It’s a fair question. I stop, thinking for a moment. “Can you think of anyone who hasn’t made a mistake in their lives?” I ask at last. “Take Patrick, for instance. He’s a good guy, but he cheated on you and as you’ve seen, it’s not the end of the world. He’s still alive and going about his life. Hell, take me.” I gesture at myself. “I went to rehab for a drinking problem, but I turned my life around. Things work out, honey. They always do, and I mean it when I say that you’re still young, Libs. You have plenty of opportunities.”
“I hope you’re right,” she replies in a low voice.
I turn to face her.
“Things are going to be okay, sweetheart,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’m serious.” Those words finally get her to loosen up, and she smiles a bit. The air feels less heavy with the confessions off both of our chests, and I can’t help but drift closer to her in spite of the public setting. I back her up gently until I’m pushing her against one of the concrete walls, my hands cupping her cheeks as I stoop to kiss her with renewed passion. Her arms snake around my neck, and as our hips rest against each other, I can feel a familiar arousal pooling in my pelvis. I let the tip of my tongue graze her lips, which she parts eagerly to allow me to deepen the kiss.
“Frisco,” Libby gasps, finally breaking away from the lip lock. God, I could listen to her whimper like this all day. “We shouldn’t be doing this here! Someone could see us!”
“That’s what makes it so fun,” I argue, and that’s enough to make her melt in my arms. She sighs into my mouth as we kiss again, the sounds of her moans lost in the droning of the factory machines. Before long my hands are beginning to roam her curves, and for those few blissful moments, it doesn’t matter where we are or how we met. We’re lost in each other, and come hell or high water, it’s absolutely perfect.
8
Frisco
* * *
Would it be cliched to say that with Libby, time flies? Maybe, but it’s the truth. Hours become days, which become weeks, and I find myself caught up in the bliss of it all. It’s not often that something or someone in my private life has an effect on my work, but this is different: even when I’m at the office, answering emails and leading meetings, part of my mind still lingers on Libby.
Sometimes, I remember the fact that she used to date my brother. Do I feel guilty? Yes, a little, but the distance between Patrick and me makes it easier. We’re ten years apart, so we were never friends per se. There’s also the fact that he hasn’t once reached out to Libby since putting her in jail. If he wanted a reconciliation, he would have asked for one by now. Besides, getting her locked up was a shitty thing to do and completely overblown on his part. Sure, she forwarded some naughty photos of him to their church group, but his kinky habits were going to come out eventually. They always do.
Even more, my brother can’t blame me for following my instincts. An unerring sense for what I want has gotten me this far in life, and they haven’t steered me wrong yet. I crave this woman, and there’s no arguing the intensity of our connection. The sex is fantastic, and our outings are luxurious, but that’s not all. Libby lights up my world whenever I see her, and in spite of her past mistakes, hell, in spite of mine, I’ve never felt more at ease with a woman in my life.
Over the months, we’ve gradually settled into a routine. For example, I’ve taken to picking her up and dropping her off at her job because I don’t want her taking public transportation if we can avoid it. And by now, she’s spending more time at my place than she is at hers. Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way. When the time comes, I plan on asking her to officially move in with me, something I’ve never done with another woman. When I put my mind to something, I don’t stop until I get it.
But tonight, I’ve made a reservation at the nicest restaurant in Portland, a three Michelin star bistro that normally has a six-month waitlist. I was able to pull some strings as a surprise for our three-month anniversary, and I’m sure she’ll love it.
“So?” I ask, pulling her chair out. We’re at a quiet table by the sprawling windows in the back, which provide a gorgeous view of the Portland skyline in all of its nighttime glory. String lights crisscross the ceiling, and mellow music drifts over to us from the live jazz band. The chatter is quiet, and the aromas coming from the kitchen are enough to have my mouth watering. “Verdict?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and raising an eyebrow at her.