Addicted to You (17 page)

I hover by the fruit bowl and lamely act like I’m examining the apples. In the past two weeks since we’ve been back in the city, I haven’t figured out how to approach Lo without feeling weird. I’m not the type to come out and say:
Hey, Lo, can you please sleep with me?
The thought of uttering those words sends red spots to my skin. Doing it with strangers is different. I never have to see them again, and I rarely use words. I give them a deep, sultry look, and they follow me wherever I go. Using that Venus fly trap technique with Lo feels cheap and overwrought. So instead, I stand here awkwardly.

I don’t want to ask for sex like I’m ordering something from a bar. Why can’t this be easier?

I try to avoid the uncomfortable conversation with a question. “You do realize we have a test in a week? Are you going to even study?”

“I’ll wing it.” Relaxed, he sips his drink and leans his elbows on the counter. He tilts his head, watching me closely.

Maybe that was a bad question to ask. Now I feel nervous for the both of us.

About this time, I’d be sporting a glittery tank top and heading for a club, even if it’s only the evening. Now that I’m monogamous, I only have one option, and he happens to be fulfilling his own obsession by downing a bottle of bourbon.

Should I even pull him away from that? Does it make me the needy, selfish person in the relationship?

“Lily.”

His voice cuts into my thoughts. I stop pacing. Holy shit, when did I
start
pacing?

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I go back to the fruit.

“You seem awfully fascinated by those apples.”

“Yep.”

“Okay, enough.” He sets down his glass and edges close to me. “Ever since we returned from the Bahamas, you’ve been nervous and jittery whenever you
obviously
need sex. You do realize you used to tell me when and where you would have sex every night?”

“That was before it was with
you
,” I defend.

“So this should be easier,” he says, perplexed.

“It’s not. I don’t like asking for it. The guys I bed want to have sex with me.” I cringe. That didn’t come out right. “What I mean is,” I say hurriedly as my arms flush, “they’re actively looking for a hook up too. Not relaxing on the couch or surfing the internet. I don’t want this to be a chore or for my problems to invade your personal life.”

“I assure you, having sex is not a chore, especially not with you. As for your problems, well, that’s what being in a relationship is about, Lil. Your problem is now my problem. In fact, it’s almost always been my problem. Now I just get the reward instead of watching some douchebag take it.”

“But you don’t need me to drink. You don’t have to ask me to fix a whiskey sour. Your addiction doesn’t infiltrate my life like mine does yours.”

“Yes it does, just in other ways. And do you really think I walked into this blind?” He twirls a piece of my hair in his finger. “I know how much sex you have. I know that when you’re not having it, you’re browsing porn. I’m not an idiot, Lil. I’ve been your best friend for years, and I haven’t lost that knowledge now that I’m your boyfriend.”

He makes solid points. “Okay, but I still feel weird asking for it.”

Lo hooks his fingers in the waist of my jeans, eyeing the sliver of skin that peeks beneath my blouse. “Then don’t,” he tells me, his hand spindling across the small of my back. “If you want me to choose when we do it, I can. But I didn’t want to take that from you.”

His hand rises up my spine and he skillfully unclasps my bra. I stagger back in surprise, heat blooming on every part of me. He hooks his arm underneath mine, putting me in a lock so I can’t squirm away. Our bodies touch from top to bottom, his hard chest pressing into my soft. I can barely breathe.

Lo presses his lips to my temple and then he whispers, “Do you trust me?”

I swallow hard, trying to focus.
Do I trust him?
“Yes,” I say. “But…you can’t wait too long.” My words tumble out, more frantic than I anticipated. “It has to be more than two times and spaced out. When I get stressed, I may need more and—”

His lips find mine, shutting me up. My shoulders droop and I melt almost instantly. He loosens his hold so my arms can fly around his neck. We’re dancing. And yet, our feet don’t move, but I feel lighter than air, suspended above the clouds while performing the waltz
Beauty and the Beast
style.

Gradually, he breaks the kiss and keeps his forehead to mine. I sway from the aftereffects. My lips on his. The surprise of it all.

“You’re not losing anything,” Lo tries to assure me. “You’re gaining spontaneity. How did that feel?”

I open my mouth but can’t form the words.

