The Build Up (64)

Fine.

Desperate, I dialed his number. Just when I was about to hang up, he answered.

“Ari? Hey... What’s up?” Porter’s voice had a thick, lazy drawl that signaled that he’d just woken up. I loved that voice.

“Sorry to wake you. But... I...my car...”

“It finally died, huh? Where are you?”

“In Inman Park? At this Soul Pilates spot? Off Euclid. I... I’m sorry to bother you, but everyone else is busy and my AAA card isn’t current. I don’t have my debit or credit card. I said off Euclid, right?”

I could hear Porter rustling around. I bit my lip. Ari, you probably sounded neurotic, calling him like this. I imagined him pulling back the sheets, rubbing his head, and stretching out on his bed just before getting up. I’d seen that scene play out so many times. The thought pulled at my heart’s longing for him for a millisecond.

“Okay. I’ll be there in about 15 minutes. Hold tight. And I’ll call you a tow truck. Text me the address.”

“Okay. And thanks, Porter.”

“Of course. Anything for you.”

I leaned back against the headrest of my now defunct jalopy and tucked my hands into my cardigan. I took a deep breath and pulled up the streaming service on my phone to play some smooth jazz. There was no way that I could handle any more R&B lyrics. I closed my eyes, and eventually the sound of Boney James lulled me to sleep.

A knock on my window startled me out of a nearly drool-inducing nap. In front of me were gray sweatpants that showed just the right amount of dick print without being sleazy. The gray sweats eventually leaned back, and there stood Porter, with a sheepish grin. I rolled down my window.

Men did not know how much gray sweatpants turned women into horny teenagers. And by the looks of it, the sweats, Dunks, and hoodie had knocked at least fifteen years off Porter’s age. He looked more college co-ed than forty-two-year-old elder millennial.

“Sorry to wake you from your nap, but the tow truck is here.”

I looked at my smart watch. “Wow. That was fast. Thanks.”

“It’s nothing. I know a guy,” said Porter with a grin. He “knew a guy” for every scenario, it seemed.

I grabbed my purse and tossed my cell phone and keys inside. “Thanks, Porter. I guess you can take me home. I’ll figure out the car situation another day. This one is junk at this point.”

“I know it’s hard to part with it.”

I nodded slowly. Porter scratched his beard, which was a lot fuller these days. I liked it.

“Or—” Porter suggested excitedly with a raised brow “—we can just go look for a new car. I mean, you know I love looking at new whips. Besides, I know a guy...”

I laughed. “Of course, you do. Fine. I’ll look. No promises on if I’ll purchase.”

“That’s fair. But right now, let’s get you some breakfast. There is a cute little French bakery around the corner. And I know how much you love madeleines. So...want to go? My treat?”

I scratched my head and looked around. The tow truck driver was hooking my car up, dragging it onto the back. Bella had pulled off ages ago. And I was just there. With Porter. And his gray sweats. Shit.

I pursed my lips, then relaxed them. “Fine. You had me at madeleines.”

“Cool.” Porter clapped his hands in victory.

I shook my head. Ari. It’s just breakfast. No harm in that. “Cool,” I repeated.

I rolled my eyes and walked beside him to his car, peeking over at him.

“I know. I look like a bum. But in all fairness, when you called, I was in bed,” Porter said.

“Uh-huh,” I replied as I stood next to the passenger side of the car. Porter came up close to me, putting his hand on the door handle. He smelled simultaneously like soap and sleep. He leaned over, grazing my breast. It made my nipple hard like muscle memory. My body hadn’t forgotten what his touch did to me.

“I was alone. Just so you know,” said Porter as he opened the car door.

“Okay. I didn’t ask but...okay.”

“I know you didn’t. But just in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” I said sharply, as I eased into the passenger seat. That was a lie. I was wondering. A little.

“Uh-huh,” said Porter. He pulled his hoodie over his head and leaned back against the headrest, turning toward me. Every part of me resisted looking at him until, finally, I looked over and his green eyes twinkled with a devilish sparkle. I felt a twinge in my undercarriage.

Fuck. Fuck this ridiculously gorgeous bastard.

The smell of espresso and sweetness filled the air of the quaint Emile’s Patisserie.

Only Porter and I would notice such a nondescript spot hidden in the middle of a neighborhood known more for its funky eclectic style than traditional fare.

Porter and I waited as a perky blonde with bangs and a bun tied back with a red bandana showed us to our table. Typical French musette was pumping through the speakers.

The server pulled out a pencil from her apron. “Madame, Monsieur, can I take your order?” said the blonde whose French accent took both Porter and me aback. We were expecting something and someone entirely Southern.

“The lady will have an order of madeleines and café au lait,” said Porter. “And I’ll have an espresso and a small spinach quiche.”