“Porter, don’t say that,” I said, interrupting his sentence.
“Say what?”
“That you love me.”
“Why not? It’s true. I can’t help it. I’m passionate about you, Ari. About the possibility of an us.”
I folded my arms. “Trust me, I’ve heard this all before. Passion isn’t love. I’m too old for passion. It burns bright and then what? You’ll get bored. You’ll move on.”
Porter wiped his mouth with a napkin, balling it up. “I don’t get you, Ari. One minute, you’re ready to rip my clothes off. Fuck me into a coma. Kiss me until I can’t breathe without you. Then you want to keep me at arm’s length. You’re so hot and cold. And when we get close to solidifying our feelings, you push me away. How am I supposed to feel? This is unfair. Don’t break my heart this way, Ari.”
“It’s not my intention, Porter. I also don’t want to mess up this project. This feels like my last opportunity to prove myself. Besides, I’d hate to be the reason you don’t get this promotion.”
Porter rubbed the back of his neck. “If I make partner…if I don’t make partner. That has nothing to do with you. Right now, I’m talking about us. What are we doing here?”
I looked out the window. An older couple with gray hair and stooped backs held hands as they walked down the sidewalk. A fleeting thought about Porter and me being that old crossed my mind. Would he have flecks of silver in his curls? Would he hold my hand as I walked beside him, back hunched over with old age? Porter reached across the table, pushing a stray coil of hair back behind my ear. I allowed his warm, gentle hand to cup my cheek gently, until he let go.
As if he could read my mind, Porter whispered, “I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is of course.”
I smiled, slightly. “You know what your mother told me at Thanksgiving?”
Porter raised his eyebrow, cocking his head to one side. “Other than Senior’s gumbo recipe? No.”
“Eloise said when she met your father, she knew she wasn’t who people, his people, expected him to marry. But your father knew she was good for him. Your mom said she saw the same thing in me, for you. It’s a new feeling for me. Someone thinking that I’m good for them. Because I know I’m amazing. It’s about time someone else recognized that.”
Porter’s mouth was parted. For a second, he was at a loss for words. “Of course, you’re good for me, Ari. You’re amazing. You’re the woman of my dreams.”
“I am?” I asked, eyes widening with disbelief.
Porter laughed a bit. “Yes, ma’am. One day, you’ll know just how true that is.”
I furrowed my brow, confused.
Porter pushed his coffee cup away, looking into my eyes. “Listen, I know you want to be friends. I’m respecting your wishes. But I need a favor.”
“Sure. It’s the least I can do after today.”
Porter scratched the back of his scruffy neck. “Well, I’m without a date next weekend to the Hampton Atlanta Alumni Gala. Will you go with me? As friends?”
I raised my eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I mean, my mom and Desmond will be there. And now that I know she’s such a huge fan of yours, how can I disappoint her? So, is it a date? I mean, as friends? Alums? I know my mom would love to see you again.”
I dipped my madeleine into my coffee as I pondered the invitation. “Bella’s always begging me to go. I never do. I guess I can make an exception. I’d hate for you to be all dateless in your tux. Wait, is it black tie?”
I hadn’t worn a formal dress since Bella’s wedding. The anxiety of sequins, control top garments, and back zippers made me sweat. The one downfall of being single is not having someone to zip up your dress. Zippers in the back should be banned.
Porter nodded. “Of course, it’s black tie. But before you start worrying about your outfit, can we finish breakfast?”
As Porter reached over for a madeleine, I smoothed his hair down, running my fingers through the short curls. He closed his eyes, allowing my hand to tame a stray hair. His lashes fluttered against the palm of my hand as he turned his lips inward, grazing the inside of my wrist.
“You had a piece of lint from your sweatshirt in your hair,” I lied, embarrassed at my need to touch him. To feel him. Dammit, Ari. You’re not making it easier.
“Thanks, Ari. These wild curls, you know,” Porter said, slightly above a whisper, his lips dangerously close to my wrist. His faint, heated breath tickled my skin and hastened my pulse. I sat perfectly still, trying to gather my words.