“Oh. Right.”
“Basically,” he explains to Josh while finally tearing open his sandwich, “Lorelai sent our Craig a sexy nibble of a song via text, unprompted. And he doesn’t know what to make of it.”
“How sexy?”
I feel my face burn beneath the barely day-old stubble and Arlo’s eyes glitter with triumph. Josh nods sagely. “Well, if the guy moonlighting as a famous erotic poet on Instagram is blushing…”
So Arlo and Josh know about my poetry account. Don’t ask. Just know it involved the one time I tried to record a spoken word version in the studio after-hours and a horny Arlo thought to sneak Josh in for a little late-night lovin’.
“It’s not like that. Exactly. But yes, it’s pretty sensual. Of course”—I massage the back of my neck, the tension ache returning in full force—“I think everything Lorelai does is sensual. Clear bias in this vicinity.” I wave a hand up and down myself. “Which is why I asked Arlo to listen.”
“Naturally. So what did you say to Lorelai when you got the…”—Josh casts an amused glance at Arlo—“sexy nibble of a song?” His husband winks over his grilled chicken Caesar wrap.
“Nothing. At first,” I rush to clarify. “I was super busy in the studio yesterday. I listened for the first time between clients and couldn’t actually believe what I was hearing, so I waited until things quieted down and…”—I sigh, beyond humiliation at this point—“listened a thousand more times before bed.”
“Where you shot your man-custard all over your duvet like a fifteen-year-old, presumably.”
My face is the surface of the sun. “Jesus, Arlo,” I mumble. “I texted her back this morning, apologizing for taking so long to respond. I explained how busy I’d been and asked her to come over tonight.”
“She’s coming over?”
“Yeah.” I gesture at my phone, resting on the desk between all of us. “She just confirmed.”
Arlo falls back in his chair and lifts his wrap to the heavens. “Praise the Lord.”
“Arlo, Lorelai comes over all the time. She literally lives at the same address. We share a balcony.”
“Yes, but not after sexting. This is definitive progress.”
“It wasn’t a sext!”
Arlo looks to Josh. “Survey says?”
Josh gives me an apologetic look, nudging his frames up the bridge of his nose. “It’s a sexy text, so calling it a sext isn’t that far off the mark. I’d say for two people who are so into the written word, as you two clearly are, this is legitimate.”
I take in his reasoning and roll it around my brain as we finish our lunches. It’s not that I don’t think they know what they’re talking about, but the risk is high. Higher than I’m certain I want to pay. If we’re reading this wrong and Lorelai isn’t making a move, I could blow years of friendship. She doesn’t need another guy she trusts sniffing around her, hoping for sex. Not that that’s what I’m about. Not totally, anyway, but the fact remains, she’s a beautiful, fiery, out-of-this-world talented woman and I’m … the guy who’s been hiding his hard-on behind his sound booth for the last twelve months.
The conversation changes to more mundane things, and eventually Josh packs up his things to return to work. Arlo collects the trash and walks his husband out while I tidy up my desk and check my calendar for the afternoon. I have one more client today, and they’re going to require my full attention. It’s time to do what I do best and put the rest out of my brain.
13
CRAIG
COME OVER
I get held up with a late phone call with a guitarist I’m hoping to arrange for Lorelai’s record (and who’s currently residing three time zones away), so I’m hustling up the sidewalk just as she’s parking her car on the street in front of our place.
Lorelai closes the car door with her hip, balancing a takeout bag in each hand. I rush to offer my assistance but stop short when she circles the car and heads up the walk toward me. She looks like—
Well, she looks like—
Like—
Fuck. My brain short-circuits as I hold open the front door and she ascends the stairs to my place ahead of me. Lorelai’s wearing a dress. Or a long shirt. Honestly, the best I can come up with is a shirtdress. With rolled sleeves and a belted waist and a skirt that reveals her miles of suntanned legs. Miles of them. Her skirt isn’t short and I’m not trying to look up it, but the way it flips off the back of her legs keeps flashing little glimpses of heaven at my eye level and my mouth waters and … stop.
I have to stop.
I slow my climb, letting her get far enough ahead of me to where I’m no longer within kissing distance of the backs of her toned thighs. Distance gives me the chance to take in the rest of her. She’s in leather sandals and her dark hair is pulled up off her neck in a high knot, and the overall effect makes her look stretched out and elegant and sophisticated and—
I can’t stop
Imagining your lips
Kissing every inch of me
—the keys?
“Did you forget your keys?” she asks me. She’s standing on the landing, hip cocked, and I can’t tell for sure, but her grin might be knowing. As if she can read the scrambled thoughts straight from my brain and knows the exact effect the words she sang, coupled with her miles of legs and that flippy skirt, are having on me.
Right. I need to unlock the door.
“Uh. No. Sorry. Long day.” I reach into my pocket to retrieve my key ring and quickly unlock the front door before taking the bags from her hands and gesturing for her to enter first. Lorelai flips on the light and my cat, Waylon, rounds the corner and dashes between her legs, nuzzling her ankles, that bastard. I drop the food on the counter as Lorelai is kicking off her sandals and scooping Waylon into her arms.
My cat hates everyone, including me, but for some reason loves Lorelai. Lore says it’s because “a catty bitch knows another catty bitch,” but I think it’s because they’re both secretly softies.
Or maybe I’m the softy.
Never mind, I’m definitely the softy.
With the exception of my cock, that is.
Moving on.
After an appropriate amount of baby talk and cuddling, Lorelai lets Waylon go to do whatever it is asshole cats do when no one’s looking and hops up on a stool at the island, sipping from the glass of Pinot I’ve poured her.
She swirls it a little and I can feel her eyes on me as I divide dinner between two plates to take on the balcony.
“Go ahead and ask,” I say mildly, taking too much care to scrape the bottom of an already empty container of brown rice.
“You listened to my song?”
I roll my eyes lightly, not reminding her that we already established I listened last night and again this morning. “Of course I did.”
She’s quiet a beat and I put down the Chinese takeout container to give her my full attention. Lorelai’s dark eyes are bright in her pale face, and she’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. This is the Lorelai no one sees. The one I’ve had the privilege to know almost from the start.