We’re quiet most of the way, but I’m fine with it. I’m not someone who feels the need for constant conversation, and I’m learning that he might be the same way.
“It’s right up here,” I say, pointing to the right when we reach a crosswalk. I glance down at an elderly man seated on the sidewalk, bundled up in a tattered, thin coat. His eyes are closed, and the gloves on his shivering hands are rifled with holes.
I’ve always been sympathetic to people who have nothing and nowhere to go. Corbin hates that I can never pass homeless people without giving them money or food. He says the majority of them are homeless because they have addictions and that when I give them money, it only feeds those addictions.
Honestly, I don’t care if that’s the case. If someone is homeless because he has a need for something that is stronger than his need for a home, it doesn’t deter me in the least. Maybe it’s because I’m a nurse, but I don’t believe addiction is a choice. Addiction is an illness, and it pains me to see people forced to live this way because they’re unable to help themselves.
I would give him money if I had brought my purse.
I realize I’m no longer walking when I feel Miles steal a glance back in my direction. He’s watching me watch the old man, so I pick up my pace and catch back up with him. I don’t say anything to defend the troubled expression on my face. It’s pointless. I’ve been through it enough with Corbin to know that I don’t have the desire to try to change all the opinions I disagree with.
“This is it,” I say, coming to a pause in front of the store.
Miles stops walking and inspects the display inside the store window. “Do you like that?” he asks, pointing at the window. I take a step closer and look at it with him. It’s a bedroom display, but there are elements in it that he’s looking for. The rug on the floor is gray with several geometric shapes in various shades of blue and black. It actually looks like something that would fit his taste.
The curtains aren’t navy, though. They’re a slate gray, with one solid white line running vertically down the left side of the panel.
“I do like it,” I reply.
He steps in front of me and opens the door to let me walk in first. A saleswoman is making her way toward the front before the door even closes behind us. She asks if she can help us find anything. Miles points to the window. “I want those curtains. Four of them. And the rug.”
The saleswoman smiles and motions for us to follow her. “What width and height do you need?”
Miles pulls his phone out and reads off the measurements to her. She helps him pick out curtain rods and then tells us she’ll be a few minutes. She heads to the back and leaves us alone at the register. I look around, suddenly developing the urge to pick out decorations for my own place. I plan on staying with Corbin for a couple more months, but it wouldn’t hurt to have an idea of what I’ll want for my own place when I do finally move out. I’m hoping it’ll be just as easy to shop when that time comes as it was for Miles today.
“I’ve never seen anyone shop this fast,” I tell him.
“Disappointed?”
I quickly shake my head. If there’s one thing I don’t do well as a girl, it’s shop. I’m actually relieved it only took him a minute.
“You think I should look around longer?” he asks. He’s leaning against the counter now, watching me. I like the way he looks at me—like I’m the most interesting thing in the store.
“If you like what you already picked out, I wouldn’t keep looking. When you know, you know.”
I meet his gaze, and the second I do, my mouth gets dry. He’s concentrating on me, and the serious look on his face makes me feel uncomfortable and nervous and interesting, all at once. He pushes off the counter and takes a step toward me.
“Come here.” His fingers reach down and wrap around mine, and he begins to pull me behind him.
My pulse is being ridiculous. It’s sad, really.
They’re just fingers, Tate. Don’t let them affect you like this.
He continues walking until he reaches a wooden trifold screen, decorated with Asian writing on the outside. It’s the kind of screen people place in the corners of bedrooms. I never understood them. My mother has one, and I doubt she’s ever once stepped behind it to change clothes.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
He turns and faces me, still holding on to my hand. He grins and steps behind the screen, pulling me with him so we’re both shielded from the rest of the store. I can’t help but laugh, because it feels like we’re in high school, hiding from the teacher.
His finger meets my lips. “Shh,” he whispers, smiling down at me while he stares at my mouth.
I immediately stop laughing but not because I don’t find this amusing anymore. I stop laughing because as soon as his finger is pressed against my lips, I forget how to laugh.
I forget everything.
Right now, the only thing I can focus on is his finger as it slides softly down my mouth and chin. His eyes follow the tip of his finger as it keeps moving, trailing gently down my throat, all the way to my chest, down, down, down to my stomach.
That one finger feels as if it’s touching me with the sensation of a thousand hands. My lungs and their inability to keep up are signs of that.
His eyes are still focused on his finger as it comes to a pause at the top of my jeans, right above the button. His finger isn’t even making contact with my skin, but you wouldn’t know that based on the rapid response of my pulse. His entire hand comes into play now as he lightly traces my stomach over the top of my shirt until his hand meets my waist. Both of his hands grip my hips and pull me forward, securing me against him.
His eyes close briefly, and when he opens them again, he’s no longer looking down. He’s looking straight at me.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you walked through my front door today,” he says.
His confession makes me smile. “You have incredible patience.”
His right hand leaves my hip, and he brings it up to the side of my head, touching my hair as softly as possible. He begins to shake his head in slow disagreement. “If I had incredible patience, you wouldn’t be with me right now.”
I latch on to that sentence and immediately try to figure out the meaning behind it, but the second his lips touch mine, I’m no longer interested in the words that left his mouth. I’m only interested in his mouth and how it feels when it invades mine.
His kiss is slow and calm—the complete opposite of my pulse. His right hand moves to the back of my head, and his left hand slips around to my lower back. He explores my mouth patiently, as if he plans on keeping me behind this partition for the rest of the day.
I’m summoning every last bit of willpower I can find in order to keep myself from wrapping my arms and legs around him. I’m trying to find the patience he somehow shows, but it’s hard when his fingers and hands and lips can pull these kinds of physical reactions out of me.
The door to the back room opens, and the click of the saleswoman’s heels can be heard against the floor. He stops kissing me, and my heart cries out. Luckily, the cry can only be felt, not heard.
Rather than pulling away to walk back to the counter, he brings both his hands to my face and holds me still while he looks at me in silence for several seconds. His thumbs brush lightly across my jaw, and he releases a soft breath. His brows furrow, and his eyes close. He presses his forehead to mine, still holding on to my face, and I can feel his internal struggle.