We rushed to the car, laughing at our eagerness. We didn’t talk much in the car, but his hand rubbed circles over the back of my hand while also caressing my thigh, so it was the right kind of quiet.
As we got farther from the bowling alley, my nerves picked up. I could tell he felt it too, because his touch shifted subtly. Instead of suggestive caresses, he was giving reassuring squeezes. Damn, I was already ruining things.
Dylan slowed down and turned left into the entrance of an apartment building. I startled, realizing I’d been too distracted during the drive to pay any attention. I wasn’t sure where we were, but it looked like a nice neighborhood. His building was a little bigger than mine and looked clean and well maintained with flowers bordering the full length of the building. He drove past the building, down a long driveway that circled to the back of the building, and descended into a parking garage. He maneuvered expertly through the aisles and parked next to a big pickup truck in what I assumed was his designated spot.
He turned the car off, but made no move to get out. He looked at me with uncertainty in his eyes. “It’s early still. Want to watch a movie, and we can order in dinner a little later?”
“Yes?” Even I heard the question in my voice. That sounded great, and all I really wanted was to continue the kiss we’d started. But I was too overwhelmed with desire, nerves, and near-crippling fear that I was going to ruin this before it even started. I couldn’t summon up coherent words to sound more convincing.
“No pressure, Juls. You want me to take you home, I will. You want to go out somewhere instead of staying here, we will. Anything you want is fine, and I’m still going to call you tomorrow, no matter what we do now.”
His nickname for me, and his sincere words and soft smile, calmed my nerves enough to take a deep breath and steady myself. “I want to stay.”
His eyes lit up. “Good. Want to make popcorn and watch a movie?”
“Yes.” Good, that one came out with the certainty I intended.
His smile grew as he opened his car door, and I followed suit. He hurried around to meet me at my door, closing it and locking the car as he took my hand in his. We walked through the cool darkness of the garage and entered an elegantly decorated lobby with a few wing chairs around a glass coffee table, and a waterfall feature on the wall. We took the elevator up to the third floor in awkward silence. He held my hand the whole way, even as he opened his door and locked it behind us.
Standing in his foyer, with my stomach roiling and my heart pounding, Dylan grasped both my hands and turned me to face him with a question in his eyes.
I was sure about this. I was only nervous because of my issues. I trusted Dyan completely, without any reservations. How and when that happened, I didn’t know, but it did. I nodded, and he led me through his apartment to the kitchen.
His place was clean and comfortable. A big, soft-looking gray couch, a huge TV, and a bookshelf with a fireman’s helmet,books, and other stuff I couldn’t make out took up most of the living room. A dark gray, almost black, grainy wood coffee table sat in front of the couch, with matching end tables. A few remotes and an empty mug sat on the coffee table.
I followed him into the eat-in kitchen, which was functional with older appliances and a wooden table for four that sat in the corner. He pulled a bag of popcorn out of the cabinet, put it in the microwave, and pulled a big bowl from another cabinet.
“Can I do anything?”
“No thanks, I got it.”
I leaned against the counter and watched him—fine, shamelessly ogled him—admiring his rippling muscles and his efficiency moving around the kitchen.
“What do you want to drink? Water, soda, iced tea? Beer or wine?”
“Do you have white wine?” I needed a little extra courage to do this. And bydo this, I just meant to get through the day without humiliating myself again.
“I do.” He pulled a bottle out of the fridge. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring it all out.”
I nodded and walked out to the living room, beelining it to the bookshelf, hungry for a glimpse into Dylan’s mind and heart. The kind of books a person reads says a lot about them.
There were two photos on the shelf. One of Dylan and his crew in their gear, standing in front of a fire truck, all clean, shiny, and smiling for the posed photo. The other, though. Damn. It was real. Powerful. Scary. There were three firemen. I could tell the one on the left was Dylan, and the one in the middle was Liam because he was the biggest, but I couldn’t identify the third. They were spraying water onto a house fire, the flames shooting into the sky so massive, the firefighters and their hose seemed insignificant in its shadow. A chill ranthrough me. I knew Dylan’s job was dangerous, obviously, but I didn’t like to see it.
I dragged my eyes away from the picture, eager to see it all before Dylan came out. The helmet was older than I’d realized. A gold eagle sat atop the black leather, its faded and cracked edges telling the story of its history. Next to the helmet was a metal plaque with grasped hands, with numbers below the hands and a crown on top. There were other firefighting tools and paraphernalia, and a propped-up corkboard that held fireman’s patches from SAFD, FDNY, LAFD, and a bunch of others. To the right were his books: a mix of firefighter history books, firefighter training books, and a few popular mystery novels mixed in. I was drawn back to the helmet, seeking a clue about when or where it was from.
“It’s from the early 1900s,” Dylan said from right behind me, scaring the crap out of me.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t.”
Dylan chuckled gently.
“It’s amazing,” I said. “Where is it from?”
“I wish I knew. The guy I bought it from found it at an estate sale, so he didn’t know any of its history. I just know he got it from upstate New York.”
“Do you know where and when they used that style? Maybe we can figure it out.”