Oliver opened his mouth to answer, but Sharon was directing them through the door. And once inside, they both gaped.
It was huge, dramatic, and beautiful.
“Not as much light as the third-floor apartment,” Sharon was saying, “but look at those tall windows.”
They let go of each other but stepped forward together.
Unlike the upstairs, this apartment was well preserved. Crown molding studded with whorls and curlicues ringed the ceiling, and glossy woodwork framed the windows and the high doorways that separated the living room from the dining room. The walls had been painted a dark forest green, and Sharon had lit lamps that glowed softly in the far corners. Fay shivered as Oliver reached out and traced his finger along one of the frames. “This seems original. When was this built? Late 1800s?”
The broker cocked her head. “Are you two architects?”
“Nooo,” they both said.
“We’re urban planners,” Fay said. “But we’re interested in the history of this area, too.”
“Oh, that must be how you met. That’s so wonderful having a profession in common. I can tell that with you two that the shop talk doesn’t get in the way of the love talk.”
Fay very deliberately did not look at Oliver as he answered. “I think that it all ends up being part of the same love language no matter what.”
The broker beamed at them. “Oh, he’s a darling, uh, Darling. You’re a lucky one.”
Sharon showed them the old nonworking fireplaces, the pocket doors leading to the study off the kitchen, a set of French doors to a small backyard. She chattered as they went upstairs into the master bedroom. “And here’s a great walk-in closet, with built-in shoe shelves on her side, and a tie rack on his. But these things don’t have to be gendered, do they? No reason why it can’t be for scarves and things.” She gave a little wink. “And this middle platform here is built-in storage for accessories. Oh, oh, there’s the buzzer.”
Sharon scampered out to answer it and the door swung closed, leaving them once again alone together.
“Oliver, she thinks we’re in love and that we’re going to have perfect credit scores and a preapproved mortgage and two judges and five doctors writing our reference letters for the co-op board and that we’re going to close within two months and announce that we’re pregnant as she hands over the keys and that we’ll live happily ever after. You can practically see the hearts in her eyes when she looks at us. Or dollar signs. A little of both. That woman is already planning on knitting something for us.”
“That’s why she’s a successful professional—she has vision. I think I’m kind of enjoying this story she’s made up about Oliver and Darling.”
“That we’ve made up entirely.”
“That has some tiny kernels of truth. Like we’re both urban planners and that’s how we met. That we genuinely love and admire this neighborhood, and good woodwork—”
“Oliver.”
“And that we can’t help being fascinated by which details were added and what’s original.” He took another step toward her. “That we gravitate toward each other in a huge room—or a small one.”
Fay found it very hard to breathe suddenly. It was a closet, but they could have made space between them. And they had chosen not to—they’d chosen to be close.
“Fay,” he whispered. And then she stepped into him. She rose onto her toes, letting her hands slide over his chest again, she breathed on his neck, admiring the way the cords of his neck tightened, and she nipped her way slowly up his chin, until his lips swooped down on her, his tongue stroking through almost immediately to meet hers, his hands moving up and down her waist.
Another murmur and he backed her to the platform. With one more movement, he could boost her right up so that they would be aligned—his face on the same level as hers, his chest against hers, his stomach, the hardness of him in the right place. She felt everything surge upward for her to meet him. But then he pulled away from the kiss, his arms sliding slowly away from her back and down to his sides. His face was a study in desire and bafflement.
“Fay, what are we doing here?”
Chapter Three
Fay looked as confused as Oliver felt.
Neither of them knew what to do with their hands, their arms, their lips that had just been all over each other. For a moment their interesting and sensitive parts had been pressed close, and it was the best feeling in the world—and now they were not, and Oliver didn’t know how to act anymore.
Sharon, because her timing was impeccable, bustled in. “Oh, you newlyweds getting busy in the closet,” she twinkled. “I’m just going to make sure you have the fact sheet. The maintenance is very low, and the co-op has a healthy nest egg. Just let me know if you have questions about either apartment. Although to tell you the truth, I think this one suits both of you more. I can just picture you loving it up in here.”
If they weren’t already both blushing guiltily, then Sharon’s last words were more than enough to set Oliver’s face aflame.
By silent agreement, they thanked Sharon, who had already moved on to the next adorable and (probably) more real couple that had come to see the apartment. They escaped out onto the stoop and they both took a deep, deep breath.
Fay turned, and with her usual directness said, “We need to talk. Let’s go sit down somewhere.”
“Coffee? Or something cool to drink.”
God knows he could use a moment to think about whether or not he’d just scrapped his chance at another job. Last week’s behavior could have been overlooked. Sure, it had involved lips, hipbones bumping, and an intimacy that started off as fake and turned into something real, too. But she’d initiated it. He’d been a convenient bystander.
An all-too-willing one.
Today’s hadn’t been a simple kiss at all. There was a dark grain of illicitness to their small, private act playing out in a place where anyone could have walked in on them. To the fact that they weren’t, in fact, a loving, legally or emotionally bound couple looking for a home to decorate with rugs and beds and 500-thread-count linens. That they hadn’t been close before—that even though he was Oliver, she was Fay—she wasn’t Darling.
And then there was the kiss itself, in which her lips had opened under his, lush and wet. He had felt himself just—just sinking into her, right into that one point where their mouths met as if he tried hard enough, if he focused, his whole body could be immersed in that pleasure and warmth.
But his personal lust ocean had already started walking west. He blinked for a moment in the sunlight and followed. Sitting down right about now would be a good idea—it would probably be a very good idea.