fter signing and sending three hard copies of my resignation letter via certified mail, I have a few hours before my flight leaves tonight. I walk to the Art Institute of Chicago and look at Impressionist paintings, Greek vases, Japanese silk screens, German sculptures.
I take the stairs to the second floor and walk through the arms and armor collection. I stop in front of a full suit of plate armor dating to the sixteenth century. The steel breastplates are perforated for bolting a lance rest or reinforcing armor, the close helmet fronted by a pivoting visor. A knight would have worn the suit in the field or for a tournament.
My brain processes the facts, but I also wonder about the man who once wore the armor. It’s the part of history I like the most—thinking about the people who lived, the knights who served their liege lords, the pledges and vows, the training in horsemanship, weapons, battle skills, hunting.
The chivalric code. Honor, loyalty, sacrifice, duty, faith. Ideals I learned about when I was a kid devouring the stories of Galahad, Lancelot, Arthur, and Gawain. Then at thirteen, when I told my brother he wasn’t really my brother, I broke just about every tenet of that code.
I sit on a bench and take out my phone. I’d left a message earlier for Liv that I should be home by ten. I pull up an email window and type a message.
TO: My beauty
FR: The guy who loves you
I walked into Jitter Beans that morning in a hurry. Thinking of a hundred things. Lectures, office hours, a grant proposal deadline.
The world stopped when I saw you behind the counter. I had a flash of unreality. That it couldn’t be you, Olivia R. Winter, the girl from three weeks earlier who’d taken my breath away.
But it was. You were explaining the difference between two kinds of coffee to a customer. I wanted him to get the hell away from you, and I was plotting some dark move when you glanced up and saw me.
You knocked my heart right out of my chest. Sent it up to the stars. I looked at you and thought, “I could fall in love with her.”
I didn’t know that I already had.
I’m going to kiss you for a long time tonight.
I send the message and turn off my phone. Push to my feet. Study the knight again, the weapons and helmets. Sometimes not even all that steel armor was enough defense.
I leave the museum and spend the rest of the afternoon walking around downtown Chicago before catching a taxi to the airport. The tedious routine of travel is enough to dull my thoughts. An icy ball forms in my chest.
The flight is delayed, and I text Liv that I’ll be late. After the hour and a half drive back to Mirror Lake, it’s past midnight when I finally go into our apartment and push open the bedroom door.
The bedside lamp is on. Liv is half-curled under the covers, one hand still loosely holding a book, her body moving in the rhythm of sleep.
I set my briefcase down and go to take a shower. After pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, I take the book from Liv’s hand, glancing at the title. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. She’d once told me how much she liked the heroine, a hard-working, imaginative girl who loves books and writing.
I put the book on the nightstand and climb into bed. The sheets are warm from Liv’s body. I tuck myself against her, put my leg over her thighs, press my face into her hair. Tighten my arm around her. Breathe. Her fragrant smell fills my nose.
She shifts, wiggling back against me, settling her ass against my groin. I feel her start to wake before she turns to face me. She’s heavy-eyed, flushed with sleep.
“Oh, hi,” she whispers, rubbing her cheek against my shoulder. “I was trying to wait up for you. Did you get my voicemails? What happ—”
I press my mouth to hers, stopping her words. A little moan catches in her throat. She shifts to wind her arms around my neck, parting her lips under mine, letting me in, pulling me closer. I close my eyes and sink into her. Tension fades, replaced by the spark of lust that fires my blood.
I run my hands over Liv’s curves, tugging at the hem of her tank top, the waistband of her pants. Soft, she’s always so soft, so warm, even more so when she’s sleeping, as if she keeps an extra reserve of heat inside that only radiates from her when her defenses are down.
“How is it you’re always so warm?” I bury my face in her neck, pressing my lips against her collarbone.
“Because of you,” Liv murmurs, slipping her hands into my hair. “You drive away the cold and melt the ice. You’ve always made me bloom.”