Page 11 of Gatsby's Starlet
“There’s one,” I said. “It’s inside a cabinet. It ruins the aesthetic otherwise.”
His mouth twitched, and I hated that I noticed that, because it only added to his good looks.
“I had a record player like this,” he said, nodding toward mine. “Bought something similar a few years ago. It works better than half the streaming junk.”
“Most things do,” I said.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.
It felt… measured.
Intentional.
Like we were both clocking details and deciding whether we approved.
My gaze drifted to the window, where the motorcycle waited at the curb, sunlight glinting faintly off metal.
“You ride that everywhere?” I asked.
“Pretty much.”
“That’s wildly impractical.”
“Yeah.”
“And dangerous.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Most things worth doing are.”
I swallowed. “Well,” I said, reaching for my purse and grabbing the small leather jacket I’d hung by the door,less dramatic than his, more practical. “I suppose breakfast qualifies.”
He held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering there.
Then he stepped aside and opened the door for me.
The engine rumbled to life again once we were outside, the vibration traveling up through the soles of my shoes as I approached the bike more cautiously than I cared to admit.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“Very,” I said. “This may end with my hair in your mouth and a heartfelt public apology.”
His eyes filled with humor. “… We’ll avoid that.”
I laughed as he handed me the spare helmet.
When I swung a leg over behind him, awkward and hyperaware of where to put my hands, he reached back without looking and caught my wrist gently.
“Hold on,” he said, caressing my wrist before letting go.
I wrapped my arms around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and felt the solid line of him beneath it, warm, grounded, real.
The bike pulled forward and the house fell away behind us, and for the first time since last night the tight coil in my chest loosened into contentment as I leaned into him, my hands tightening just slightly, because this wasn’t something I should’ve been feeling, and I felt it anyway.
***
THE BOOTH CREAKEDfaintly when I slid into it, vinyl warm from sunlight slanting through the front windows, and Gatsby settled across from me with the easy sprawl of someone who didn’t feel the need to fill space to control it, forearms resting onthe table as though this was simply another surface he’d learned to occupy without apology.
I let my fingers trail once along the chrome trim at the edge of the table, testing the coolness of it, noting the faint scratches where decades of rings and coffee mugs had worn it down to something softer.