His grin widens, satisfied. “That good, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I’ve resorted to mumbles.

“You could be doing dishes in the kitchen,” he whispers, his lips tickling my ear, “and I could come right up and....”

His hand slides down my back and below my jeans, in between my thighs...

I’m sold.

I remove my shirt, my bra already unclipped. And he easily lifts me up and places me on the counter. I see something in his eyes—a desire that I hadn’t noticed before. It’s filled with determination, as though convincing me that he’s enough.

I hope and pray and wish that he is. Only time will tell.

The smell of garlic bread and tomato sauce stimulates my hunger. I wiggle in my seat and tug on the hem of my black cocktail dress that rides up my thighs. Since college, the nicest place I’ve dined at is a pub that serves expensive cheeses and pistachios. The only instances when I read menus with a minimum hundred buck taste-testing course is during family dinner parties, my mother forcing me into high heels and pinching my arm to smile.

The incredulous stares are not helping me feel any more welcome. Middle-aged and elderly aristocrats shoot judgmental glares our way, waiting for us to dine-and-dash at any moment. Lo must sense the unkind speculation from our ages. Wrinkles have permanently creased his forehead.

He made the reservation a week ago, citing that we need to have our first “real” date. I sip my wine slowly. When he ordered us the house Merlot, I held in my surprise. He hasn’t had wine—what he refers to as “subservient” alcohol—in months. And even though Nola drove us to
La Rosetta
, Lo rarely orders alcohol for me. Of any kind.

Now an official couple, I thought I’d stop overanalyzing his gestures, but I start thinking way too much, mostly about the differences in our relationship. Sometimes I wish for a remote control to pause my brain. Just for a moment of peace.

The waiter returns with a basket of “premium” bread. Those were his words when he talked about the loaf, and he looked all snotty about it too. Maybe he expected our eyes to widen in realization that we were at an
expensive
restaurant—with
premium
bread and pricy ravioli, a place not built for young adults with ones or twos beginning their age.

“Are you ready to order?” he asks with sucked in cheeks, reminding me a little too much of my mother.

I bounce between Capellini alla Checca and Filletto di Branzino. Pasta or sea bass? Lo notices my indecision and says, “Give us a few more minutes.”

The waiter shifts his weight. Uh-oh. I know that look. He’s about to get mean. “This isn’t a Mexican restaurant where you can eat free chips and then leave. The bread costs money.”
Oh, the premium bread costs money! Who would have thought?
“You have to order eventually.”

Lo snaps his menu closed and he spreads his hands out on the table, gripping the sides. He looks about ready to flip the damn thing over.
His father would,
I realize. The thought steals my breath. I don’t want to compare them. Ever. “I said ‘give us a few more minutes.’ Did I ever insinuate that I wouldn’t pay?”

“Lo,” I warn, his knuckles whitening.
Please don’t flip the table.

The waiter glances at Lo’s hands and then the manager finds his way to our table. Eyes from other linen-lined booths and candle-set tables have drifted over to us, staring at the spectacle.

“Is there a problem?” the manager asks, slightly older than the waiter, both dressed in uniform blacks.

“No,” Lo answers first, peeling his fingers off the table. He takes out his wallet. “We’d like a bottle of your most expensive champagne to go. We’ll be leaving after that.” He hands the manager his black American Express card.

The slack-jawed waiter straightens up. “That’s the Pernod-Ricard Perrier Jouet. It’s over four thousand dollars.”

“That’s it?” Lo says with the tilt of his head, feigning shock.

The manager places a tight hand on the waiter’s shoulder. “I’ll get that right out for you, Mr. Hale.” Ooh, he even used his name from the credit card. Bonus points for him. He ushers the waiter out of our sight, and Lo looks about ready to break the neck of a chicken—or the man who just shuffled away with his tail between his legs.

“So we’re not eating here,” I say, adding up what just happened.

“Would you like to eat here?” he almost shouts, unbuttoning the top of his black-collared shirt.

“Not really.” My cheeks blossom with an ugly red tint the longer people stare.

He rolls up his sleeves. “I had no idea that respect needed to be earned in a fucking restaurant.”

“Can you stop messing with your shirt?”

“Why?” he asks, calming down. He scrutinizes my body language. “Is it turning you on?”

