Rusty Nailed (Cocktail 2)

“Babe, look at that.”

“Look at what—that shack? Yeah, it looks pretty abandoned. Let’s head back. Farmers’ market? Dinner?” I answered, pulling on his hand again. He stood fast, peering through the debris.

“No, look at that house. Isn’t it interesting?”

“Interesting isn’t the word I would use—” But he pulled me toward the house. Which had a For Sale sign in the yard.

Uh . . . what?

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, dragging my feet as he led me up the walk. As we got closer, I saw that it was probably once a very nice house. Victorian, but not froufrou. Peeling paint gave it a melancholy look, but it had clean lines and looked to be decent sized. I glanced around at the other houses on the street; rows of beautifully maintained homes. How had this house deteriorated so?

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” a voice called, and we turned to see an older woman peering over her newspaper from her front porch.

“Um, well,” I hedged, smiling at her.

“Well, it used to be pretty. Want to see the inside?” she asked.

“Oh no, we couldn’t—” I started, only to be interrupted by Simon. “Yes, we’d love to.”

“Babe, what are you doing?” I whispered through my teeth as the woman produced a set of keys from her pocket and threw them over to us. He caught them in midair, saying, “Thanks.”

“No trouble at all. The Realtor has only shown it a few times, but I still have a set of keys. Mrs. Shrewsbury—she’s the old owner—went to live with her daughter in Sacramento. She let the house get the best of her the last few years, but it’s got good bones,” she said, going back to her paper.

Good bones. I mentally snorted. Someone’s been watching HGTV . . .

“Have you lost your mind?” I asked quietly as we made our way up the walk. Dodging clumps of grass and twigs, we headed up onto the porch.

“I don’t know. I just want to see the inside; don’t you?” he asked, and his eyes lit up with something I couldn’t pinpoint.

“Sure?” As he fiddled with the lock I glanced around, noting the orange trees, the honeysuckle vines, the shrub roses. This Mrs. Shrewsbury was definitely a gardener. Looking past the debris, I could see the white clapboard, the faded shutters flanking an enormous picture window. A traditional two-story home, its porch curved away from the street and wrapped around toward the back.

“There we go,” Simon announced, the door swinging inward. We walked in, the afternoon light showing us an outdated interior. I gazed at the mauve wallpaper with a calico cat border. But as we moved farther into the house, the entire back wall opened up into a view of the bay.

“Oh,” I gasped, seeing the little lights of Sausalito just beginning to twinkle down below, and farther out, San Francisco. The porch wrapped all the way around the back, with two comfortable-looking lounge chairs positioned to take in the view. The grass needed mowing, the weeds needed weeding, but it was a killer porch.

I turned back toward Simon, who was leaning against the mantel of a stone fireplace flanked by bookshelves with leaded-glass doors. They were covered in shelf paper, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable.

Thumping my feet along the pink wall-to-wall carpeting, I made a guess. “There’s hardwood under this Pepto rug, I bet you anything,” I said, my heart racing a little.

Whoa, slow down Heart. What the hell were we even doing in here?

I passed Simon on the way toward the kitchen, finding avocado green appliances but ample space. My mind began to work. Not you too, Brain—settle down!

“Interesting?” he asked, reaching out his hand to me.

“Interesting,” I allowed, letting him pull me toward the stairs. On the way we passed a formal dining room, complete with bay windows facing the . . . bay. The carpet on the stairs continued the pink, but was only a runner, exposing the hardwood underneath. As we made our way upstairs, golden sunlight broke through the stillness, another huge window hiding under an eave but making for great light. I held my breath as we reached the second floor, peeking inside rooms and counting one, two, three bedrooms, a hallway bath with subway tile, original probably, and heading into what was the . . . master bedroom.

High in the trees, overlooking the porch and the undeniable view, it was a large room with windows on two sides. The hardwood floor was stained a honey that could easily be lifted or darkened. My mind began to whirl, placing a highboy dresser on one wall, a desk in the nook in the corner. Would the bed be four poster or sleigh . . . Oh no, I was staging the room.

Simon came out of the bathroom with a smirk. “Holy shit, you are going to lose your mind when you see what’s in here.”

I pushed past him.

Claw.

Foot.

Tub.

“Sweet merciful God,” I managed, leaning against the wall as he chuckled.

He caught me up in a close hug, leaning his forehead onto mine.

“Nightie Girl, we should totally buy this f**king house,” he said, laughing when I shrieked.

My legs literally turned to jelly. Everything south of my navel liquefied, and if it were not for the core strength I possessed from hours spent in the yoga studio, I would have melted into the hardwood floor and dripped down onto the Pepto carpet below.

“Simon,” I started, an eyebrow moving north.

“Caroline,” he came right back, his eyebrow mocking mine.

“Simon,” I repeated. “Slow down. And when did you start smoking the marijuana?”

He laughed again, then disappeared into one of the closets. I followed him, tamping down the hysteria that threatened inside.

“Listen to me. Seriously, are you high? You must be, because otherwise— Holy shit.” I stopped, my voice echoing. It echoed, you see, because the closet was as big as our entire block. I immediately envisioned miles and miles of custom cabinets: drawers, open shelving, shoe racks. I let out a whimper.

Simon stood in front of the window (the closet had a window. I can’t even.) and gestured at the view. “I wonder if my closet has a window too.”

I gulped. “There’s another closet?” I spun back into the bedroom. Yep, there it was. Two closets. I more than whimpered this time. I looked at Simon, who was leaving my closet (the closet) and coming toward me. I backed into the wall as each step came closer.

“No. No, Simon.”

“We could totally do this.”

“We could totally not do this! Not kidding.”

“This house is incredible.”

“This house is a money pit. Haven’t you ever seen that movie?”

