Millie
“DOES IT FEEL LIKE YOU never get a break, working and living in the same building?” Jackson asked as we walked across the street.
Dinner had been perfect. Delicious food, easy conversation, and no more weird run-ins with Jericho. Now, we were on our way to my place for dessert and all of my earlier bravado had left me. I thought it was terribly sweet that Jackson was nervous about being alone in my apartment and what my expectations may be, and at first, I’d assured him easily that there was nothing to be nervous about.
Then, over the course of dinner, my mind kept circling back to our conversation, and my nerves had grown. It wasn’t that I was worried that he was anticipating a certain ending, I knew he wasn’t, but my fear had grown from something else . . . Him. I liked him so much, and everything about him, about us, seemed to fit so perfectly, what if I somehow ruined it?
Maybe I should cut the night off now, before I have the chance to screw things up. End on a happy note . . .
But, as I looked from our swinging hands to Jackson’s open, friendly face, I knew I didn’t want to cut our time short. In fact, I wanted to lock him away in my apartment and never let him go.
Okay, maybe that is too far, but still.
“Um, no, not really,” I replied, finally answering his question. “It’s nice to be close to my sisters again, but still have my own space to disappear to when I need to be alone. Plus, it made our lives easier, starting out, to be so close to work.”
“I bet,” Jackson conceded as I opened the door. “But, what about now? Now that your business is up and running? Do you think you’ll stay here?”
“Yeah, sure, at least for now.” I locked up behind us, then led him up the stairs to the living areas. “I mean, that may change when one of us gets serious with someone, decides to start a family, or gets tired of apartment life. This isn’t where any of us plan to live forever, but it’s worked our perfectly so far.”
We passed Dru’s door, then Tasha’s, before we came to mine, which was across from the empty apartment we used for storage.
“This is it,” I said unnecessarily, my hands shaking slightly as I put the key in and turned. I opened the door, then stepped back and gestured for him to go inside.
As Jackson walked in, I stepped in behind him and closed the door, then followed his gaze, seeing my apartment through his eyes.
I’d made an effort to clean before I got dressed, so it looked tidy, if not sparkling. My gray sofa was made up with throw pillows and a blanket that I liked to snuggle under when watching TV. I had two mirrors over the couch as accent pieces, in an effort to make the small space seem bigger. My kitchen was small, but cute, with a shelf over the sink that held some of my favorite display cases, with my pans hanging on hooks underneath.
I’d mostly decorated in pinks, grays, and white, and liked my décor on the feminine side. I thought it suited me, and I loved coming home to it every night.
“Uh . . .” Jackson began, and I tore my gaze from my throw pillows to see him standing in front of the built-ins that surrounded my TV. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
I flushed slightly, but kept my tone free of embarrassment when I said sternly, “No, why? Don’t you like The King of Rock ‘n Roll?”
Jackson shifted toward me, eyes mockingly wide, then turned back and flung his arm out at my Elvis collection.
“I like Elvis as much as the next guy, but I’m guessing you’re not the next guy. There seems to be a bit of an obsession going on here.”
My built-ins displayed my most prized possessions. Elvis plates, dolls, pez dispensers, metal wall hangings, video tapes, DVDs, original magazines, posters, and the crowning jewel, a guitar with case.
“I’ve loved Elvis ever since I saw Blue Hawaii with my mom as a little girl. I’ve seen all of his movies, numerous times, his concerts . . . on video, of course, and have all of his records. It’s become a running joke in my family. Every birthday, Christmas, shoot, any holiday, everyone gets me Elvis-themed gifts. These,” I said, holding my hand out to my built-ins, “are just some of my favorite pieces. I have boxes and boxes full of stuff.”
Not to mention the poodle skirt in my drawer and the Elvis canvas shoes in my closet . . .
“So, any guy that gets serious with you, has to be prepared to accept Elvis into their lives?” Jackson joked, stepping close and putting his arms around me.
I tilted my head back as he pulled me close, the smile playing on his lips doing funny things to my insides.
“That is correct,” I replied, then snuggled in even closer and whispered against his lips, “And maybe wear a Hawaiian shirt and tight board shorts once in a while.”
“I think I can handle that,” he murmured, then lowered his mouth to mine.
I sighed into the kiss, happy to be in Jackson’s arms again. It was like we had all the time in the world; there was no fervor or impatience to this kiss, only time, attention, and plenty of thoroughness.
By the time Jackson broke the kiss and straightened, I was practically boneless in his arms, ready to say and do anything he wanted. Of course, after our discussion at dinner, I knew he wanted to take things slow; my body, however, was warring with my mind after that kiss.
Maybe if I offer to give him a tour of my bedroom, he’ll take the hint, I thought. Instead, I tiptoed up to brush my lips against his one more time, before asking, “Would you like wine or coffee with your Crème Brule?”
“Wine,” Jackson replied, his eyes just a bit mischievous, which I hoped would lead to at least some making out on my couch later.