Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(62)

He stands up and holds his hand out. “Come here.”

He pulls me against his body and I’m not sure what to do, at first, because he’s so warm and solid and my cheeks are against that rounded part of his shoulder and through the thin T-shirt I can smell him, minty and softly soapy with this perfect sort of overwarm skin smell, and his long arms are all the way around me.

So I put my arms around him, and I let my fingertips drag a little over his ribs, and his hands settle just above my waist, both hands flat against my spine, until he hooks his fingers into the edge of my bra strap, and I wouldn’t think that would be something that made my nipples get hard and tingle but it is, because maybe he can hug me, but he can’t do that, not really, he can’t get his fingers under my bra strap in a restless way like all he’s thinking about is how to take it off.

He’s not supposed to want that, but he does want that.

He wants me.

Oh, and I want him. I also want one more chance to start over, just enough, that I understand how it is that I want him, so that I know that I want him because he laughs at pratfalls and loved his mom and was into my microscopes and brings me grilled cheese and not because I haven’t taken a minute to stop and look around me at the world.

I want me.

“Okay,” I whisper into his collarbone, and try not to follow my whisper with a kiss, but that is impossible. I put my finger against the spot I helplessly kiss. “Right here.”

I feel his breath at my temple before I feel his lingering kiss there, then his lips move against the spot. “Right here.”

I feel his voice vibrate against my chest from his, and I let myself squeeze one more time before I step away, but before I do he squeezes back, even harder.

“So, thanks for lunch.”

“Anytime.” He skates his hand over my arm to the wrist, and then grips my hand, just briefly and lets go.

He turns to look at the pictures on my desk, me and mom in front of the pig at the Seattle Public Market, a few hiking with friends, one of me in my old lab, and one I printed off from C’s feed of the matchbook cars—I have the little car he told me to find parked next to the frame.

He picks C’s picture up, and the car.

“Isn’t that cool? I have this friend, sort of a pen pal really, who takes these pictures, like this.” I turn the frame in his hand to look, too, and then I look at Evan. He’s staring at me, in full basset wrinkle.

“This is your friend?” His voice is quiet, and he seems a little weird, like he’s thinking of ten things at once and I’ve interrupted him.

“Yeah. You okay?”

He looks down at the car in his hand and gives it back to me along with the photo.

“Jenny?”

“What is it?” He’s looking at me, but sort of like he’s expecting me to say something. Then he looks away and hugs himself, rubbing his forearms like he’s suddenly chilled. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I think so, I just … I don’t know.” He looks at me, then grabs the cap of my shoulder, squeezes it like he’s about to say something, like I’m about to say something.

“Evan?”

“I’m good.” He looks down at his feet, with his almost smile. “Hey, do you need a ride? We could talk a little more?”

I kind of blink at that. Not the offer, that’s just Evan, but the weirdness and the shift and then an offer for a ride like the entire temperature of the room hasn’t changed. “No, but thanks, I should finish up here.”

“Great. Okay.” Then he starts to leave, grabbing his coat, but then stops and steps toward me again, leans over and kisses me in the middle of my forehead.

“See you,” he says, softly.

And then he’s out the door, shrugging into his coat.

*

Something about seeing Evan in my space, touching him in my space, almost talking about this inevitable inevitableness between us makes me yearn for even more connection.

I’m meeting C.

I’m committing to OT so that I can understand what it is I want from it and what it is I think I will need.

Jenny Wright is the kind of woman who needs friends.

I wander into Bob’s office, where he has two monitors set up with spreadsheets of data on both.

“Hey.”

He turns around in his chair and smiles. He’s a good guy, Bob, and has done the most to orient me to the lab and hold my hand through all the nonbench work. He’s wearing scrubs, which means he’s been in his lab today, and his brand-new deep pink Mohawk is all messed up from running his hands through it.

“Hey, Jenny. What’s up?”

“I just wondered if you had dinner plans? Maybe we could ask Melissa and anyone else hanging around, too?”

He grins and rubs his hands together. “Finally.”

“I know. I’ve been kind of antisocial.”

“Yeah, but that’s cool, you’ve had a lot to deal with.”

“So, yeah? Dinner?”

He holds up a finger and turns around to call Melissa and after wrapping up at the lab I’m deep in a trencher of dinnertime pancakes at The Windmill getting grilled by Melissa.

“So who was the guy?” She spears a sausage link and points it at me, her dark hair a crazy fluff around her face, as usual.