“Have you ever seen a view like the one from that porch?” he asked, placing his hands on either side of the wall, caging me in. “Quit trying to talk yourself out of this,” he said with the tiniest bit of . . . annoyance?

“You haven’t even seen the basement,” I said.

“So we’ll go to the basement.”

“I’m scared of basements, Simon.”

“Everyone’s scared of basements, Caroline.”

“You too? One time when I was a kid, I—”

But I couldn’t finish my story about the time I gave myself a black eye racing up the basement steps with every Barbie I owned because of the werewolf that was chasing me, because I suddenly had a very insistent and very skilled tongue working past my lips and into my mouth.

I had barely caught my breath before the assault on my senses began again. His hands pressed into the small of my back, pulling me into him. His kiss ended, and he now rested his forehead against my own. There was want and need in his eyes, but in a different way than normal. I brought my hand up to his face and traced a path down his jaw.

“I’m not totally saying no,” I whispered, and sudden joy broke across his face. I pushed him off me and looked again at the bedroom. He snuck his hands around my waist, which I allowed. Frankly, I needed the anchor. This was crazy.

“Since when did you want to live in Sausalito?”

“It’s grown on me. Besides, they’re turning our building into condos—we’d have to move sooner or later.”

“That’s a rumor.”

“That’s a fact. The lady in 2A told me.”

“The lady in 2A just wants to get in your pants. Are we actually talking about this? And can we afford this?”

“I can, and you can help out. I know you’re already thinking about all the things you want to change.”

“We’d start with the carpet; that would come up immediately,” I answered promptly, then slapped a hand over my mouth.

“I knew it.” He laughed, and tugged me over to the window seat. For Christ’s sake, a window seat. I never stood a chance. When he pulled me onto his lap, I let him.

“Okay, look,” I said. “Let’s just talk about this for a minute. A year ago, you had just left behind your harem. Now you want to move out to the suburbs with me?”

“I would hardly call this the suburbs.”

“You know what I mean. This is just . . . Look, you have to admit that things have been different since . . .” I trailed off.

“Since?” he prodded.

“This just isn’t what I was expecting. You’re asking me to— Wait. What are you asking me?” I asked suddenly, my entire body going on point.

“I’m asking if you want to live together, silly girl. To buy this totally impractical, beautiful house that’s way too big for two people, and live in it with me. Together.”

And I’d thought we were just going out for a stroll today.

I looked around the bedroom, looked out the window at the killer view. I looked at him, looked him right in the eye, and tried to uncover what he was thinking. “You sure you want all this?” I asked, not just talking about the house.

“Hell, yes. I love you; that’s not going to change. I want this, I want you, and I think . . . Oh hell, here comes the Dawson’s Creek.” He grimaced and I chuckled in spite of the moment.

His gaze grew wistful, and he looked so young. “I don’t want to put things off, even though we haven’t been together a really long time. I don’t want to wait—you never know what can . . . Look. I adore you, and I want a home. Again. With you.”

That did it. Cue the waterworks.

“You’re killing me, Simon.” I sniffled, tears and nose beginning to run.

“I know. I’m very cute when I’m vulnerable,” he said, making me snort in a very unladylike way.

“So without knowing how much this house costs, without knowing anything about buying a house in Sausalito, without an inspection or a real estate agent and knowing there’s a shit ton of work to be done, you want this? All of it—you really want this?”

He nodded, looking determined but a little afraid of my answer.

I got off his lap and walked around the bedroom once more. There were at least a hundred reasons why this was maybe not the best idea. I peered out the big window once more, looking down onto the old rosebushes in the brush. I bet this was beautiful in the spring.

I leaned on the windowsill, seeing the last of the afternoon sun leave the city across the bay. The windowsills were deep, exactly the right size for a very particular cat to doze in. I turned to Simon, now standing in the doorway with the most hopeful look ever.

Did I want this?

Is this what it was like, being grown up? Making big decisions, and then moving into a new phase of your life? Wasn’t this too fast, too impulsive, too . . .

I did want this. And I wanted it with Simon. I nodded yes, and he grinned, laughed, then kissed me stupid.

Three hours later, he’d made an offer. It was accepted.

Grown-ups, right?

• • •

“Are we rushing into this?”

“No, we’ve been at this quite a while. It’s called foreplay, Caroline,” Simon murmured, south of my navel.

“I’m familiar with the concept,” I replied, tightening my legs around his midsection and lifting up onto my elbows to peer down at him. “Not talking about the foreplay, although it’s good.”

“Good? Just good?” He crawled up my body, kissing it all the while. I shivered. “I was giving you some of my best stuff down there.”

“Did I say good? I meant fantastic. Phenomenal.” I kissed him square on the lips. “Out of this world.”

“That’s better. Now, what’s this about rushing things?” He used my left breast as a pillow as his fingertips traced lightly over the right.

“With the house. Are we rushing into this?” I asked, running my hands through his hair and making it stand straight up. I twisted it this way and that, making Mohawks and no hawks, bowl cuts and bangs. I worried his hair around every finger, feeling the silky strands as he kissed my cleavage.

“You’re still thinking about this?” he asked, sighing. “If I thought it was too soon, I wouldn’t have made an offer.” The barest hint of tongue now wet the tip of my breast. “If I thought it was too soon, I wouldn’t have told the Realtor that I wanted that house no matter what was wrong with it.”

His h*ps bumped mine, slipping between my legs, which automatically cradled him. I could feel him, hard and wanting and insistent. “If I thought it was too soon, I wouldn’t be giving you an obscene design budget to turn that house into our home,” he whispered, his voice husky and thick. And speaking of thick . . .

He nudged inside, just barely. “Heated floors, Caroline.” My back arched. “Marble countertops.” My legs fell open wide.

“Carrara?”