11
CAMILLE
With little time to get ready, I roll my hair into a messy bun and brush on a mineral foundation to make me look less like a zombie. The bags under my eyes can’t be helped, because what I really need is sleep. A week’s worth, after all the driving Jaz and I did today, looking for the right parking spot, which ended in a major fail. My biggest fear was realized—there are too many food trucks concentrated downtown to stand out. Leaving downtown, on the other hand, might be one of the worst decisions I could make.
I mull over my day as I apply the darkest lip gloss I have, throw on leggings and boots, and ease on Drew’s checkered button-down shirt over a tank.
In his shirt, I’m brought back to Coit Tower, to our desperate hands and blistering kisses. My temperature rises as the anticipation of being alone with him simmers inside of me. Yes, things are a crapshoot right now. Somehow I’m supposed to attract my regulars to a new location, or build new clientele. But tonight I’m going to find this thing called fun Jaz and Ally are always harping on about.
I need something good right now to counter my awful day.
After a swift good-bye with Ally, I rush out into the cold night air to catch a cab, and in ten minutes I’m in front of Bridge to Bridge Cafe, inside the front door. The night is especially brisk, and without my peacoat, I’m freezing. My teeth chatter even as I start to warm, looking out the cafe’s foggy windows. Then I realize I’m nervous.
What am I doing?
This is stupid. Resting up before a long day tomorrow is the priority. Creating a menu of sure sellers for the week is the priority. This date is not a priority.
I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll text Drew on the cab ride home. We can reschedule.
When a new customer enters the cafe, I slip outside, chin down into my chest. Droplets of water cling to the hairs escaping from my bun, but I power through to the street corner, my best bet for a cab. I raise my hand preemptively.
“Need a ride?”
“Y—” I begin to say as I turn, but my mouth clamps shut. “Oh, hey.”
“Sorry I’m a little late.” Drew has a slight smile on his face as he leans in, a hand on my hip.
“It’s . . . it’s okay.” I can’t meet his eyes. He knows I know that he knows I was trying to escape. Still, he touches his lips to my cheek and lets them linger, like that fact didn’t matter one bit. His warm breath follows the line of my jaw and chin, sending a tingle through me. He leaves a cookie crumb trail of invisible kisses until his lips hover above mine. My doubts evaporate as my body temperature rockets to high. It takes all of me not to shut my eyes, although my knees threaten to give way.
He smirks. “You’re killing me right now, with that shirt on.”
I play along, shrugging with the last bit of my composed self. “Found it at some guy’s house. Didn’t think he’d miss it.”
His eyes darken. “Oh, he missed it all right. I think he wants a personal delivery, in exchange for this sexy little over-the-shoulder number someone left behind.”
My body quakes with the cold and the meaning of his words.
“God, sorry. You’re freezing.” Drew snaps out of our momentary play and shrugs off his jacket, revealing a slim-cut cable sweater. He opens the coat for me to slip on. I’m drawn right into this chivalry and the extra care he gives me by rubbing my arms a couple of seconds to warm me up. His lips press against mine, cold, minty, and sweet. “I’ve got dessert planned. You up for it?”
I take his elbow when he offers it, another scored point for him. I like where this is going. “Are you kidding? I’m always up for dessert.” He acts as my anchor as we stroll downhill. I rattle off my favorites. “Lemme guess. Lemon bars at Tartine? Ice cream at Fenton’s?”
“You and I are on the same wavelength. Tourist traps, baby.” He laughs. “I was actually thinking of chocolate at Ghirardelli Square. But if you want lemon bars or ice cream, they’re yours. We can stop at all of them.”
“Hold up,” I say with a shaky voice. I face him, my hands wrapped naturally around his waist. He covers me with his muscled arms, the moment so right out of a postcard. It almost distracts me from what I want to say. “We’re going to have to lay down some ground rules.”
“Rules, hmm.” His lips pucker, and it takes all of me not to pull him down and kiss him, it’s so sexy. “I’m open to discussing rules. But . . . you’re only allowed three.”
“Three?”
“That’s it, Miss Rule Maker. Not the ten rules we had when I asked you out back at Woodrow. Remember? One: don’t call after 8 p.m. Two: call my parents Mr. or Mrs. Marino. Three: nothing past first base . . .”
