“Okay, I’m ready.” Delilah stands in the doorway between the bedroom and en suite bath, her hands pressed against the interior frame and her body hugged by a tight little black dress that hits mid-thigh.
Grinning, I rise and move toward her, my boxer briefs suddenly growing too tight.
“Damn, you’re gorgeous. I say we skip dinner and stay in tonight.” I pull her against my hardness and her mouth curls. “Fuck lobster. I’m eating you tonight.”
“World’s cheesiest pick up line.”
“I’m not trying to pick you up, baby. I’ve already got you.” My lips crush hers, her tongue all mint and velvet. But I know we can’t stay. I’ve made special arrangements for a private rooftop dinner overlooking Lake Michigan at the pier. “Come on, gorgeous. Car’s waiting downstairs.”
* * *
I can’t stop looking at her tonight.
And damn have I tried.
My gaze is pulled to her.
Never mind the Ferris wheel or the giant body of water or the throngs of people below. There are a million things to look at, but all I see is Delilah.
She dabs the corners of her mouth with her cloth napkin and sits it aside. “That was amazing. Best lobster I’ve ever had, and believe me, living out east, I’ve had my share. How do you know all these people? Pilots? Chefs?”
“You travel a lot; you meet a lot of people.” I shrug.
Our server checks on us one last time before informing us that our car is waiting below.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Where to next?” A gush of warm summer wind kicks up the hem of her skirt and she smooths it down.
“I thought we could drive around for a bit,” I say. “Maybe you can take me by your college? Show me your stomping grounds? And maybe I’ll show you mine.”
“Sure.”
I slip her hand into mine, and we head down the secret elevator that leads to the alley behind my friend’s restaurant where our driver waits, limo idling.
She takes me to a charming section in the northeast part of town where a small, private college is nestled in a grove of mature trees and gentrified homes and turn-of-the-century mansions converted into student apartments.
“This is where you study the art of psychoanalyzation?” I ask as the limo crawls to a stop outside a brick building with large white columns. Out our other window is an enormous Victorian house strategically painted in shades of purples, greens, and oranges.
“It is,” she says breathlessly. Turning, she points out my window. “And that is where I live during the school year. That big purple house with the three-story turret. My bedroom is actually the third set of windows there.”
“So you’re like a princess in a tower.”
“Hardly,” she chuffs.
I rest my hand across her thigh, and she slips her hand into mine.
“Why’d you want to see where I went to school?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Figured we were in the area, may as well?” I wait for her to question me, but she doesn’t, so I tell the driver to take us to Chaucer Street. I want to show her my abuela’s old house. The house I grew up in. “And I wanted to prove to you that you’re more than just a fuck buddy. We’re pretty much friends now.”
Her mouth curls, and she elbows me softly.
“You’re the only person who’ll have ever seen my childhood home,” I say. And it’s true. Mirabelle never had the chance, and I’m not sure I’d have wanted her to see it back then. I was in a different frame of mind, and I wanted nothing to do with my past. Nothing to remind me of how badly I missed Magda.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Wow, de la Cruz. That means a lot.”
Thirty minutes later, our driver pulls up to a leaning two-story with a crooked front door and broken steps. Fifteen or twenty years ago, this place had seen better days. Now it’s all chipped paint and missing shingles. It’s easily the ugliest house on the block now, but glancing up and down the street, I see the real estate investors are already gentrifying this neighborhood. Won’t be long before Magdalena’s house gets the makeover it deserves.
“There it is.” I point. “Lived there from nine until I graduated from high school. It used to look different, but the bones are still there.”
“It’s charming,” she says.
“You lie.”
“No, I’m imagining it in its heyday. I love the slope of the roof, how it’s different from the houses beside it, and I can tell it used to be painted yellow. That’s a happy color.”
“Magda’s favorite.”
“And that wooden door? That can be restored. Just needs to be sanded and stained.”
“Someone will fix it up someday.” I climb out of the car and head for the front steps, where a foreclosure notice is taped on the door. The lights are out and the house is pitch black. Glancing inside, I notice the entire place is empty save for some trash littered all around.
“You should buy it.” Delilah’s behind me now. “You can afford it, right?”
“What would I do with it?”
She shrugs. “Rent it out to someone who’ll take care of it? Pass it down to future de la Cruzes?”
My hands hook on my hips. Future de la Cruzes. That’s so far off my radar it isn’t even funny.
“I’m a long ways from that, gorgeous,” I say.