He huffs out an amused breath, and after searching my face for a moment, he suggests, “How about we play this by ear and see what happens?”
“That works,” I say.
A devastating smile breaks over his face, and my thoughts scatter. He separates from me, but he does it slowly, almost reluctantly, running his warm hand down my cold arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He squeezes my hand once before letting go.
Looking about curiously, he considers the books that overflow my bookshelves and spill onto the floor and tabletops, the mismatched throw blankets and decorative pillows on my old sofa, and the dozen or so candles placed in random locations. I’m struck by the odd realization that I have a man in my apartment, in my space. Julian preferred for me to go to his condo—his TV is a lot better than mine—so this is a rare occurrence, made even more extraordinary by the particular man involved. Quan seems to fill the space with his presence and vitality. The air around him is . . . charged.
He pads over the hardwood to stand by the French doors, and I can’t help admiring him as he admires the view through the glass panes. There’s a confidence and relaxed coordination in the way he moves that suggests he’s been in a few fights—and won them. Have I lost my mind that this is intensely appealing to me, that hint of danger? And what does it mean that the designs on his skin no longer jar me like they did at first? They’re just a part of him, and I accept them. I accept him.
“Nice place,” he comments. “I love the balcony. That’s one thing I wish my apartment had.”
“I don’t use it as much as I should, but I like it,” I say.
His gaze touches upon my music stand and violin case, but after giving me an inquiring look, he doesn’t ask the question that I always get: Do you play? It’s a relief—I don’t want to talk about my current difficulties—but it’s also a disappointment. For some people, their work is just their work, a means of survival. It doesn’t define them. But me, I’m a violinist. It’s my identity, who I am, what I am. It’s all that matters. Naturally, my favorite topic of discussion is music.
That reminds me why I invited him here in the first place, and steely determination floods my veins as I say, “Let’s get started.”
NINE
Quan
I have to grin when I see the preparations Anna’s made in her tiny kitchen. Everything is neatly laid out—a pot of water and a frying pan on the electric stove; garlic, parsley, and onion on the cutting board; lined up precisely on the countertop, wineglasses, a wine opener, a liquid measuring cup, olive oil, a block of cheese and a cheese shredder, a wooden spoon, tongs, the lid for the pot, salt, pepper, a box of fettuccini noodles. Over by the window, her kitchen table is set for two. She didn’t forget a single thing.
I like knowing this thing about her. Some people collect stamps. I collect quirks, stowing away secret traits about people in my mind like treasure. It makes people real to me, special. My mom keeps two nail clippers attached to her key ring. It always makes me grin when I see that. Why two? How is she ever able to use them both? No one else I know does that. Khai has so many quirks that’s a quirk in itself. Michael won’t admit it, but I know he matches his outfit with his wife’s every day. When he has kids, they’re going to be that obnoxious family, and I can’t wait for it. Now there’s Anna, and I’m excited to learn everything there is to learn about her.
Talking so fast she’s hardly breathing, she takes a wine bottle from the freezer and works on peeling the metal wrapping off the end. She tells me she’s worried I won’t like the white wine. She got a bottle of red just in case. It’s in the pantry. Where is the appropriate place to put wine when people don’t have wine cellars? She doesn’t drink much. If she falls asleep on me, she’s sorry in advance.
I’ve been worried about tonight. Am I really ready? What if she asks about my scar? What if she notices other stuff? What if I fuck up the fucking? But she’s worse. She’s a nervous wreck, and that makes this easier for me somehow. I’ve always been better at dealing with other people’s problems. I even like it. It feels good to help people.
Acting on instinct, I step behind her and squeeze her shoulders before running my palms down her arms. She goes completely still.
I lean down and whisper in her ear, “Is this okay? Touching you like this?”
Her hair is up in a loose ponytail, so I can see the goose bumps standing up along the length of her neck. They’re running down her arms as well. A good sign, I think.
She swallows and nods, so I let myself linger. I press my cheek to hers, enjoying the softness of her skin and drawing her scent into my lungs. It’s clean, feminine, with something I can’t quite name. Trying to figure out what it is, I nuzzle her neck. Pine. That’s the scent. Because my lips are touching her, my touch naturally becomes a kiss, and I’ve never kissed a woman’s neck without using my teeth at some point. When I scrape them along her smooth skin, tasting her at the same time, her breath breaks and the wine opener clatters from her fingers to the counter.
I manage to snatch the wine bottle before it falls, and she touches a flustered hand to the area beneath her jaw. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dazed, her breaths quick, and I try my best not to grin at what I’ve just learned.
Anna really, really likes having her neck kissed.
And bitten.
“M-maybe it’s better if you open it,” she says, handing the wine opener to me.
“Sure.” I accidentally touch the backs of her fingers when I take the wine opener from her, and her entire hand jumps in reaction.
We separate so I can use both hands to uncork the bottle, and I feel the weight of her gaze on my hands and arms—she’s looking at my tattoos, I realize. When I glance up at her, she quickly averts her eyes. But almost against her will, her gaze returns to me and drops to my mouth.
In this moment, I think that if there was ever a woman who needed to be kissed, it’s her.
I lean toward her, completely focused on making it happen, when she turns away abruptly and cranks on the water in the sink.
As she washes her hands, she says in a brisk tone, “The pasta only takes about twenty minutes to make. If I get the timing right, the noodles are ready when the mushrooms are done.”
“Sounds good.” My voice is husky, and I clear my throat before I crank the corkscrew into the wine cork and pull it free with a pop.
After I fill the wineglasses, I hand one to her and watch with wide eyes as she finishes half in two large gulps and wipes her lips with the back of her hand.