It’s been a month.
Actually, it’s been one month, four days, and six hours. But who’s counting? I didn’t get another letter. I never sent another letter. I’ve been in this weird stasis like trance waiting and counting down the days until he’s here.
Nearly every day for a week I’ve gotten up, gone for my morning run–and donut stop, cause hello! I need that sugar high to get back home–and secretly hoped he’d be there waiting for me.
He hasn’t been, in case you’re wondering. There was one day I thought maybe it was him, but it was just a guy two floors down. He finally shaved his scary ass mountain man beard and got a haircut. He’s cute in a best friend’s brother kind of way, but definitely not for me.
Licking the stickiness from my fingers as I round the corner of my block, two apartment buildings from my own, a crackle ignites the air. It’s like when you rub a balloon on the carpet and then touch it to your head. Your hair goes crazy, anything you touch gets a shock and there’s a buzz flitting around your ears.
Only magnified by about a thousand.
“He’s here.” I say it out loud without even thinking and burst into a sprint. My eyes soaking in every sight I can. The mail man entering the building next to mine. Mrs. Hampton from next door walking her frou-frou dog down the block for his morning poop.
Cars whizzing by like this huge event isn’t about to happen. They go on with their lives like mine isn’t about to take this magnificent turn–hopefully for the better.
Out of breath, I stop in front of my building and look around. He has to be here. I felt it. I felt him. Spinning in a circle my eyes catch sight of a matte black motorcycle across the street, and I know, I absolutely know that it’s his.
I stand in the middle of the sidewalk watching as he exits the coffee shop he’s parked in front of. He must feel me too, because his head whips up and he stares at me, a smirk lining his perfect crooked jaw. Pulling at the scars on his cheek. His eyes are like lasers as they slowly travel the length of my sweaty body.
Without thought, I step off the curb and walk into the middle of the road–in hindsight I’m lucky not to be dead–when his eyes widen with panic, my steps falter and its then I hear the horn blaring seconds before I’m tackled to the ground.
I brace for pain but feel hard cushion. Opening my eyes, I look into his deep pools of green. Worry and anger reflect back at me. “If you’re this careless again, I’m likely to tie to my bed.” His deep growl vibrates through me and it only takes a second to realize who he is.
“It’s you.” My words are so quiet I don’t think he can possibly hear me, but the smirk is back, and I know he has. “How, what, so many questions.” True would kick my ass for my warp-speed talking. It’s normally her thing, not mine.
“How about we get off the ground and talk inside?” He helps me to my feet and it’s then I realize we have a huge audience.
“Good idea.” I grip his hand and drag him behind me with an apology to the driver I almost made cream me.
The elevator ride to my third-floor apartment seems to take forever as we stand silent and waiting. His thumb rubs the inside of my wrist and it helps calm my erratic heartbeat.
“What’s your name?” Now that some sanity is floating back to my conscience I remember I have no idea.
“Camden Perry.” The doors ding on our floor and open as he answers me.
Camden.
I’m half in love already.
I’ve read and reread his letters every day since I sent him mine. I feel like even though we met for a brief time once and traded a handful of letters–mostly his–like I know him already.
“I’ve thought about you a lot since that day.” I mutter as he follows me. “I was too panic induced to realize it then, but you made my heart flutter.” The rational part of my brain is saying shut up, don’t give him too much information. My heart is screaming to tell him everything, so we can hold on and never let go.
Before the door is open, I hear it. Or rather them. The sex crazed gorilla’s.
“You have humping monkey’s or something in there?” He pushes the door open, one hand on his hip, revealing the butt of a gun and my heart freezes.
Fingers crossed, I blurt out, “Tell me you’re a cop and not some gorilla sex slave killer?” He looks back at me, a confused expression on his face. “Please?”
My eyes keep darting back and forth between his face and the gun and he notices. “I’m retired DEA. It’s why I couldn’t simply come to you, I had to keep my distance.”
How. Sweet.
“Retired?” This isn’t a conversation that should be had in hallway outside of an apartment where two crazy people are banging, but I’m nothing if not different.
“What are the chances you’d like to come home with me?” He asks, ignoring my inquisition.
The banshee like scream answers for me. “Let me grab my purse and a sweater.”