Page 126 of Almost Not Quite Engaged

As he says it, the punchy feeling takes over and we both burst into hysterical laughter again. We giggle as he gets us an Uber. I snack on the sandwich.

“It’s turkey and cheese, do you want me to take off your bread and roll it up for you?”

He laughs as I reference his favorite school lunch. Zane collects his breath and delivers the one final thing that makes us reach for a wall to brace ourselves. “Your mom suggested telling everyone our good news might lighten everyone’s load.”

“Oh, dear God, they still think we’re pregnant. Time for a bender.”

“Good plan, slugger.”

I laugh until my jaw and sides hurt. I take in long deep breaths and every time we catch each other’s eye we burst out again. Food is falling out of our mouths which is only making it worse. Finally wiping the tears from the corners of my eyes we jump into the car.

The driver speaks. “John? 63 St. Germain Street?”

“Yes.”

And with his simple answer another piece of our game falls away. My vision quest spirit guide has an address. I’ve been compartmentalizing him because he doesn’t exist in my everyday world. I don’t know what his days look like or where he keeps his spoons. He doesn’t know where I run out for coffee or that my towels are turquoise. There’s no part of this man my tongue hasn’t been wrapped around but the intimacy of what we’re about to share puts him in a different league.

Just when I start to wind myself up in my thoughts it turns out we’re in sync again. He pulls me into the crook of his arm and speaks quietly. “I’m nervous and I don’t know what to think of all of this.”

“We should sleep on it.” I snuggle closer.

A low voice finds my ear. “Are you sleepy, babe?”

“Yes.”

“How sleepy?” He kisses my ear and his tongue tells me his intentions. He nips at that tender spot just behind my ear.

“I could rally.”

We climb the stairs of his brownstone. It’s historic, narrow, and a blur. I can only focus on one thing at a time, my ability to multitask left me somewhere over the Atlantic. I concentrate on undoing my bra on the walk up. He opens the door and a rush of air wafts into the hallway.

I have often evoked the smell of Zane without being able to recreate it, but it turns out it’s been here the whole time. Engulfed in it I lose my balance. My senses are seducing me before he can even put his keys down.

Our kiss is profound and emotional. We’re too tired to hide so we dissolve into it. I don’t see his bed but feel it underneath me. Our clothes in a line from the door to here.

He’s on top of me and moving slowly, then faster but in long strokes, and every piece of me feels him. It’s sweet and stirring, and I come differently than Zane’s used to. It’s the kind that overtakes your whole body with an exhilarating chill, holds you for a moment, then releases you. When I open my eyes I’m sitting up and he’s holding me. I flop back down spent and sated. He rolls off me. I get up, grab two bottles of water, pick up a ratty blue oxford from a chair and put it on.

“No shirt, pretty tits. I want to see them again.”

I flash him. He giggles and pulls me into bed. It’s dark, the bed is comfy, the linens are soft and divine. I curl into my Zane, in his space and fall into the deepest sleep I have ever experienced.

Chapter 64

Hey, That’s Mine

KAT

Boston

I awaken to the sound of brewing coffee. I’m lying in the middle of the bed in the same position I fell asleep. The clock reads 11:00 a.m. I feel terrible we didn’t go back but travel and jet lag, I would have been useless. I sit up, prop pillows behind me, and survey Zane’s room in the light.

His bed is metal, made to look like wood. A modern edge to a traditional form. The comforter is a rich masculine brown. Scattered sage and brown damask throw pillows are on the floor, covered in dust bunnies. Opposite the bed is a brick fireplace. The room is littered with boxes in different stages of unpacking. Worldly trophies and trinkets adorn the mantel and walls with what appears to be a stick on top of the fireplace instead of in it, books on any subject you can think of strewn across every open surface. There’s a worn leather chair in the corner that looks like its only purpose is to hold more books.

Several photographs hang around the room. I admire an Asian temple, then him with a cheesy grin on a camel, and then one that takes my breath away leaning up against the wall on top of his dresser. It’s mine. Our tree in Dhaka. The photograph from Ginny’s bathroom wall. He has my photograph and then I look at the ones propped up against the wall on the floor. I rise to my knees to see over the end of the bed. Facing me is a picture of his hands holding reunited naupaka flowers. I hurl myself out of bed and sit down crossing my legs and stare at it.

I’ve never seen it blown up and hung. She did all of these while I was traveling. I flip through the frames, some still with Ginny’s wall on them. They’re all mine from Hawaii and Dhaka and one of the pink temple in Jaipur.

As if on cue, completely refreshed, Zane enters with coffee and bagels. He stares at me on the floor and I point to him.