Page 33 of Almost Paradise

“A pinky swear is binding. It’s the law, upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court.” I pretend to be deep in thought. “Uh, I think it was Index vs Pinky. It was way back in eighteen ninety-three.”

Her nose scrunches up and she lets out an uncontrollable giggle.

“So, the fingers sued each other? On what basis?” she asks with a grin.

“Look, I’m more of a numbers guy. I’ll have to ask my friend Wyatt about that and get back to you. He’s in his last year of law school. For now, you’ll have to trust me.” I wave my pinky around. She suddenly gets serious, stands up straight, and wraps her pinky around mine.

That’s how we walk inside her building. We stay that way as we cross the hallway to the elevator. We remain connected as we ride to her floor. Even when the elevator doors open, we walk to her door with our fingers around each other.

The building looks pretty new, and I realize it’s one of the ones we built. Not only did we build it, but we own it. It’s one of our many rental properties throughout the country.

I follow her down a long hallway, and she pulls out her key. Seconds later, we’re inside her small apartment. It’s neat and smells of vanilla, but it looks about the size of the bedroom I grew up in. I decide to keep that to myself and leave my Paradise persona at the door.

When she finally pulls her finger from mine, she points to a door down the hall and says, “You can go in there and dry up if you want. There are clean towels. I’ll boil water for tea.” She takes off her shoes and loses a few inches in height. When I continue to stare, she clears her throat and points at the bathroom.

Inside the small room, I take off my drenched shirt and toss it in the small stackable dryer on top of the washer. My white tee is only moderately damp, so I leave it on. I use the towel on my hair and dry my pants as best as I can. When I return to the living room, it’s empty, so I look around.

The place is spotless. She has a galley kitchen that’s too small and narrow for a table, but the appliances and countertops, as expected, are high end. She has a small little table on the other side of her living room. Right on top is a small, framed picture of Mariah Carey.

I hear a door open, and I hear her soft footsteps against the hardwood floors. I almost fall over when I see her in a pair of short gray shorts and a hot pink crop top. Her feet are bare, and her French pedicure matches her fingernails.

She stops mid-step when she sees me standing there and gestures at me with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh my God. You took your shirt off so you won’t get my blood on it when you kill me.” She puts her hands on her hips in disbelief.

“Um, then wouldn’t I just take everything off if that was my plan?” Her arched eyebrow rises higher at my words. I picture myself standing naked in front of her. I’d want her naked too. In my arms with her legs wrapped around me. I clear my throat and say, “My shirt was soaked. I hope you don’t mind that I put it in your dryer.”

She says nothing, and when the kettle starts to whistle, she goes into the kitchen. She opens a cabinet and gets on her tippy toes to retrieve two mugs then opens a drawer and pulls out a variety of mixed teas. When she gestures for me to choose, I pick green tea. She picks orange spice, and I make a mental note to get some at my place for her.

“Green tea? Boring,” she says. She puts the tea bags in the mugs before she fills them both with hot water.

“And orange is what? Exciting?”

“Not orange. Orange spice because I’m spicy.” She does a little dance where she wiggles her hips. I bet she is. I’d like to find out just how spicy she is in the very near future.

“This is a nice apartment,” I tell her, quickly changing the subject before my body starts to react.

“Thanks. It’s my first time living on my own. I can barely afford it, but not having a car makes it easier.”

“Is that why you don’t have one? It was either a car or this place?” I ask.

“That and I don’t know how to drive.” She hands me my tea and blows the top of her mug.

“I’ll have to unpack that later. Seems like there’s a story there,” I tell her.

She shrugs. “There won’t be a later. This is just me saying thank you for the ride.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to be friends?”

“Friends with Drake Paradise?” She arches her eyebrow again in disbelief.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Is that all you’re after? Friendship?” She seems skeptical. She ought to be. I can be her friend too, but what I want is her. That mouth. That body. I want to pick her up and take her to her bedroom and slide inside of her and not come out until Monday morning.That’swhat I want, but if I’m honest about it, I’m sure I’ll get slapped and banished from this cute little apartment.

“What are we doing about dinner?” I put my tea down and open her fridge. I expect her to tell me to get lost, but she leans against the end of the counter and just watches me. Her fridge is fully stocked, and I pull out a platter of boneless, skinless chicken breasts. She has fresh vegetables in the bottom drawer, and I pull out a bag of vegetable medley.

She says nothing while I rummage through her pantry and find white rice. On the bottom of the pantry is a rice cooker still in the box.

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