Until now.
“Hello, earth to Cecelia.” His head dips. “Babe. Cece?”
Startled, the sound of my nickname slipping off his tongue causes me to blink rapidly and refocus. “Sorry, I was thinking.”
“You know what babe, forget I said anything. Let’s just sit here for a bit and enjoy the fire. Okay?” He says it softly – reassuringly – as he presses his full lips down on mine one last time, softly but firmly, before releasing my face and settling back into his seat.
Oh shit. He used an endearment – and not just one, but two.
Babe. Sweetie.
Now, I know there are a lot of girls out there who cannot stand endearments or nicknames. The sound of an endearment, to some, is like nails on a chalk board, and not to be tolerated. I, however, am not one of those people. The inner romantic inside me freaking loves it. Sweetheart, baby, honey… Shit, I’d even settle for being called ‘Muffin.’
Yup. I said it.
Muffin.
Disgusting, right?
If my heart was locked and protected before this moment, Matthew just unknowingly produced the key.
CHAPTER 33
MATTHEW
“I found the key to my own happiness: stay the hell away from assholes.”
– Wisdom that’s easier said than done…
Holy crap.
Cecelia is in my condo.
In the bathroom, if you want to get technical.
Have you ever read a romance novel, and the main male lead says some lame bullshit line to the heroine that goes something like this: ‘trust me, you’re the first girl I’ve ever brought back to my place.’ Um yeah, that hasn’t been the case for me. I have brought random hook ups back to my place, I won’t lie. Random women. Random faces. Not all of them were classically beautiful in the way you’re probably thinking - nor has beauty ever been a prerequisite. In fact, it’s more accurate to say… I don’t really have a type. You don’t have to be a size two blonde bombshell with silicon breasts to turn me on.
You can be flat chested for all I care.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying I haven’t had my fair share of plastic, made-up Barbie doll types – a lot of them have been total skanks (for example: the prostitute Kevin hired for my birthday). But I’ve also bagged my share of nice girls, probably from nice decent families. Educated even.
In fact, one chick I banged was a Harvard Law student.
I’ve never been a saint.
And I sure as hell ain’t ever been a monk.
My point is: having Cecelia in my house for the first time somehow feels infinitely different than all the others that have been here before her. I’m not going to put a label on it, but if the way my stomach is doing back flips is any indication, I would definitely say I’m nervous.
Huh. Who would have thought?
Not me.
I take my shoes off by the front entry, putter to the kitchen while I wait for Cecelia to finish up in the bathroom, and pour us both a glass of a 2010 Moscato Riesling mix. Setting the bottle on the granite kitchen counter, I walk the glasses into the living room and….
Stand there.
Glancing around my condo, I’m not really sure what to do now or how to proceed. Do I sit on the couch, casually chilling with my arm up on the backrest? Should stay standing and lean against the doorframe to the kitchen instead? Do I turn on the stereo; get a little Marvin Gaye action going? You know, set the mood…
Shit. I can’t just stand here awkwardly holding these two wine glasses in the middle of the room, that’s for damn sure. I look like the fucking butler.
I hear the powder room sink turn off down the hall, and decide to walk back into the kitchen, wait a few moments, then walk back out into the living room. It’s all so very amateurish, but my timing is perfect; Cecelia is just coming out of the bathroom. I extend my arm, offering her a wine glass with a “Wanna sit?”
She smiles demurely and takes the glass, our fingers touching in a proverbial ‘two hands in the popcorn bucket’ moment, the chemistry between us tangible and sizzling in the air. Cecelia has removed her puffy vest, and after resting her Moscato on the coffee table, begins undoing the few buttons on her plaid shirt that are done up, shrugging it off and laying it on the back of the couch.
Standing in a gray capped sleeve tee shirt, she gives me another shy smile before plopping down on the couch, careful not to spill any wine.
I study her there, on my couch, like she’s a foreign object that’s been plucked from obscurity and dropped there.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“It’s just… you look so damn good sitting in my living room.”
“I… it feels good being in your living room,” she laughs nervously and pats the cushioned seat next to her, staring up at me and giving her head a little shake. “You’re so cute.”