“It is one of life’s great mysteries.” I shut the door and gesture to the living room. She walks ahead of me, and I can’t help myself. I stare at her ass as she crosses the hardwood floor to my couch. She gave me the license to ogle this afternoon, as far as I’m concerned.
“Along with the existence of gigantic asparagus,” she quips.
“I’ll never understand the need for oversize vegetables. But did you really go to Brooklyn to get gummy bears?” I ask as she settles into my beige couch. The sliding glass doors that lead to my terrace are open, and the warm June night filters in.
She shakes her head as she kicks off her shoes, and tucks her feet under her. “The store in Brooklyn that makes them opened another shop in Murray Hill. But they are locally-sourced, and not made with gelatin.”
“Which is a basic requirement in a gummy bear.” I join her on the couch, repeating what she’s said over the years—she won’t touch candies made with gelatin since gelatin comes from beef, and if she wanted beef in her candy she’d eat beef candy, and she’s not doing that. Because that’s just disgusting.
Which is why beef candy is not a thing.
I point to my laptop. “What’s it going to be? Netflix? Hulu? Castle? Will Ferrell’s latest? Rom-com? Spy flick? Sports Center to catch up on your baseball stats?”
She rips open the bag of candy, and pops a yellow bear into her mouth. It slides past her lips. Lucky bear. “How about Castle? Let’s watch that one with the Irish mobster.”
I know exactly which one she means, since we’ve watched nearly every episode together. I find it quickly, sending a silent thanks to, well, myself that I remembered to close out my porn last night. Fido wanders into the living room, arches an eyebrow, and meows. I’m sure in feline language he’s telling her what I did, but thank God, no one has created a Berlitz translation guide yet for cat.
We settle into the rhythm that we’ve perfected over the years. She’s at one end of the couch, burrowed into the pillows. I’m at the other, and the laptop is on the coffee table, streaming the show to the TV screen. We plow through half the bag of gummy bears, Charlotte sifting through the colors. I dive on the green-bear grenade for her. We down our virgin drinks, and at some point during the show, she puts her feet on my thighs, crossing them at the ankles.
A spark zips through me even from that, and I flash back to last night at the restaurant when she ran her foot along my leg. I briefly wonder if I have a foot fetish. I never thought I did before, but as my gaze drifts to her feet, and the candy pink toenail polish that I can’t seem to stop looking at, I realize I’ve missed nearly every word of Castle explaining to Beckett what he thinks is the motive in this episode’s murder.
I return my focus to the screen, but my awareness of her has leveled up, like I’ve had a shot of caffeine and now my senses are on Charlotte alert. She shifts her shoulders into the pillow, and I steal a glance, wondering if she likes to be kissed there. She brushes a strand of hair away from her face, and I want to know how much she likes having her hair pulled, if at all. Castle and Beckett are this close to finding the killer when Charlotte munches on a red gummy bear, and I become intensely curious as to how the cherry tastes in her mouth.
She pokes me in my belly with her big toe. I tense for a brief second, wondering if she can tell where my mind is and isn’t. But hers is so clearly on the screen, since she’s not looking away from our intrepid heroes.
I don’t get it—I was sure we’d already be naked. But then, I have no barometer for reading this woman anymore. Except, based on my astute powers of observation, I’m pretty damn sure she wants a foot rub. I reach for her foot and start massaging it, having done this many times before.
As I work my way from her arch to her heel, I try to avoid the naughtiest thoughts involving her feet. No, not the ones where I suck on her toes, because I don’t have that kind of foot fetish. But the ones where I hold her ankles in my hands, spread her legs, and pound into her.
My dick transforms into a two-by-four. The fucking turncoat. I swear, if my dick were a person, he’d be a narc, always spilling my secrets.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
She snaps her gaze to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. All out of my drink,” I say, grabbing the glass from the table so I have an excuse to get some breathing room. “Just keep watching. I’ll be right back.”
“It’s okay. I’ll wait.” She hits the pause button, and that’s the last thing I need—her scrutiny as I walk to the kitchen to refill the glass I hardly want. I drag a hand through my dark hair and stare at the pitcher of margarita mix that’s mocking me with its innocence. Fuck it. I grab a tequila bottle from the cupboard and deflower my drink. I bend down, yank open the freezer and root around for more ice.
For my face.
A few seconds in the icebox cools me off.
I return to Charlotte and raise my glass. “Spiked mine,” I admit, then take a long, thirsty gulp.
She holds out her hand in a grabby gesture. I give her my glass, and she drinks some. “Mmm,” she says.
I set the drink down, and we return to the show as they solve a murder I couldn’t care less about right now. I’m not sure what to make of this afternoon’s heated moment in the bathroom at MoMA, but then I’m starting to accept that I don’t know what to make of a lot of what’s been happening between Charlotte and me over the last few days. I wish I did have a device to read her mind, because I’d really like to know what she wants to prove to me.