Page 55 of 32 Days in May

“Hey, sunshine.” His back muscles flex and relax as he moves, scratch lines from my fingernails still fresh and pink down his shoulder blades.

I pause, towel wrapped around me. “I helped myself to some of your hot water.”

He laughs. “Take as much as you need. If you’re not in any rush to get back to Evergreen, I wanted to take you to breakfast.”

I swallow roughly. “I’m not in a rush to do anything.” This is my attempt to make good on my promise last night that I wouldn’t disappear. “I don’t have to work until Friday. I just have to check out of my hotel by eleven.”

He turns away from the percolating pot and crosses his arms over his chest. “There’s an exhibit in Brooklyn I really wanted to see.”

I can feel the edges of my comfort zone quickly approaching, an invisible wall looming somewhere in the distance. And I can also see the challenge in his eyes, the same flicker I saw in them that first night we went out.

We’re standing there, staring at each other, thinking the exact same thing: How far can I push this?

Marco waits for me outside while I run up to my hotel room to change into a pair of floaty pants and a cropped top. My hair is a total mess—frizzing and coiling away from my scalp in little jovial bundles.

I dig through my bag for a hat after checking the UV index. Today is weirdly going to be a scorcher. I take my morning meds then slather myself in SPF, taking special care to not get any on my shirt or necklace or eyebrows, before hastily packing my overnight bag and booking it downstairs. Knowing Marco is there, waiting, has me moving at double speed.

Outside he’s chatting on the phone, a hand lost in his hair. With his arm extended like that, I can make out a hickey on his bicep, a hickey I’d strategically placed to be diagonal to the one on the inside of his thigh. My belly tightens at the memory of him propped up on his elbows, gaze heavy on me. The raspy way he’d growled fuck.

I’ll never be able to look at him the same—not without a sensory flashback. The weight of his chest against mine; his stubble against the inside of my thighs; his fingers tightening, tightening, tightening on the soft flesh of my hips.

The film camera hanging around his neck pulls at his shirt. Just the sight of him, spied through a window, fills me with an electricity. I push out into the humid morning, and he drops the phone from his ear, lips twisting into a half smile.

“Hey, pretty—”

I cut him off, grabbing a handful of his shirt and pressing my mouth to his. He meets my eagerness with a gentleness that has me melting against his chest. He tastes like himself, sweet and exciting, like the bitter coffee we drank this morning, and like my sunscreen. His fingers find my jaw just as we break apart. Marco’s mouth comes away glistening, just like his eyes.

“What was that for?”

I shrug, running my thumb over his bottom lip, taking with it some of the moisture I’d left behind. “I wanted to kiss you.”

Marco blinks slowly, clearing away the desire in his eyes, then presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “You feeling okay?”

“Shut up.” I laugh, swatting him away. But he doesn’t let me get far. His hand falls from my forehead to my shoulder, finger tracing down the inside of my arm. “Let’s get breakfast. I want something sweet.”

He’s watching me with a mixture of incredulity and joy.

I’m sick of wasting time, I realize. I can’t believe how much of it I’ve already wasted, the way I’ve been tossing days away like used paper towels.

I let him stare at me like that while I link my fingers with his and pull him with me. It’s May 11, and we only have three weeks left together.

“Truth or dare,” I ask, mouth full of French toast. We stumbled onto a diner in SoHo with no line and agreed we’d eat concrete if it meant avoiding a huge wait.

Marco ordered an improbable amount of protein as part of a breakfast I’ve dubbed Man Meal. It’s about thirteen scrambled eggs, eleven slices of bacon, and enough toasted rye bread to feed every duck in New York State.

The waiter took the order without flinching or looking us in the eye. If he recognized Marco, he did a damn good job of acting like he didn’t.

Marco considers his options carefully, mouth twisting sideways. Finally: “Dare.”

Shit. I don’t have a dare lined up. My plan was to use the sexy and adult allure of truth to coax information out of him about his current career-slash-life situation. In all the hours we’ve spent together, Marco hasn’t yet dropped a single hint about this new career thing he has going on, and I’m desperate to know, in spite of myself.

“I dare you to tell me what you want to do in the next six months.” Ham-fisted as hell, but I think it works.

Marco’s eyebrows immediately fall into a frown and finally, he takes a bite of toast.

“Hmm, six months?” His gaze travels from mine out to the busy street behind me. “I guess in six months I’ll have six months sober, which is good. It’s a nice, solid number. I’ll be back in LA.” He winces at that but keeps going. “I’ll be thirty-four.”

“That’s all you’re gonna give me?”