“We can’t.” Although it’s true, there is a vague tremor of nausea in my thoughts now. I’m ninety-nine percent sure Calvin isn’t a rapist or rampant drug abuser. But now taking him into my apartment seems somewhat impulsive—and not just because I might fart in my sleep.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate this,” he says, “and I won’t take anything for granted.”
I’m unaccustomed to being thanked so profusely, and stammer out a few sounds before nodding.
“Is the plan that I come home with you tonight?”
Heat spreads up my neck and over my cheeks. “I think so.”
“You have a couch?”
I nod.
“Your bedroom door locks?”
I pull back, looking at him. “Do I need it to lock?”
He shakes his head quickly. “Of course not. I want you to feel safe.”
“You must think I’m a maniac.”
His grin charges something to life inside me. “Well, aren’t you? I think that’s why I like you, Holland Bakker McLoughlin. That and your freckles.”
We straighten in slow unison, and the whole time he grins down at me from several inches above. I finally manage to respond to this: “You think I’m taking your name?”
“I’m sure of it.”
My jaw drops through a grin. “I married a caveman?”
“Just a personal preference. Want to make a wager on this?”
“As in,” I say slowly, “I lose and take your name. You lose and I keep mine? What’s really in it for me?”
“If I lose, I’ll take yours.”
What is even happening right now?
He slides his hand around my fingers. “So . . . uncles tomorrow?”
I blink up from our joined hands. “I’ll make sure they’re home.”
“Good. Now let’s get inside and make that wager. I’m freezing my bollocks off.”
I nearly trip on the sidewalk.
As Calvin holds the door for me, I hurry inside where Lulu and Mark wait and a blast of warm air hits that’s so amazing, we groan in unison.
Lulu walks over, cupping my elbow. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just had to fix the strap on my shoe.”
“Okay, good.” She seems placated and motions to where a group of busboys are clearing a table. “About five minutes, they said.”
“Cool, thanks for doing that. And thanks for coming with me today. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
Her smile goes soft and she wraps her arms around me. “Are you kidding? The craziest thing I’ve ever seen you do is try to change the date on your expired Saks coupon so you could still get half off. I wouldn’t have missed this.”
I laugh and press a kiss to the side of her cheek. “You can be kind of great sometimes. Not often, but . . .”
“Very funny. Now pardon me, but I’m gonna go live it up and harmlessly flirt with your husband’s friend.”
Calvin watches Lulu leave and returns to my side, taking my hand. The touch is so unfamiliar and awesome, it makes my stomach vault around in my belly.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“The wager?” I remind him.
“I’m getting there—it’s related to my question.” He lifts his chin to the meat locker. “They have good steaks here.”
And just like that, I’m interested in whatever he’s suggesting. “They do. What’re you thinking?”
“They have a porterhouse for two, three, or four.”
I haven’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and the idea of a big juicy steak has me salivating. “Yeah?”
“So, I say we split the one for three, and whoever eats more wins.”
“I’m going to guess their porterhouse for three could feed us both for a week.”
“I’m betting you’re right.” His adorable grin should be accompanied by the sound of a silvery ding. “And your dinner is on me.”
For not the first time, it occurs to me to ask him how he makes ends meet, but I can’t—not here, and maybe not when we’re alone, either. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I think I can handle treating my wife to dinner on our wedding night.”
Our wedding night. My heart thuds heavily. “That’s a lot of meat. No pun intended.”
He grins enthusiastically. “I’d sure like to see how you handle it.”
“You’re betting Holland can’t finish a steak?” Lulu chimes in from behind me. “Oh, you sweet summer child.”
As we get up, I groan, clutching my stomach. “Is this what pregnancy feels like? Not interested.”
“I could carry you,” Calvin offers sweetly, helping me with my coat.
Lulu pushes between us, giddy from wine as she throws her arms around our shoulders. “You’re supposed to carry the bride across the threshold to be romantic, not because she’s broken from eating her weight in beef.”
I stifle a belch. “The way to impress a man is to show him how much meat you can handle, don’t you know this, Lu?”
Calvin laughs. “It was a close battle.”
“Not that close,” Mark says, beside him.
