Page 31 of Resist

“Hey,” she gives me a small smile as she steps back to let me inside her apartment.

I’m not sure where to look first, at her home, or her body. I don’t want to seem overzealous, but I also don’t want to seem disinterested. Play it cool, Sterling. Play. It. Cool.

I have no chill. On the inside I’m doing zoomies like a dog who hasn’t seen his owner in weeks.

She’s dressed casually today, and something about that makes her seem even hotter than the skintight catsuit with a crotch zipper she had on the night we met. She’s got slouchy socks over yoga pants, and an oversized sweater that falls to her knees. I’m guessing she went to the University of Minnesota because it’s emblazoned across her chest in maroon and gold.

She moves to close the door behind me as I take in her open-planned apartment. Everything’s very stylishly decorated, black with silver and cream accents. A cream couch with black and silver throw pillows. A black accent wall in her living space that shows serious balls. Who paints a wall black?

Either she owns the place, or she doesn’t give a fuck about the landlord. I doubt any landlord would allow her to put black paint on the walls.

There are some interesting pieces of pottery placed around the room, a tall vase next to the bookcase, a few smaller ornaments on the shelves, and a giant leaf-looking thing hung onthe wall. Mom wouldloveeach and every piece I have seen so far. She loves pottery, and trinkets, and has a collection of maybe two dozen vases from various thrift stores.

“You like it?” Cecelia has managed to close the door and get within a foot of me without me hearing, I’ve been too distracted by her space. It’s so... I don’t want to say clinical, but it’s impersonal. There are no pictures on the walls, only a couple of framed pieces of bland artwork. I know art is subjective, but this... this doesn’t scream personality, or vibrancy. It’s... plain, generic... boring.

Anyone could live here. It could be a rental property, or an Airbnb or something that has a high turnover of people through the doors.

It’s all freakishly clean, as though it’s brand new as well. I bet if I were to run my fingers over the frames encasing the diplomas I wouldn’t find a single speck of dust.

I nod slowly. “It’s... clean.”

She purses her lips into a flat line as though the compliment wasn’t the one she was searching for.

I step toward the bookshelf, hoping to find a spark of her personality among the books. She has three different copies of Master and Margarita in various states of “well loved” next to Pride and Prejudice, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Great Gatsby. She’s a fan of the classics. She’s got everything from Truman Capote to Victor Hugo, and everything in between. It’s an impressive collection, but not even her books have a speck of dust on them.

“I’m afraid to move in case I knock something out of place.”

She nods, folding her arms. “Well, Iwouldhave to kill you if you disrupted the Zen of my beloved apartment.” Her mouth is twitching like she’s joking so I move to the coffee table and nudge the small stack of magazines with my knee. “Or laid a finger on my belovedbooks.”

“Oh? Is that so?” I keep my voice playful, moving my hand toward the spine of The Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen, and throwing a glance over my shoulder to make sure she’s watching.

Her hands move to her hips. “I don’t like brats, and I’m not a brat tamer, Mr. Montgomery. But don’t think I won’t punish you for being a dick in my home.”

There’s humor in her voice as she speaks, and her eyes sparkle. A buzz rolls through me at the way she addresses me. “Eggcellent.” I smirk in response.

“I don’t think I could throw you over my knee and spank your ass red raw, but I’m sure I could come up with something.” She winks and turns away from me, toward the kitchen. “Would you like a glass of merlot? I have a bottle open.”

It’s the middle of the day on a Sunday, I’m driving, and I don’t like to mix kink and alcohol, but I draw the line at two drinks—depending on what they are. One if it’s hard liquor.

“I’d love one. I can get it.” I move to catch up to her but she holds up her hand.

“I’ve got it. You’re my guest here. Take a seat on the couch.”

Everything’s pristine. I wasn’t kidding that I’m afraid to touch anything. I kick my shoes off next to the shoe rack by the door, and sit on the far right sofa cushion. Leaning back in the crook of the couch feels too casual, sitting forward with my elbows on my thighs feels too serious. This place needs an oversized beanbag in the corner that I can just slide onto and chill in.

I don’t know how to be, how she wants me to be, how not to mess this up.

I opt to sit the way we sat at Protocol on Friday night. One ankle draped over my knee as I face the rest of the couch and hope it’s the right combination of at ease but not assuming.

When she comes back, she’s carrying a large wooden tray, and when I leap up to help her she arches a brow. “I appreciate the offer, but really, I’ve got it.”

The more I learn and see of this woman, the more fiercely independent she seems. Part of me wants to elbow in, to take the tray and help her whether she wants it or not, and the other part of me doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

She sets the tray on the coffee table and hands me a glass of red wine... on a clearly expensive cream couch. Fuck my life, the powers that be are testing me. Don’t spill the wine on the fancy couch. Don’t spill the wine.

Don’t. Spill. The. Wine.

I successfully take a sip and place the glass on the coaster on the table. Would Cecelia turn into Monica Geller from Friends if I put the glass on top of the table without using a coaster?

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