***
Fifteen minutes later she was seated on her couch, a fuzzy, hot-pink terry cloth robe tied over her naked body. Well, semi-naked. The rough nap of the terry was too much for the hypersensitized area between her legs, so she’d put on her softest pair of panties—which also happened to be the oldest and most worn-out pair—and grabbed a notepad and pen and sat down to think. She’d just finished writing so much that she’d nearly filled an entire page when her buzzer rang, making her jump.
Who was at her door at half past midnight?
It had better not be some drunk kids who sneaked past the doorman. She tiptoed to her door and looked out the peephole, jerking back and gasping as soon as she saw him.
Andrew.
What was he doing back here? Had he forgotten something? Should she even answer? She hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, and didn’t quite trust herself not to rage at him for ditching her right after they’d done something so significant. Heck. Even if it hadn’t been her first time, it had been their first time together. No matter what, he shouldn’t have left.
The anger boiled up again. It had been simmering so close to the surface as she worked on her list that it didn’t take much to bring it back to a head.
Better not answer. Better to wait until Monday, when her temper had cooled and she could discuss this in a rational, professional manner.
But just then, the buzzer rang again, and she couldn’t prevent a yelp in surprise, clapping her hand over her mouth and going completely still, not wanting to move for fear she would make another sound.
Too late. He’d heard her. “Meredith?” his voice came through the door, quiet but urgent. “Meredith, are you there?”
Quit using your temper as an excuse. Quit cowering. Answer the door and tell him what you want. All those things on your list. You deserve them. He deserves to hear them.
She pulled the door open, scowling at him, ready to give him a piece of her mind, but before she could say a word, he held up a bag. “I know. I’m really sorry that it took such a long time. The closest twenty-four-hour Duane Reade is several blocks away. But I got it, and I swear I’m going to make this up to you if it takes all weekend.”
What was he talking about? It was so unexpected that it threw her anger off, replacing it instead with confusion. She stood in the doorway, staring at him and trying to figure out if he’d been knocked on the head, or abducted by aliens, or some other weird mind-changing experience, in the past half hour.
“Is—is everything okay?” he asked then, realizing that she was still blocking him from entering. He was still whispering. “I really am sorry. I only realized how late it was when I got there. I should have stayed a while longer and helped you, um, recover.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, I’m so bad at this. Is it that I’m being too presumptuous about this? Of course. You don’t have to use any of this stuff. I just couldn’t stand the idea that I had hurt you.”
Stuff? What stuff? She shook her head in confusion, but gestured him in. No use trying to get an explanation with him standing in the hall.
As soon as she closed the door behind him, she crossed her arms and glared at him. “I don’t understand. You said you were leaving. Where did you go just now and why did you come back?”
His brow furrowed. “I went to the convenience store to get some things to help you with the, um, soreness.” He gestured toward her awkwardly, as though it were just then dawning on him that he might have overreacted. “But, as I suspected, most of the places around here aren’t open late. Did you—did you not hear me before, when I told you?”
Oh, dear. So that’s what he’d been stammering about as he’d jammed his feet into those shiny black shoes and scooped his coat up in such a hurry. He’d been speaking so fast, and she’d still been so dazed, that her mind had interpreted it as a hurried good-bye.
“So, you weren’t just trying to get out and go home?” She suddenly felt foolish.
“God, no!” The horror in his voice was real, and she felt herself relaxing even while feeling more embarrassed than ever. “I admit that I didn’t handle it as well as I could have, but I was so worked up, wanting to make up for how catastrophically I failed that—”
His words were cut short when Meredith wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, a hard, happy kiss that was just as much relief as it was joy. “You didn’t fail. Neither of us did. I appreciate the sentiment, but you shouldn’t have left. Because there’s nothing to ‘make up for,’ as you put it.”
“But you deserve—”