We went so far as to have the waiter split the cooked steak into two equal portions, much to the amused fascination of our tablemates. I ate roughly three-quarters of mine. Calvin was two ounces short.
“Calvin Bakker has a pretty solid ring to it,” I say.
He laugh-groans. “What did I get myself into?”
“A marriage to a farm girl,” I say. “It’s best you learn on day one that I take my eating very seriously.”
“But you’re only a tiny thing,” he says, looking from my face to my body and back again.
It’s as though his gaze drags fire over me.
“Not that little.” At five seven I’m on the taller end of average, and while I’ve never been overweight, I’ve never been thin, either. Davis used to say I came from sturdy stock, not the most flattering description, but not the worst. In short, I have a body made for sport, but hand-eye coordination made for books.
We push out of the restaurant and convene in a small huddle on the sidewalk. It’s too cold for a prolonged goodbye. Mark asks if we want to go out for a bit longer, but when Calvin hesitates, I jump on board, saying—honestly—that I’m sort of wiped, even if it’s only ten.
But that means they hug us goodbye, give another congratulations, and then turn, hailing cabs and going their separate ways.
It was easy for Calvin and I to play at comfort during dinner—we had a distraction: the bet. And nearly as soon as we sat down, Lulu ordered wine, Calvin ordered appetizers, and conversation exploded easily, as it always does when Lulu is around. I used to refer to her as social lubricant, but Robert made me promise to never use that phrase again.
Now it’s just us—me and Calvin. There’s nowhere to hide and no one to hide behind.
I feel the warm slide of his gloved hand around mine.
“Is this okay?” he asks. “I’m not trying anything, I just feel fond.”
“It’s fine.” It’s more than fine. It’s making it hard to breathe, and—shit—this is a terrible idea. Every bit of that disarming honesty and affection he shows me is going to make it that much harder when the run of the production ends and we can part ways.
“Which way are we?” he asks.
“Oh.” Of course. We’re just standing here in the freezing cold while I internally melt down, and he has no idea where I live. “I’m on Forty-Seventh. This way.”
We walk quickly, strides matched. I forgot how weird it is to walk while holding someone’s hand. Weirder still when it’s cold, and we’re rushing, but he holds on tight so I do, too.
“How did you meet Mark?”
“We played in a band together while I was at school.” His shoulder brushes mine as we turn on Eighth. “He just did it for sport, though I was quite intense about it. After he graduated, he went on and got an MBA.” After a pause, he adds, “I’ve been living at his flat in Chelsea.”
Well, that answers one question.
“Paying rent,” he quickly adds. “He was sad to lose the extra money, but as he put it, will not miss the sight of my white arse.” He laughs. “He suggested I invest in pajamas.”
My eyes widen and he quickly clarifies. “Which I have, of course.”
“No . . . I mean”—I press my palm to my forehead. My face feels a thousand degrees. “I want you to be comfortable. Maybe just warn me if you’re going to . . . be—I’ll knock before I come out in the morning.”
He grins and squeezes my hand. “Anyway, I can put that money into yours now. It’s only fair.”
My stomach clenches. This is all really weird. I know sterile details about Calvin from the marriage license, like his birth date, full name, place of birth. But I don’t know anything relevant, like how he makes money other than street performances and cover bands, who his friends are, what time he goes to bed, what he eats for breakfast, or—until just now—where he’s been living.
And of course, he doesn’t know these things about me, either, but from what I understand he’ll need to. Immigration will want us to know things some couples don’t know even after years together. Is this how we do it? With this sort of frank, transactional honesty?
I dive right in, blurting: “Robert and Jeff pay about two-thirds of my rent.”
“Really?” He lets out a low whistle.
“Yeah. Surprisingly, I don’t make much selling T-shirts and taking pictures of people backstage. Not enough to live in Manhattan, anyway.”
“I don’t imagine.”
Nausea rises. Is this a good thing to admit, or bad? Have I just revealed to him that Jeff and Robert are totally loaded?
“I try not to take advantage,” I say, oddly humiliated. After all, Calvin just admitted to relying on a friend, too, and I know he makes money, at least in part, from playing gigs. “I was going to live in New Jersey and commute, but they found me this place when a friend of theirs moved out”—died, actually—“and . . . yeah.”