We climb out of our cars and meet at the trunks. “This is it.”
“I figured.” He unties the scarf and scoops up the wood slats, then insists on carrying half of mine as well. “Lead the way.”
Marcela lives on the third floor of a building that qualifies as “new” in Burnham, which means it’s about fifteen years old. Her apartment is dated but spacious, and Crosbie nods his approval as we cross the threshold. “Nice.”
“This is going to be my room.” I lead him through the kitchen to a short hallway with bedrooms on opposite sides. He pauses at the door and frowns at the milk crates, the duffel bag, the mattresses I had nearly died getting here.
“This again?” he asks, arching a brow in my direction. “Square one?”
“Marcela has a wrench and a screwdriver,” I inform him. “So…maybe she’ll know how to reassemble the furniture.”
He smirks and carefully places the wood slats along the wall, away from the wood pieces on the other wall that used to be my desk. “Go get these ‘tools,’” he orders, shrugging out of his jacket. “And this time, pay attention.”
I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I whirl around and hustle into the kitchen to find the wrench and screwdriver in Marcela’s junk drawer. By the time I get back Crosbie’s got the pieces arranged on the carpeted floor, and he’s kneeling between them, looking perplexed. “What’d you do with the screws?” he asks. It takes me a second to answer; he’s wearing a black T-shirt and it’s straining across his back, his biceps broad and defined.
I shake my head to clear it of lusty thoughts. “I left them in my car. I’ll go grab them.” I turn back around and hurry out the door before he can think this through. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t positively giddy that he’s here. That he’s…trying.
I reach the car and snag the plastic bags I’d stashed the screws in, then hesitate as I study Crosbie’s car. The lock on the driver’s side door is up, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m rooting around beneath the passenger seat until I find the gift I’d hidden there before Chrisgiving. Maybe I’ll give it to him as a thank-you for building my furniture. He’d given me something, after all. Even if I had to return it.
I get back to the apartment and join Crosbie kneeling on the floor in my room, handing him things as instructed, pretending to pay attention like I’d done the last time. “How’d your exams go?” he asks, holding a screw between his lips as he twists another one in.
“Okay, I think. Better than last year, definitely. You?”
He shrugs, and his shirt lifts up to reveal a swath of pale skin and his boxers peeking out from the top of his jeans. “Not too bad.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. How was your trip home?”
I hesitate. “Ah…”
He stops working. “What does that mean? No turkey?”
“There was turkey. And there was…truth-telling.”
“Truth-telling?”
“Yeah. I basically made my parents admit they hated each other.”
“Do they? Did they?”
“Yes and yes. My dad’s already looking for a new place.”
“No way.”
“Turkey’s overrated.”
“Or underrated,” Crosbie counters. “As a truth serum.”
I laugh. “Fair enough.”
“How about Nate and Marcela? Are they going at it yet?” He turns his attention back to connecting the final pieces of the frame.
“I don’t know,” I muse. “I don’t think so. Marcela said she wasn’t ready to admit she was in love with him, but she’s not going to pretend not to care, either.”
“Where does that get them?”
I shrug. “Marcela’s in Tahiti, so…paradise?”
He smiles and pushes to his feet, gently kicking the frame to make sure it’s sturdy. “Grab the other end,” he instructs, picking up the box spring. I do as I’m told and we wedge it into the frame, following with the top mattress. Crosbie sits down heavily, bouncing a few times, and it all holds up.
Then he looks at me.
“You know what I’m going to say.”
“Happy New Year?”
“Jump on the bed, Nora.”
“Remember what happened last time?”
He gives me a thorough once-over. “You look like you’ve lost some weight. It should be okay.”
“I can’t believe I ever missed you.”
His smile fades slightly. “Did you?”
“Did I miss you? Yes, of course. You got a hundred texts.”
“A hundred and fourteen, but who’s counting?”
“Who, indeed.” I take a breath when he stands and extends a hand to help me up. I’m perfectly capable of climbing into bed on my own, but I want to feel him again, even if it’s just the coarse skin of his fingers against mine, the faint squeeze before he lets go. I stand in the middle and watch him as he leans against the far wall, folding his arms across his chest. His biceps bulge, his forearms look ridiculously strong—he’s so sexy and I feel like such an idiot.
“I’m not—”
“Jump,” he interrupts. “We have to make sure it’s safe.”
“I’ll probably—”