7
He stops in front of a brownstone.
You squash the inner, real estate agent, screaming at the location and property surrounding his home.
You remember last year, spending many days with your agency, just across the street.
You want to ask him how long he's lived here.
Perhaps you saw him in passing during the renovations of the one story, your very first project with the company.
"This is my home." he tells you as he turns his car off.
He doesn't wait for you to say anything.
He jumps out and opens your door.
You step out and let him drag you up the stairs.
The sound of his keys echo in your ear as he unlocks the door and leads you inside. The smell of pine and clean linen hits your senses, and you find yourself relaxing.
There are pictures hanging from the walls but it's too dark in the foyer to make out any of the faces.
You're nervously pulling at your clothes and he notices your apprehension.
"Would you like another drink or did you have enough at Waylon's?"
"A drink would be nice." You choke out.
He nods and leads you into a state of the art kitchen, with shiny appliances and granite countertops.
He prepares a pitcher of frozen margaritas, and steals glances at you as you fidget.
"You're nervous."
You snort. "Is it that obvious?"
He nods. "You shouldn't be."
"I don't… I've never done anything like this before."
"Gone home with someone?" he asks, handing you a salt rimmed glass of alcohol. "Or had the best margarita ever?"
You sip and smile at the perfect mixture of tequila, lime and salt.
"One night stands aren't me." You tell him.
"Hmm. Would it help if I told you they aren't me either?"
"Not really."