“Promise. Talk to you then,” I say, listening to her goodbye before hanging up.
I close my eyes and then open them up, looking at the ceiling feeling a sense of hope when I say aloud to myself, “Don’t try. Do.”
Chapter 3
Nico
I pull up in front of Sophie’s house and look around the neighborhood. It’s a quiet area where the people—mostly middle class—who work in downtown Nashville live. I pick up the flowers I bought for her off the passenger’s seat and make my way up to her front porch, noticing the flowers that line the walkway and the hanging plants along the front of her house. I stretch my neck before knocking once. I can hear music playing on the other side of the door and then some kind of banging. After a few seconds, I hear a couple of locks turn. Then the door is opened and Sophie is standing there. Her hair is up on top of her head, her cheeks are flushed, and my eyes travel down her body to see that she’s wearing a plain black tank top and jeans with bare feet, her toes painted a deep purple.
“Hi,” she says softly, and my eyes leisurely come back up her body to meet hers.
“Hey,” I greet as she opens the door farther, stepping back for me to enter.
“Did you find it okay?” she asks.
My brain takes a second to process her words; I’m still stuck on her bare feet and how sexy she looks dressed in jeans. “Yeah. I don’t live far from here.” I watch as her eyes look me over, and I see nervousness, but also hunger. We both stand there staring at each other, but then her eyes travel down to my hand and get humorously big. “These are for you.” I lift my hand, righting the flowers and awkwardly holding them out to her.
“Oh, wow. Thank you,” she says breathily, taking the flowers from my hand and bringing them to her face to smell them. After a few moments of just watching her appreciate my simple gift, my dick is already trying to inch closer to her through the roughness of my jeans. She seems to shake herself and tells me, “Um…dinner is cooking. I hope you don’t mind pasta.”
“It smells great,” I say, breathing in through my nose, the smell of garlic and freshly baked bread assaulting me.
“I didn’t even think to ask you if you could eat carbs.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“Well, you’re all muscles. I know that a lot of weight trainers don’t eat pasta,” she says matter-of-factly.
“I’m not a weight trainer,” I tell her, laughing.
“You’re not?”
“No. I work out because my job requires me to stay in shape, but I eat whatever the hell I want.”
“Okay, good.” She smiles.
Once again, we’re both just standing here watching each other. I run a hand through my hair and laugh when I see her eyes drop to my waist. She jumps, her head flying up. “Um…I-I’m just going to put these in some water. Do you want a beer or something?” she rushes out.
“Sure,” I say, taking a quick look around her house.
It’s small, maybe two bedrooms, and the living room is comfortably snug, with a TV, a small loveseat, and a matching chair. I follow her into the kitchen, my eyes watching her hips and ass as she walks. The kitchen is a decent size, with a small dining area attached.
I study her as she pulls a chair from the table, carrying it over to the fridge. “What are you doing?” I ask, seeing the unstable chair wobble as she begins to climb up on top of it.
“My vases are up here,” she says distractedly as she tries to keep her balance on the chair. I walk over to her and pick her up with my hands around her waist. “What are you doing?!” she screeches, her fingers digging into my arms.
“Saving you from breaking your neck,” I tell her, setting her down and squeezing her waist once before placing my hand on her belly to push her back a step. I move the chair out of the way and open the cupboard. “Which one do you want?” I look down at her.
“You just picked me up,” she mumbles almost to herself.
“Yes, so you wouldn’t accidentally off yourself.”
“You just picked me up like I weighed nothing,” she says in disbelief.
“You don’t weigh much,” I inform her. “So, which one do you want?” I repeat my question, watching her face.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replies, and I pull down the first one I touch. “Not that one,” she says, so I put it back in the cupboard and grab another. “Not that one either,” she states, making me smile.
“Babe, this will go a lot faster if you just tell me which one you want.”
“The tall, clear pink one,” she answers then bites her lip, and I know she just changed her mind again.
“You sure?” I ask teasingly.
She shakes her head. “The blue one.”
“You sure?” My hand hovering over the blue vase.
“I’m sure.” She nods.
I pull it down halfway and she reaches up, taking it from me. I close the cupboard and put the chair back.
“The beer is in the fridge. There is also tea, juice, and pop. Just help yourself,” she says, picking up the flowers from the counter.
I grab a beer and lean against the counter to watch her as she measures the flowers, pulls a knife out of the butcher block, lays the flowers over the sink, and then starts to saw the ends off. It takes everything in me not to snatch it away from her and do it myself to make sure she doesn’t cut herself. Once she’s done, she fills the vase with water from the sink’s faucet, drops the flowers in and arranges them, and then sets the bouquet on her table. When she turns around, she jumps like she’s startled.