“Goodness, I completely forgot about all of that.” I shut my eyes, and my brain travels through the haze of those months. Something inside me quivers. Weakens. “In the eighth grade, a boy called the house and addressed my mother by her first name. I’d never seen her so angry. She liked you, though, Drew. She thought you were polite.”
“I mean, who wouldn’t like me?” His voice is casual, but he holds me tight against him, as if protecting me from the sadness tugging at my heart. “Anyway, besides rule one and two, I seem to remember us breaking all of them. So three is your max.”
This makes me bark out a laugh. It’s true. A certain redwood tree at Stern Grove park witnessed our after school make-out sessions, and we blew by first base without looking back.
My brain makes words up as I say them aloud. “Rule number one: chocolate wins over everything.”
“Noted. First stop: Ghirardelli.”
“Rule number two: don’t call me baby.”
“No baby. Hmm . . . How about honey? Sweetie pie? Sugar? Wait, how about snuggle bun?”
I have yet to stop shaking my head.
He exhales dramatically. “Fine. No pet names. What else?”
I bite my lip. How do I balance these feelings I have for Drew with the space I need to live my life? Spending time with him and the nostalgia he brings up, like the memory of my rules, my snorting—all of it—spells attachment. And inevitable pain.
“C’mon, give it to me, Marino.”
Deadpan, I say, “No serious talk.”
His eyes cloud over in concern. “Now I’m worried. Something’s wrong.”
I take the gamble and tell him the very basics of how I feel. “That’s the thing. There’s always something wrong. Work. Life. Adulting is hard, and I just want to have fun, with you. Is it okay that I don’t want to share everything? Can we find a middle ground, where we can keep it easy?”
My face is so close to his that I can feel the warmth emanating from his skin. I can also see the questions running through his brain. But a beat later, his lips quirk up. “Fair enough. No oversharing unless you feel inclined. I’ll respect your space. But only if we get to seal the deal with a kiss.”
“Thank you.” Exhaling the tension in my chest, I plant a chaste peck on his lips. “Now, let’s go get some chocolate.”
Two hours later, we walk out of Ghirardelli Chocolate Company with two cups of hot chocolate, an oversized one hundred count box of chocolates, a hat with the Ghirardelli logo on it, and a teddy bear with a heart that says I Left My Heart in San Francisco.
I’ve got the hottest guy next to me and all the chocolate I could ever need. “You sure are spoiling me tonight.”
“I aim to please. Although I’m pretty sure you won’t be craving any of these chocolates after the hot cocoa,” he answers.
“You think wrong. Liquid is scientifically not a solid and, therefore, is accepted by the body in different ways. Drinking the liquid does not satiate the cravings for the solid.”
“All right then, Willy Wonka. Don’t come to me when your stomach starts to ache.”
“So you wouldn’t nurse me to health?”
“Nope,” he quips. “What’s in it for me? I don’t even get to call you a pet name.”
I play punch him as we climb cement steps to street level. The city bustles, except the usual tourists have been replaced by club goers. We weren’t the only ones who needed a fix, and it looks like the square is getting its final wind before closing. But when we turn down the street where we parked, there’s a tow truck behind Drew’s rental. Joe’s Wrecker is imprinted on the side of the truck.
“Shit.” He jogs across the street. I catch up as Joe gets out of his truck.
Not Joe. The tag on his uniform says Lance. “You’re parked in a no-parking zone,” he tells us.
Drew’s voice is clipped. “Totally get it, and I apologize. But it’s almost eleven and don’t these rules not apply after six?”
“The sign says twenty-four hours, sir.”
“Surely, you can overlook this—”
“I was dispatched to move this vehicle, sir.” Lance’s voice, monotone and professional, spits out a canned answer. He probably has a litany on repeat, for every excuse he’s heard under the sun.
Drew seems stumped, so I sweeten the conversation. “Sir, we’re new in town,” I say with a concocted butchered southern accent. “We’re tired, literally just got off the plane. And this man, here, my man, wanted to show me the beauty of this gorgeous city.”