I glare. “No. It looks like you’re about ready to run into the kitchen and beat the crap out of our waiter.”
Which is comical.
Lo avoids most fights and would be more apt to scream in your face, verbally attacking, than throw a punch.

He rolls his eyes but stops messing with his sleeves per my request.

Only a minute passes before the manager returns with a gold bottle and the American Express card. Lo stands, gestures for me to rise, and he grabs both and shoots everyone a scalding look on his way out, even the manager who did nothing more than apologize and offer a grateful thanks.

I slip my hands into my long woolen coat. “Nola isn’t supposed to be here for another hour,” I tell him.

“We’ll walk for a while. The taco stand is ten blocks away. Think you can make it?”

I nod. My short heels already stick in divots along the cracked sidewalk, but I try not to fuss about it. “Are you okay?” I ask him. The bottle swings in his hand, but he reaches down for mine with the other, holding tightly and warming my chilly palm.

“I just hate that,” he says, wiping his sweaty brow. “I hate that we’re still treated like children even though we’re in our twenties. I hate that I had to pull out my wallet and buy respect.” We stop at a cross-walk, a big red hand flashing at us, telling us to stay put. “I feel like my father.”

His admittance takes me aback. And his cheekbones sharpen, making my stomach summersault. He looks far more like Jonathan Hale than I will ever confess.

“You’re not him,” I whisper. “He would have flipped that table over and then left the staff to clean his mess.”

Lo actually laughs at the image. “Would he?” The sign changes to
walk
, and we cross the halted traffic, cars lined on the street with bright headlights shining forward and backwards. Just like that, the mention of his father drops in the air, lost behind us.

I spot the taco stand in the distance, lit up with a string of multi-colored lights. A small park resides across the busy street, and a few college-aged kids surround a surging fountain, chowing down on burritos. I suppose we fit in with this demographic, but wherever Lo and I go, I always feel like an outcast. Some things never change past high school.

“Are you cold?” Lo asks.

“Huh? No, I’m fine. My coat is fur-lined.”

“I like it.”

I try to hide the smile. “Check the tag.”

He swiftly falls back with furrowed brows and takes a peek. “Calloway Couture?” He joins my side again. “Rose designed it,” he concludes. “I take it back. It’s ugly.”

I laugh. “I can get her to design you a sweater vest.”

“Stop,” he says with a cringe.

“Or a monogramed shirt. She’ll put your name right over the heart,
L-O-R-E-N—
”

He pinches my hips, and I shriek and laugh at the same time. He guides me to the taco stand, his lips by my ear the whole time, whispering some R-rated things that he would like to do to me for being so bad.

“Can we skip the tacos?” I ask, suddenly hot.

His grin lights up his face. He turns to the vendor, not feeding into my desires. Yet. “I’ll have three chicken tacos. She’ll take beef with extra lettuce.” He knows my order by heart, not surprising since we eat here regularly, but now that we’re together, it seems sexier.

“You want hot sauce on
those chicken
, right?”

“No, not today.”

I frown. “You always get hot sauce.”

“And you hate spicy food.”

WhaaatOhhhh
. It clicks. He plans to kiss me sometime soon.
That
, I like. We pick up our orders, pay and settle down across the street on the fountain ledge.

He gently rocks the champagne cork from the bottle and it sighs once released. He pours each of us enough to fill our two flimsy Styrofoam cups.

Around the same time, I take a big bite into my taco, and sauce dribbles from the end and down my chin. Hurriedly, I find a few of the napkins that haven’t blown away, but I fear Lo has already witnessed my embarrassment.

He tries hard not to smile. “I do remember you being in cotillion. Or was that a dream?”

I snort, not helping my case. “Hardly. I had to dance with Jeremy Adams all night and he was a whole head shorter than me. Since
someone
chose to go to the ball with Juliana Bancroft.”

He takes a large bite of his chicken taco to suppress laugher.

“I still don’t understand why you did that to me. She was horrible.” I take a big gulp of champagne, the bubbles tickling my nose. I already feel more relaxed. Liquid courage, something Lo knows a little about, but I predict that he’d be just as brazen without the added consumption.

“She wasn’t that bad,” he says, scooping fallen chicken from the tray back into the tortilla.