“I want…to move on.” I’m not sure that’s what I meant to say. It certainly isn’t sexy. But is sexy what I’m going for here? I don’t think so. Admitting it feels good, though. Admitting Iwantto move on is finally admitting that Ihaven’t,and recognizing the problem seems like a logical place to start.
“From what?” Taylor asks, forcing me to confront my thoughts and emotions like a good therapist.
“From my past. My ex-wife. The resentment. The hurt.” I take a large swallow of the liquid I finally managed to pour into my glass.
“Let me help you,” he pleads.
“How?”
I hate how broken I sound.I’mthe one who takes care of everyone else, and I feel like such a failure having to lean onothers.I’mthe one who took care of Dylan’s window when the brick came flying through it.I’mthe one who let Hudson use my beach house when he needed to check on Shannon at the coast.I’mthe one who forced Phoenix to talk his shit out with Walker. I’malso the one who took care of Karen for twenty years, and I have nothing to show for it except an empty house and a bitter heart.
“Text me your address,” Taylor says.
“What?” I ask stupidly.
“You heard me. Text me your address,” he repeats through the phone.
“Taylor, I?—”
“It wasn’t a request, Knox.”
Holy shit.People don’t talk to me like that. I’m big and disgruntled and somewhat intimidating, and Taylor doesn’t give a single fuck.
And I like it.
God, I must be drunker than I thought because Ilike it alot.
Phoenix’s voice pops into my mind—annoying bastard.It’s nice to let someone else call the shots so you can just go along for the ride.
I rattle off my address, and before I can argue, Taylor says, “See you in a few,” and hangs up the phone, removing any chance I have to talk him out of this.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. I didn’t refill my glass a fourth time, but now I think maybe I should have.
When I come face-to-face with Taylor Landry, I know I’ve made a mistake in letting him come here. His lips are slightly swollen, like he was sucking on them the entire drive over…or someoneelsewas sucking on them recently. The thought instantly pisses me right the hell off.
“I was eating grapefruit,” he says, drawing my eyes back to his.
“What?” I ask, completely confused.
“You’re staring at my lips,” he says in explanation. “They’re puffier than normal because I was eating grapefruit. I have a mild allergy, but it’s my favorite snack.”
I nod, my gaze returning to the luscious pout.
“Invite me in, Knox,” Taylor commands, taking control of this situation.
Unable to find words, I simply move to the side.
He walks into my living room like he owns the place, wearing a navy blue, fish-net sweater with nothing underneath, and black jeans.
“Come here,” he says, bossing me around again.
I’m trying to be mad about it, but instead, I find myself shutting the door and moving toward him. My shoulders are relaxing, and breathing is easier just because he’s here. I hadn’t realized how much energy I was spending on thinking about him, wondering where he was, who he was with.
He’s standing between my ottoman and the couch, and I stop just short of him, wondering what happens next, when he wraps his arms around my neck in an embrace. He pushes up on his toes so he can reach better and settles against me. As he speaks, his breath coasts along my neck, raising the hair on my arms.
“Don’t overthink it. Just feel,” he says, hugging me tighter. “You’re allowed to miss what you had. Mourn it, even.”
Blaming the alcohol and not wanting to be rude—since he made the drive over here and all—I wrap my arms around his torso, pulling him to me as if I were trying to climb into his skin. Closing my eyes, I breathe him in. With the alcohol lowering my inhibitions, removing my excuses, and annihilating my rational mind, I forget about his age, his gender, and the temporary solution this hug is to my growing emotional black hole.
