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m an open book. I kind of tell you everything.” Then, her eyes sparkle, and she grabs my thigh. “Wait! I do have something to tell you. Gigi met someone last night. Apparently, she had quite the evening with a dashing stranger.”
She proceeds to serve up some details about a Henry Cavill-esque guy who can solve a Rubix Cube in thirty seconds. “In short, he’s perfect for her.”
“That sounds very Gigi,” I say.
“I know, right? I can’t wait to find out when she’s going to see him next. I have a feeling about this one. Like he could be the one for her.” Her nose wrinkles. “Unless it turns out he secretly hates pie or something. Ooh, wouldn’t that be scandalous?”
“Yes, but let’s back it up a sentence or two. Do you believe in that?”
She blinks. “People who hate pie? Yes, they absolutely exist. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s something about the texture of the filling or—”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “The one. You think it’s a real thing?”
It’s her turn to roll her eyes. “You know I do, weirdo. You’re the one.”
I smile. Hard. “Yeah. You’re the one too.”
“Duh,” she says dryly, even as she snuggles closer to my side.
Look at us—a pair of lovebirds.
A lucky pair indeed.
When we reach Brooklyn, we set a world record for speed in removing only enough clothes to slam our bodies together on her kitchen counter. Why bother heading to the bedroom when the counter is the perfect height for me to get close to her.
As I fuck and make love to the woman of my dreams, my certainty for tomorrow’s plan intensifies.
This woman, these nights, these days—it’s all I’ll ever want, and I hope she wants it too.
The next morning, after we devour French toast and savor coffee, I pull her onto my lap in the kitchen, nuzzling her hair. “I have a surprise for you this afternoon.”
“It’s not a Prince Albert, is it? Or is it?”
“No, I’m not getting my penis pierced.”
She sniffs. “Huh. Then I’m stumped.”
Laughing, I drop a kiss to her forehead. “Meet me at two and I’ll un-stump you. I’ll text you the address. I need to go to see Max.”
I slip away to meet my lawyer friend for cinnamon and sugar cortados and to cement my final plans.
She’s on the dot, rapping on the door as the wall clock with cherries for numbers chimes on the hour. I found it for her in the Venice shop, and sent it home with my mom.
I swing open the door, my pulse jittery. Ruby’s eyes are wide and curious.
“What on earth is this?” She peers inside, scanning the small space for clues.
That’s the coolest thing about this place. It’s not quite obvious from the outside what’s behind door number one.
But it’s about to become as clear as the blue sky painted on the ceiling.
Nerves flicker through me, racing across my body.
Wil
l she like what I’ve done?
I thread my fingers through hers and show her around a small but well-lit artist studio.