“Ma’am, the sign says twenty-four hours, no parking.”
“But see here, Mr. Lance. We had t’stop. Tell ’em, hunny-bunny.”
Drew’s lips wiggle like caterpillars at the pet name I threw out, but with amazing self-control, he joins me with his own rendition of a twang. “Yessir. Had to take her to . . . to . . .”
I croon. “He proposed. Right in the middle of Ghirardelli Square.”
Lance crosses his arms. A scraggly eyebrow goes up. “Really. He proposed.”
Drew answers, “And she said yes. I’m a lucky man. This . . . firecracker. High school sweetheart. I let ’er out of my sight once, but never again.”
His words give me pause, and I look for the meaning in his eyes.
Drew leans in and kisses me. It starts as an innocent peck but transforms as our hunger grows. I can’t get enough of this man and am hindered only by the goodies in my arms.
Lance clears his throat. Drew and I halt midkiss, my insides disheveled. Oh yeah, we’re not alone.
“Fine. Get out of here.” Lance jerks his head toward the car. “And next time, man, get the lady some See’s. Ghirardelli’s got nothing on it.”
Later, in the car, out of breath and thunderstruck, Drew and I bump fists like we executed some epic heist.
“Boom!” Drew declares. “You are amazing.”
“Why, thank you.” I buff my knuckles against my shirt and puff a breath against them. “You weren’t half bad yourself.”
“It’s official, there’s only one thing that can top this now. Literally.”
And this time I don’t hesitate. “Let’s do it.”
A half hour later, we arrive at Twin Peaks, two hills that rise above the skyline and have the best views of the city.
“I thought it would only be fair to see the view of the western part of the city, since we got to see the east at Coit Tower,” Drew says.
We both climb out of the car and meet at the hood. While I know there’s a trail in front of us, we are cloaked in sheer darkness. That is, except for the lights of the city, which shine like spotlights against our faces.
“We used to live down there,” I whisper. “In the avenues. Took the L down Taraval Street and the Nineteenth Street bus down to Lake Merced.”
“And a bike ride down any horizontal street would lead you to the coldest beach on the planet,” Drew adds.
“Yeah. Where seaweed would sting the life out of my ankles because that’s the deepest I would go.”
“And to seagulls that would shit right onto our heads. Good times.”
“Old times.” A beat, and in that silence I slide closer and accept Drew’s cues as he wraps his arms around me, his right cheek against the top of my head. Nostalgia fills me as glimmers of my past life twinkle with the horizon. Like the stars above us—sparkles of great times, true, but some dim, life-changing moments.
Compelled, I ask, “What made you leave the city, Drew?”
“Thought there wasn’t going to be any serious talk tonight?”
“It’s okay as long as there aren’t specifics. Besides, I . . . I’m curious.”
I feel his cheeks scrunch as he grins. “Look at you, changing the rules.”
“Are you contesting?”
“No.” He takes a breath. “But you may not like how I sound at the end of it. I’m still trying to impress you.”
“I think you’ve done pretty well so far. Try me.”
He dips his face down into my neck and almost whispers the next words. “I left because it was my only way out. Sounds horrible now that I say it aloud. My parents . . . they opened a business, and I was in line to take over. My pop was grooming me for it. I didn’t—I don’t—want that. Being in the Army guaranteed a job everywhere else. Everywhere but California, where I thought I’d be stuck. It was the best decision I made, but I didn’t quite leave things right.”
“Has it gotten better since you’ve been home?”
“Yeah, I think it has, because I’ve been trying. Funny thing, my pop told me to bring you here. I mean, not here here, but someplace with a view.” He shakes his head. “Still amazed he cared, since all he thinks and talks is business. Especially with this extensive renovation . . . Hey, you’re an entrepreneur, right?”
I nod once and stiffen.
“I need some advice.” He rubs my arms down. “Do you want a blanket? I came prepared.”
I shift. “No, I’m good. Readjusting, is all.”
But I’m far from good. The omission—I’m an entrepreneur—in the cab ride to Coit Tower, when I thought I would never see him again, and now this rule I made up about not talking about the specifics—it’s all feeling slippery in my hands. And yet, what does it matter what I do for a living? This thing between Drew and me is in the infant stages, and baring all my fears about the truck right now is a Pandora’s box.
