Page 115 of First-Time Caller
“Mm-hmm.”
“Why did riding my thigh make you think of pizza?”
“Well.” She shrugs, and her arm shifts against mine. We’re back to being plastered together on this uncomfortable seat. There’s a spring digging into my thigh, but I wouldn’t move for a damn thing right now. Not while Lucie is looking at me like that. “Pineapple pizza is borderline orgasmic.”
I cup my hand around the back of her head. My thumb traces the long line of her neck. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” she breathes. “It’s really good.”
“I doubt it, but okay.”
“Stop hating on pineapple pizza when you’re the one who ordered it.”
I grin and drop my forehead to hers. “I reserve the right to withhold my judgment.”
“That’s fine,” she whispers, all breathy and soft. “But don’t cry to me when your world is rocked.”
Our noses brush together. “Oh, worlds will be rocked. And I don’t think anyone will be crying.”
“Hopefully.” She laughs, and I wish I could wrap myself in the sound. Carry it around with me for whenever I’m feeling hollow and defeated. “I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore.”
“You said you wanted to come over.”
“Right.” Her eyes shine. “Can I come over?”
I toy with the tiny metal zipper on the front of her coveralls. I’ve never made out with anyone in a car before. It suddenly feels like a crucial bucket list item.
“Yeah.” Our lips brush together and then slide apart. Too brief. Not enough. I abandon her zipper and rest my palm on the stretch of her thigh instead. “Yeah, you should come over.”
“Great.” Lucie leans back, out of my grip, and I watch with dazed, heavy eyes as she switches off the tow truck with a flick of her wrist. The rumbling abruptly cuts off beneath us, and Lucie climbs her way out of the driver’s seat. “I’m going to get you unhooked and then we can go.”
She disappears.
And I’m left sitting in the cab of the truck, staring dumbly at the space where she just was, smiling like an idiot.
COMMENT FROM BALTI-MORON96:
I don’t want to listen to Piano Concerto in F, I want to listen to Aiden flirt with Lucie.
We pull up in front of a tiny row home with a cobalt blue front door and a stained-glass window above it. A ship with its sails unfurled billowing across the water. Three golden numbers painted across to note his address: 612.
“Didn’t there used to be an Italian bakery around here?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Right next door.”
I smile. “I remember. I was obsessed with their cannoli.”
“They moved to a new location a couple of blocks over. Probably the best decision they could have made for my wallet.” He turns to look at me again, his gaze drifting over my face. “I wonder if—”
“We ever ran into each other?”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes searching mine, then shifting to look out the window instead. It’s a romantic thought. The two of us drifting past each other without ever realizing it. But I’m starting to define a difference between romance and reality, and I think I like this better. Aiden crammed in the front seat of my Subaru with his knees almost tucked to his chest, a pizza box on his lap. “I’m going to need a second before you come in,” he says.
“A second?”
“More like seven minutes.” Aiden climbs out of the passenger seat.
“That’s oddly specific. Do you need to hide your doll collection?”
