Page 67 of I Love My Mistake
“Pretty amazing, right?” He smirks and we stand up, gathering our trash and bringing it to a trashcan. “You ready to go?”
I shake my head and nuzzle into his chest, enjoying the feel of his arms as they move around me. He lifts my chin up with his hand, leans down and kisses me in a slow, sensual kiss. Goose bumps spreads over my body. I make a little sound of happiness against his soft lips. He pulls me tighter to him.
When we pull away, I sigh. “Okay, let’s go get you some coffee. And I want to shower and get changed before dinner. Come with me?”
He puts both index fingers to either side of his head. “Oh wait… You’re thinking -– wait, let me get this right.” I laugh. “Quit it.”
He closes crinkles his eyes, cute little lines framing them as he pretends to read my mind through the ether. “You’re thinking…it’s clearer now… oh, wow! Really?” He pretends to be me. “I want to shower with Mark. I want him to wash me all over.” His eyes pop open. “Good, huh?”
I purse my lips. “Impressive. We need to get you a run-down house and a neon sign that says Palm Reading $15.00. You could make a killing.”
“With enough readings, I could have the backing for my app.” He looks at me with purpose.
I throw up both hands. “Okay! Okay! They can come see the show.”
“Ha!! Yes!” He does a funny fist pump that makes me laugh.
We walk back out to 59th Street to catch a cab. Mark steps away to the edge of the curb to call a taxi. He calls over to our hotdog vendor, “Those were delicious.” The man glares at him. When one of five taxis riding by pulls up, I bend down, hoping for my cabbie friend. It’s not him, but a large man from the Dominican Republic who smiles at me. I’ll take what I can get. It’s better than oh-too-common apathy. Plus, it’d be weird if it was my friendly cabbie. Not that any of this isn’t weird.
Mark holds the door open for me. “You okay?”
I scoot in. “What? Oh…yeah. I’m fine. Was just looking for someone.”
As I lean forward to give the driver Third Rail Coffee’s cross streets, Mark slides his warm hand under my jacket and holds it to my lower back with gentle pressure. When I sit back, he moves it around me and I snuggle into the nook of his arm. We ride toward Greenwich Village looking out the window with my head leaned on him as he points to things that catch his interest.
“Look at that. Is that a church?”
I nod. “Mmmhmm.”
“It looks like it’s been there for centuries, right in the middle of all this modern architecture.”
“Cool, huh?”
“Very. Evidence of the first colonies,” he says, watching the sights speed by.
I close my eyes and rest into the sweet softness of his tall, lean frame. Even though I’m 5’8" or 5’9" (it seems to vary depending on my mood), his height makes me feel tiny; a little more feminine… protected. I really want to feel protected, but I didn’t know it until I met him.
Growing up in a volatile home, I never felt protected as a child, never felt safe. I didn’t know what mood my father was going to be in from one day to the next. Sometimes when he didn’t come home, my mother wouldn’t leave her bedroom. She’d lie in bed for days, comatose from depression. I’d have to feed myself because she wouldn’t even open her door when I knocked, when I begged her to come out, cried for her to leave him. It was so odd because we lived in a beautiful home and appeared to the outside world to be put-together and fabulous, but on the inside, I was growing into a fighter who too often made herself cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, for days on end.
“Hey.”
I snuggle closer, eyes still closed. “Mmm?”
“I’m glad I met you.”
I tilt up my chin, eyelashes fluttering open. “Yeah?”
He nods and kisses my nose. “Yeah.”
“I’m glad you met me, too.” I give him a sexy wink.
He laughs and looks back out the window. I close my eyes again, shutting off my mind, relaxing and enjoying this easy-going moment, not thinking about anything but how good it feels to be here… with him.