Page 63 of Check You Out

“Hi,” she says.

The last time I saw her, I kissed this gorgeous woman. The memory of her lips against mine still tingles in my skin with a hint lingering vanilla and bergamot.

“Hi,” I breathe. “Xander was just leaving.”

“Yes, I was. I’ve got that super important thing with these super important people. Have fun. Use a condom.” He waves and scoots past her into the waning twilight.

Heat flushes my face. I lean against the door frame, crossing my arms and trying my best to do an impression of one of those book boyfriends. “Hi,” I say, sheepishly. “You find the place, ok?” My shoulder slides down the door frame, and I stumble to catch myself before I fall on my face. I swear, if this is an actual book, the author is fucking crazy. I’m not the protagonist type.

“Oh, I’ve been here before. A friend of mine used to live there.” She points to the house attached to ours. “Xander invited us over for a housewarming party several years ago, but he hasn’t invited us over since.”

“That implies you did something to this house.”

“I think he just decided he doesn’t like hosting.” She lifts her platter. “Nicole made some her famous chocolate chip cookies for us.”

I tilt my head to the side. Did she just blush?

I reach out to take them. The platter is heavy in my arms and warm. “Great, great, they’ll go perfectly with the ramen.” I step aside. “Uh, come in.”

Lloyd darts from the back of the house to the front and dances at Charlotte’s feet.

“Are those dinosaurs?” I ask, taking in her brightly colored dress.

“Yeah,” she replies, her fingers playing with the fabric. “It has pockets!” She grins and shoves her hands into the pockets on the garment and twirls around, lifting the skirt to flow about her thighs.

“I like it,” I breathe out, grateful that Xander isn’t here to say the obvious, “It would look even better on Aidan’s floor.”

“Thanks.” She stops twirling and kneels to pet Lloyd. I try not to look at her cleavage from above. My dog spins under her hand, and she laughs. “Hey, little guy.” After a couple of strokes, she turns her face to me. “So, you mentioned ramen?”

I clap my hands and rub them together. “Yes, yes. I know it’s a hot out, but I did promise you ramen.”

She stands up, adjusting the waistband of her dress. “Well, it won’t get cold. Like eating ice cream in winter. It doesn’t melt as quickly.”

“Very true.” We move into the back of the house. I gesture toward the room. “So, this is the kitchen.” It’s a decent sized space, with an L-shaped kitchen and a small kitchen island. I set the plate of cookies on the island next to the charcuterie board along with several glasses with water that I set up before she arrived. “Um, there’s a bathroom behind that door.” I point to the door just off the kitchen and place Lloyd on one of the chairs at the island.

“I love this kitchen.” She slides into the other chair and rests her arms on the cool quartz. Her eyes rove other the gleaming white countertops and millennial gray cabinets. “I wish I could have it at my place.”

“But you live above your bookstore, which is so much cooler.”

She lets out a loose chuckle. “I will concede that living above a bookstore is pretty cool.” She takes a sip from her water. “Oh, so I talked with Mayor Harrington earlier today.”

I turn toward the stove, where I’ve got a saucepan of the broth, and I turn the heat on. “Oh?”

“We’ve got all our permits for the protest.” She takes a sip of the water. “I’ve delegated notifying all the right people, so we just have to make posters and start writing our speeches. Speaking of which, pun intended, how is yours?”

I shrug and stir the steaming dark liquid in the saucepan. “I’ve got the first sentence written. Broth is almost done. Do you like eggs in your ramen? I’ve been marinating them in my special ramen egg sauce.”

“Wow, this isn’t your typical cup of noodles!” She grins and takes a cracker with cheese. “So, what’s the sentence?”

I start pulling the other toppings out of the fridge. “What?”

“You said you had a sentence written,” she says in between bites of cheese, holding her hand up to her mouth. “What’s the sentence?”

Shrugging a shoulder, I reply, “I think it’s something like, ‘Hi, I’m Aidan Talbot, and I’m a tenth-grade English teacher at Summerville High School.’ Have you written yours?”

“Yes,” she exclaims and pulls out her phone. “Wanna hear it?”

Nodding and pushing my glasses farther up my nose, I say, “Yes, I would love to hear it.” I’d listen to Charlotte read from the dictionary if she offered. Her voice is lovely, almost like a purr.