Page 83 of Cherry Picking

There’s no other art on the walls. Nothing at all, which I notice for the first time in three years because she’s standing in the middle of it. She’s the most vibrant, living thing this apartment has ever seen.

“Well,” Evie says.

I snort. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“It’s very clean.”

“I guess that’s a compliment.”

“It’s a beautiful apartment that tells me absolutely nothing about you as a human being.” She sets her bag down and turns a slow circle. “Do you own a single object that doesn’t have a strictly functional purpose?”

“I have a plant.”

“Where?”

“Kitchen windowsill.”

She goes to look, her boots clicking on the polished concrete. I hear her from the other room. “This is plastic!”

“It’s low-maintenance.”

“It’s a lie, is what it is.” She comes back into the living room holding the fake succulent out in front of her like it’s evidence in a trial. “We’re getting you a real one before I leave. A hard one to kill. I’ll write you some instructions.”

“You have a whole sill of dead ones back in Vegas.”

“Which is exactly how I know what not to do.”

She keeps it with her for the next ten minutes, eventually setting it on the counter while she looks out at the skyline.

I lean against the doorway and watch her occupy my apartment. It feels like a gear finally catching. I’m restless and settled all at once, forty feet from the bed I’ve spent the last six weeks imagining her in.

“Hartwell’s at seven,” I say, because otherwise we’re not making it out of this condo tonight.

I’d already asked her if she was up for dinner with the team, and she’d said yes. As much as I want to keep her to myself for the next forty-eight hours, I want her to see this part of it, too.

I want her to know my life here, to meet the guys who have been keeping me upright while I was heads down. I want her to know who I am when I’m not just a voice on a phone.

“I have exactly twenty minutes to stop being a plane person. Point me to the bathroom.”

I walk her down the hall. She takes out a brush and smooths her hair in the mirror while I come up behind her and get an arm around her waist. She smells like honey and jasmine.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Evie,” I say, smiling against her neck.

“Mm, I guess second chances aren’t complete bullshit.”

I nudge her ear with my nose, breathing in the sweet scent. “I think I might have heard that somewhere before.”

“Just so we’re clear,” she murmurs, still facing the mirror, “you definitely won’t be getting a third.”

I don’t plan on needing one. I watch her in the glass, my hands finding the hem of that black silk dress and sliding upward. She gasps, her back arching against my chest as I find her bare skin.

“You want me to touch you?” I ask, my mouth finding the sensitive cord of her neck. “Is that what you need, pretty girl?”

Her response is a wrecked “uh-huh.”

My fingers don’t wait for a second invitation. I slide them home, finding her drenched and ready. Evie makes a sound that nearly ends me right there against the counter. I work her slowly, thumb finding that stubborn bundle of nerves while my fingers disappear inside her.

She braces her palms against the granite, head falling back against my shoulder, and I watch the whole show in the mirror—the way her eyes flutter shut, the flush climbing from her chest to her throat.