Drew pulls me from my thoughts. “What would you say would be the most important thing businesses should do to market themselves? Like, let’s say a grand reopening?”
“Ah. That’s easy. It’s all about connection. Honest-to-goodness connection with customers.”
“Social media.”
I nod. “But with a caveat. Social media used poorly will barely be noticed. Done well, it can make a customer for life. When a customer feels like you care about them, they reciprocate.”
Without using specifics, I explain everything I know about social media, down to the nitty-gritty on timing and etiquette. The information spills from my brain, knowledge gained from everyday experience. After what feels like a soliloquy, I say. “Sorry, that was long.”
“I kinda loved it.” He sits up and I turn to face him. We’re at eye level, but I can’t see his features clearly because of the shadows. “It’s a turn-on to see you like this, all passionate.”
I sigh. “If only . . . if only passion were enough, because in my line of work, it isn’t. Sometimes, it’s pretty darn discouraging.”
He tilts my chin up with a finger, then stops my hair from flying into my face. “What’s going on?”
“Without going into specifics . . . we have zones, you know?”
“Mm-hm.”
“And I’m in a situation where I’ve been pushed from my zone. Now I’ve got to move to another area, but that involves probably infringing on someone else’s zone. Or the complete opposite could happen, like I could go somewhere where there are no sales to be made.”
He nods. “And you’re worried, right?”
“I am.” I blow out a breath. Talking about work, discussing the crux of my problem—it’s tough. Acknowledging this burden on my shoulders gives it credence, and it weighs down even heavier than it did when I kept it all to myself. But at the same time, I’m so, so relieved to talk about it.
“So, in Army field training there’s this thing called ‘fields of fire.’ It’s when a soldier is assigned a left and right physical limit. Anything within those boundaries set for them is within their charge. They decide who’s friendly or who’s enemy, and they clear it, if needed.”
“Whoa.” I’m tackled by the visual.
“Go with me. For example, I’m in charge of zone A. Sergeant B is in charge of zone B, on my right side. I know for a fact part of my right limit and part of his left limit overlap. To cover those blind spots.”
“You’re saying overlapping zones aren’t a bad thing.”
“Exactly. Be glad someone’s covering that blind spot. You want that area covered, because it’s good for everyone. The middle zone—now that’s all you. You’ve got to rock that zone.
“Long story short—fuck the fear. Don’t be afraid to butt up right next to someone’s zone. Don’t be afraid of the overlap either, because you’ll know the middle is all yours. And if you have the opportunity to have a zone by yourself? That’s when you go all out, Camille. You either go big or go home.”
His message is overwhelming, almost a directive, though I catalog some choice phrases: fuck the fear, don’t be afraid of the overlap, the middle is all yours. I must wear my insecurity, because Drew tightens the hold on my hips. He says, “Look, I’m a soldier and I’ve led soldiers and I know what resilience looks like. You’re no weak link, and whether you’re fighting for some zone, or you’re forging your own path, know you’re the one folks need to reckon with.”
His faith and confidence in my abilities stun me into silence. I didn’t anticipate his wise words, or his loyalty and optimism. And I swear, the load on my shoulder lightens from knowing I’m not alone. Drew brought me to Twin Peaks for the view, but I will leave here feeling like I climbed Kilimanjaro.
A frenzied, desperate need takes over me, and I surprise Drew with a kiss. My lips part, and when I accept Drew’s tongue, I’m engulfed in longing for him. He pushes off the hood, and we sidestep toward the backseat of his car, not once breaking contact.
Somehow, through a series of position changes, in between sorrys and laughs, I end in the most perfect spot—straddling Drew. I sip in a breath each time he moves, his erection stroking me in the most amazing way. Groaning, he starts to unbutton my—his—shirt. Except only a sliver of light from the city below makes it to the backseat, and his fingers fumble in the darkness.
“Fuck this,” he growls.
And as if I couldn’t lust for him any more, he tears the shirt open. I gasp as buttons fly and ricochet off the windows.
Exposed, aroused, and in this man’s hands, I know. My heart is in so much trouble.