Love Hacked (Knitting in the City #3)(48)
Author: Penny Reid

I thought about quacking like a duck at myself—because that felt like the only thing to do when faced with someone who was so obviously insane.

CHAPTER 22

Saturday’s Horoscope: Throw everything in your arsenal at the problem that faces you. It’s the only way you’ll win the prize you most desire.

Per Alex’s note earlier in the week, I expected him Saturday at the unattainable apartment otherwise known as Cloud City.

And Alex had some explaining to do.

The week crawled by after he’d absconded on Wednesday. There was no sign of Agent Bell. In fact, there was no sign of anyone. Everything was completely normal. It was the quietest few days in recent memory, and I hated every minute of it.

I was given a glimpse—albeit a short glimpse—of what life was like without Alex, what it would be like if we were to break up. I discovered that I missed him terribly. I pined for him, longed for him, thought of him constantly, dreamed of him at night.

I checked with Mr. Patel to see if Alex had left any messages. He hadn’t. I discovered why when Mr. Patel volunteered that Alex was out of town.

I exited the restaurant feeling lost and sad. I went home, applied mascara, watched Steel Magnolias, and engaged in a successful cry. I chastised myself for ever judging the characters harshly. Drama and heartbreak sucked, but they made life real.

Afterward, I resolved to pry the truth from Alex no matter what it took…all the truth…and nothing but the truth.

I had no lunch date with Thomas on Saturday afternoon as he had once again cancelled. I didn’t have the mental energy required to reflect on his strange behavior, so I arrived to Cloud City early and made preparations for the evening’s torture.

Because I fully intended to torture Alex into submission. After a week away, he would bend to my will, confess all, and—when he did—I’d…well, I didn’t know what I would do.

Hopefully, we’d end the evening with him joining the six-inch deep club.

I’d never been with a virgin before, but I remembered my first time. It had been awful, even though my seventeen-year-old partner had been slow and gentle. The problem was that he was too solicitous. He kept stopping, and then he’d get a flat tire, and then we’d have to start all over again. I’d just wanted to get it over with.

It was like driving to Walmart with my grandparents. They meant well, but God save us all when either of them got behind the wheel of a car with a stick shift. Every time the need arose to switch gears, the car would stall.

Obviously, I prepared myself for Alex’s lack of experience. It might be awkward and fast, but that was a necessary step. Once the first time was behind us, we could move forward with his education. I had no doubt that, under my tutelage, he’d do quite well.

Quite, quite well. Yes.

As the meal baked in the oven, I took advantage of the lull. I exploited the bathtub Janie had mentioned some weeks ago during knit night. She was right. The bathtubs were amazing. I briefly considered what organs I would have to sell in order to move into the apartment. I guessed all of them.

I was dressed and ready when he arrived. The man-knits—hat, scarf, gloves—were wrapped in Darth Vader wrapping paper I’d secured from Thinkgeek. I’d tucked it behind the blender in the kitchen to hide it, because I wanted to present the gift to him at an opportune moment.

Of course I was wearing my compelling red dress, thigh-high stockings, borrowed zebra print stilettos, black pushup bra, and nothing else.

This was war.

When he knocked, I experienced a jolt of excitement, a bolt of adrenaline, and I rushed to open the door. I tugged it open, giant smile on my face, and found my mouth dry. Alex was wearing a suit, a dark grey suit, with a white dress shirt—unbuttoned at the collar—and no tie. And he’d shaved.

Well…zing.

However, scoring a point in my favor, I recovered first, likely because I was distracted by the bunch of red roses he held in his grip. His eyes were still hungrily devouring my legs when I found my voice.

“Hey, handsome. That’s some suit.”

He didn’t lift his eyes to my face—so score one for the compelling red dress—and when he responded, his voice was distracted. “I just got in.”

“Got in?”

“Yes.” He said nothing else and made no move to actually come in the apartment. So I reached forward, tugged on his lapel, and brought his lips to mine for a quick kiss.

“I missed you,” I said, and waited until I witnessed recognition and understanding in his eyes.

