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Along with burnt-orange colors and pumpkin flavors ushered in by the fall weather, I love the wardrobe. Boots and cozy jackets, a signature scarf for a pop of color. The cloudy day fits perfectly with my mood. I dig my hands into my pockets, still trying to wrap my head around Jay when I catch sight of a figure hovering outside the James building.
Our building is glass with brick accents. The glass is almost mirror-like, which gives me the opportunity to study the man’s face even though he’s facing the opposite direction.
Frown lines, downcast eyes, and a furrowed brow. Blond hair falling forward that he doesn’t bother to brush out of his line of sight. Jeans, a black wool coat, and loafers.
“Jay,” I gasp into the wind.
He looks up but doesn’t turn, instead choosing to study me in the mirrored glass in the same way I studied him. As if he wants a moment to prepare himself for what he’ll find when he turns around. I keep my face devoid of emotion, building barriers to keep my thoughts locked up tight. The truth is, I have no idea what I’m thinking other thanhe’s here. He came for me.
And I swear to God when he turns, his face relaxes in relief. The tension around his eyes softens, and his shoulders drop, like he’s been holding on to unease the same way I have. Like maybe his thoughts mirror mine, and he’s thinkingshe’s here. She came for me.
The wind whips again, as if signaling thatthisis the moment, the leaves lifting, caught in a vortex and blowing around me.
“You don’t live in Providence anymore.” It isn’t a question.
His blue eyes hold mine as he shakes his head.
“But you ride the train every day.”
He nods, a sigh escaping his frowning lips.
“You take the train from Boston,where you live, to Providence,where I live, to take the train back with me every day,” I whisper, my head tilted in question, searching for clarification.
His lips lift in a half smile. “I’d ride the train all day if I could spend just a few minutes sparring with you.”
A whoosh of air leaves my lungs. “Fuck the movies,” I mutter as I walk straight into his arms.
Jay’s eyes register pure surprise as I take his face in my palms. Up close, the stress the past few days has caused him is obvious. It’s in the light blond scruff that tickles my fingers, the dark circles under his eyes, the red of his irises—which likely matches mine from lack of sleep. The way his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it, stressed and waiting for me to appear.
“Kitten, what are you doing?” he whispers, his attention dipping from my eyes to my lips and back again. He mimics my stance, gripping my cheeks as if he’s afraid I’ll pull away.
As if I would try.
I lick my lips. “Testing a theory,” I reply. Then I press my mouth to his.
For a moment, neither of us moves, the fusion of our lips more than enough. But then I get curious, and I swipe against his lips with my tongue, wanting more. He groans as he opens his mouth and tilts my head for better access. Then his hands are in my hair and my arms are looped around his neck, my fingers gripping at his blond locks. Champagne flutters dance through me, and I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. Jay pulls away for a moment and regards me. “Perfect,” he whispers.
My smile expands. “Hollywood style,” I murmur, pulling him closer so I can kiss him again. And again. His kiss is magic. Tender. Meant for me.
Jay pulls back again, the corners of his lips turned up. “Give me a second.” With that, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and presses a few buttons. Then the opening strains of a song filter through the crisp air.
The leaves swirl around us while we make out on Commonwealth Avenue on this perfectly grumpy fall day, the wind whipping at our feet. It’s grays and burnt oranges. Mimosas and pumpkin lattes. It’s Coldplay singing “Yellow” just for us.
25
CLOCKS BY COLDPLAY
CAT
“Spend the day with me,” Jay says, examining me, his hands still lost in my hair, our bodies pressed together.
I smile as I soak in the sight of him, loving how his hold has me angled up so I can’t get away. As if I would try. “And what does Jonathan Hanson do on Sundays?”
“Sleep,” he teases, echoing my retort from weeks ago when he asked what I did on the weekends.
“Doesn’t sound terrible,” I admit. We could probably both use a nap.
“There will be no sleeping if I get you anywhere near a bed,” he murmurs, dragging his lips against mine again in a tender kiss.
