When we stepped off the train, I was next to her.
The ache to reach out and grab her hand was real, but I shoved both of mine into the front pockets of my jeans to avoid the temptation.
Years back, our hands would instinctively find each other whenever we were side-by-side.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I offer with a smile.
She mumbles something under her breath as she glances up at me.
I’ve been doing most of the talking since we stepped off the subway.
I started with a comment about the busker playing a guitar and crooning a Frank Sinatra tune.
She headed straight for him when she heard him singing. His version of the classic earned him a five-dollar tip from her and a smile.
The fact that he thanked her with a misplaced bow and a cheery accented, “Thank you, Lady Kate,” told me that she stopped to listen to him before today.
Once we hit the sidewalk to walk the two blocks to her place, I brought up the weather and the never-ending construction in the city.
She didn’t add anything to the conversation other than an occasional shrug of her shoulder and a raise of her brow.
She’s nervous-as-hell. It’s written all over her face.
She comes to such an abrupt stop that I take a few steps past her before I realize what’s happening.
Her thumb jerks to the right and the front of a white-bricked building. “This is it.”
I look at the exterior. It’s a pre-war building with arched windows, glass panel double doors and a doorman watching our every move.
“Thank you for the drinks,” she says in an even tone. “I’d thank you for bringing me home, but I could have made it on my own.”
Defiant Katie is hot-as-hell.
Her mascara smudged when she rubbed her fists over her eyes. Her lipstick is long gone and the front of her wrap dress is open a touch more than it was when she first sat down at Tin Anchor.
Every single time she moves just the right way, I catch a glimpse of her pink lace bra.
“You don’t want to come up.” She shakes her head. “No, wait.”
“I want to come up,” I blurt out before she can get another word in.
“I meant to say that I don’t want you to come up.”
I smile as I take a step closer to her. “You want me to come up.”
“I’m going to eat pizza,” she announces with a tilt of her head. “We’re not going to do anything.”
I motion to the glass doors. “I’ll watch you eat pizza.”
“I know this is a bad idea,” she whispers as she taps the middle of her forehead. “Think about this, Katie.”
I haven’t heard her self-talk in over five years. It’s the only time she refers to herself as Katie. From what I remember, I’m the only person who called her that.
That might have changed. I’m hoping it hasn’t.
“I’ll make you some coffee.” I point at a finger at her. “You’ll eat pizza. I’ll go home.”
“Coffee, pizza, home,” she repeats back, studying my face.