“I missed you too.”

“It’s difficult, not being able to talk to you when you’re away.”

He nodded, swallowed. “Hopefully, we won’t have to worry about that again.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

His eyes, as if they disobeyed a direct order from his brain—because his brain was working overtime trying to focus—moved to my mouth, neck, cle**age.

He licked his lips. “Something smells good.”

I couldn’t help my smile of satisfaction. “Dinner is ready.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to stare at me, his eyes a little lost. I grinned very, very wickedly.

“Unless you want to skip dinner….”

He stiffened, like sense had been smacked into him, and held the flowers out between us like a shield. “These are for you.”

I chuckled inwardly. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Thanks.” I took the flowers. “Come in; I’ll put these in water, then we can eat.”

I left him standing in the doorway and noted that he didn’t immediately enter. When he did, he didn’t immediately shut the door. When he did, he didn’t immediately follow me into the dining room.

Speaking of lamb, I’d prepared lamb for dinner: lamb with figs and balsamic demi-glaze, candied fig and cucumber salad, roasted rosemary potatoes with dried figs.

The table was set, wine was poured, and I brought our warm plates from the kitchen as he walked into the dining room.

“It’s so good to see you. I know I already said so, but I really missed you.” I wanted to grab him and bite him and touch him all over. Instead, I motioned to his chair with a tip of my head and said, “Sit.”

He did, but he didn’t look at me. I also noted that something about him was different, and it wasn’t just the suit. Abruptly I registered that the faux-hawk was gone; his hair was now cut in a respectable spiky do.

“What happened to your hair?”

He shrugged, speared a potato. “This looks good.”

“Alex.”

He licked his lips, chewed, sipped from a glass of water.

“Alex.” I tried to impart my concern rather than my impatience. I missed him—like, missed him. We had only missed one date, but something about him being out of town and unreachable made me crazy. To add to my bewilderment, other than the hot perusal at the front door, he was acting like we’d seen each other earlier today.

His eyes lifted, met mine, and held them. I opened my mouth to question him again about his hair, but he spoke first.

“Sandra, you look amazing. I don’t know—I can’t adequately express how good it is to see you. I’m having a little trouble right now. So, if you could just give me a minute to collect my thoughts, that would be great.”

I pressed my lips together to keep my monster smile at bay. They weren’t the words I thought I wanted to hear, but they were surprisingly perfect.

Therefore, I nodded and turned my attention to my dinner.

I said, “The potatoes are good.”

He dutifully nodded his agreement and ate everything on his plate, though he had none of the wine. Since he didn’t seem ready to discuss anything related to his trip, hair, or suit, I kept our conversation light; though it was saturated with delightful innuendo:

Me: “Thank you for coming.”

Him: “Thank you for having me.”

Me: “Well, I haven’t actually had you yet.”

Him: “Then I guess, by your definition, I haven’t actually come yet.”

And,

Him: “What’s the lamb stuffed with?”

Me: “Figs.”

Him: “And what’s this with the potatoes?”

Me: “Figs.”

Him: “I see. Then I’m guessing the figs are also in the cucumbers?”

Me: “No, Alex. Cucumbers go in figs, not the other way around.”

This earned me a barely stifled snort and a charming eye roll. I was pleased to see that he was relaxing.

The last exchange was both my most and least favorite. It occurred when I served dessert, which was comprised of fresh half figs, goat cheese, and honey.

When I placed the plate in front of him, he actually choked a little then coughed to cover it up. His eyes were as large as half dollars, and I understood why. The figs had been mostly disguised in all the other dishes, but the half-cut fresh figs on his plate now were positively indecent.

I made the experience all the more indecent by selecting the largest fig from my plate. I then licked the center of the fig very, very slowly and sucked at it noisily. “Mmm…try one.”

Much to my infinite satisfaction, Alex’s hand holding his fork became white knuckled. He no longer appeared to be amused.

Good.

I continued to lick the center of the fig, my eyes heavily lidded, my breathing purposefully deep and slow. I had him completely captivated, so close to the edge.