My mouth practically waters at the thought. I’ve spent a year imagining Locke in places I shouldn’t—on the sidewalk next to me after my morning coffee run, in my apartment watching movies, in my bed. But for all my wildest imaginings, I’ve never been able to fill in the blanks of what happens when Locke walks through the doors of his home. It’s a hole I want to fill. After all, Locke out in the world could be anyone, but there’s no truer self than the self you are at home. I want to know him. I want a claim on him that no one else gets to have.
Still, it’s a terrible idea—I’m literally falling asleep on my feet, and I’m bound to say something stupid.
“I don’t want to impose on your day.”
He smiles at me. “It’s not an imposition, it’s an invitation.”
“Locke…” I start, but my voice drifts off. I’m too tired to protest and I don’t want to, but I feel like I should.
His gaze darkens further until frustration ripples across his normally placid face. “Why are you always so stubborn when I try to help you?”
Because I like it too much.
But I can’t say that.
“Fine,” I relent. “Lead the way.”
It’s before noon on a Friday, and other than a few Pilates-toned moms pushing strollers down the bumpy sidewalks, we have the whole street to ourselves. We turn without any more discussion, and Locke leads us toward a mid-sized apartment building with vines scaling the wall by the front gate. I bet in the summer flowers bloom on the vines, but for now the vines cling to the gate with a dried, skeletal grasp. Winter gets the best of us all.
Locke holds open the front gate for me, and we climb a set of narrow stairs. At the top, he fishes keys out of his pocket and fits one into the lock of a well-worn door. And then—oh, god—we’re inside.
My greedy eyes roam over the open living area, and I drink in the minimalist space, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty for more. Weak morning sunlight spills through a wide picture window in the living room and falls onto the armrest of a comfortable-looking leather couch. From the couch’s soft patina and the stack of books piled onto the side table, it looks like Locke spends a lot of time here. My heart twinges in my chest.
This is him.
He’s in every spare detail of the place, from the rustic brick wall that boasts a fireplace and a modest wall-mounted TV to the cell phone charger plugged in by his couch. He’s in the half-empty glass of water using an opened copy of The New Yorker as a coaster. He’s in the soft, rumpled blanket draped across the back of the couch.
Tears fill my eyes again, but Locke misreads my overwhelm as pain or exhaustion.
“Hey, sit down,” he says. “Take a load off.”
“Okay, yeah. You mind if I just rest for a minute?”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
“Right.” I shrug out of my coat and exchange it for the blanket, pulling the soft fabric around my shoulders as I slump onto the couch. I stretch my body lengthwise across the cushions, and the couch accepts me like a selfless lover. With my cheek on the well-used armrest, the air is rich with the scent of worn leather and books.
Just the act of getting off my feet makes me sigh in relief, and I snuggle the thick, hand-knitted blanket around my face. The soft wool releases the smell of Locke’s cologne, and my stomach dips.
The owner of the blanket pauses at the edge of the couch and studies me quietly. He’s pulled off the hat he wore on our walk over, leaving his hair ruffled and soft. My fingers ache to touch it, to wind through the dark strands and pull him close.
“You want something more comfortable to wear?” Locke asks in a thick voice.
My heart skips a beat.
Me in Locke’s clothes.
Fuuuuuck me.
Yes.
My chest feels tight, and my throat constricts as I decline. “I’m okay in this.” I force a smile. “Everything is pajamas if you’re committed enough to sleep.”
His grin tugs straight down to my clit. “If you say so.” He pauses for another minute and then drops onto the edge of the coffee table, where he braces his elbows on his knees and steeples his hands under his chin and stares at me like I’m beautiful.
What do I do with this?
How can I possibly pretend I don’t notice the way his eyes roam my face and fall to my lips? How can I shield myself from the wanting that threatens to eat me alive?
I fly into my default mode, joking to ease the desire burning hot in my chest. “Sorry again for being a wuss. This is what happens when you’re thirty and you pretend you’re still eighteen.”
A knowing smirk crosses Locke’s face. “Were you a wild one at eighteen?”
“Not really. But definitely more energetic than this.” Time slows down and makes my voice syrupy and soft. “I was fun in different ways.” A yawn pierces my statement as fatigue threatens to pull me under.
Locke’s earnest voice rasps against my ear. “You’re still fun now.”
“Except when one late night takes me down.”
“Was it worth it, though?”
I give him a sleepy smile, and in the moments before I drift off, I hear myself say, “Oh, Locke. Of course it was.” And then, because exhaustion breaks down all my defenses and leaves me without any good sense, “You’re always worth it.”
I wake up disoriented and a little sweaty under Locke’s wool blanket. The steady shine of streetlights in a dark night replaces the watery morning light which fell through Locke’s window when we first arrived. Other than the glow of the hood light in the kitchen, the open space is dark and quiet.
What time is it?
I slide on my glasses and fumble for the phone in my purse, which I’d left on the floor beside the couch. It’s ten-fifteen
