And yet, it felt good. Way too good. He was still soundly asleep, and though the clock above the TV said I needed to get up, I took advantage of the moment. I studied him. I used to know every inch of his skin. Eleven years ago. Eleven years older and wiser. Eleven years more battle worn.
Eleven years stronger. Eleven years, and he was back. The sweet Cupid’s bow over his thinner upper lip. Half a day’s stubble. Rain-ruined tousled hair that, of course, just worked for him. Soft puffs of air from his nose, the end of which I used to love to boop or press like a button when he was being stupid.
“Violet, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a crush on me.”
I jumped and his sleepy chuckle stirred up delicious things inside me. I slapped his chest and shifted to get up. “Open your eyes, you psycho.”
His arms tightened around me to keep me down. “Maybe you should close yours and go back to sleep.”
“I have to go to work,” I squealed.
The more I resisted, the tighter his hold. “Work, schmerk. Stay here.”
I threw my leg over his hip to try and win our wrestling match, but he used it as an opportunity to trap me, eyes fully open now. His knees were on the inside of mine, his calves holding my shins down. Each of his hands pinned my wrists to the couch cushion below me.
“Hey.” The word was gruff but sweet. His eyes flicked between mine and to my lips. And that’s when I felt It. Him. All however many inches of him. After all this time.
It could feel so good. Giving in. Letting his lips drop to my neck, down my chest. Lower still, his mouth languid, tonguefervent. Those hands, the hands that knew just how to touch me.
My breath hitched and I could swear his pupils dilated. Could he feel it? My nipples hardening against his chest?
“I need to get ready for work.”
That seemed to snap him out of it. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
He climbed to his hands and knees and scooted back to the corner of the couch. Then he offered a hand to help me up, but all I could see was It, just staring back at me. He winced and looked at his lap. “You know how it goes. Ignore him. I didn’t mean to.”
“Yep. Um, help yourself to whatever food. I’ll just take the late bus.” I shuffled off down the hallway. Just before I closed my bedroom door, he spoke.
“Like I’m not driving you.”
I satin Colt’s passenger seat all prim and proper, my work bag in my lap and my hands folded on top of it. I held an apple in my hand, my intended breakfast. Which, of course, he had grumbled about.Need to eat moreandtake care of yourselfandyou’re going to make methreats.
Nothing I hadn’t heard from him before. We approached the door to my work building. “‘Kay. Thanks for the ride. And everything. All the things.”
Colton’s mouth was very busy: chewing his lip, licking it, clicking his tongue, sucking his teeth. “Last night was tough. We did some hard stuff. Everything’s been so intense the last few times we’ve seen each other. Maybe we should just . . . go out? Have fun together? Do date stuff like normal people who aren’t wounded or traumatized?”
I chuckled. “I don’t know anyone like that. Who is living trauma-free out there? I want names.”
“So you can traumatize them?” Colt laughed.
I shrugged. “Gotta even the scales somehow.”
There was a pause, and Colt’s voice was quiet. “What do you say? Go out with me? Get to know me not on vacation or in emergency mode?”
My eyes scanned his dashboard. Of course I wanted him. I wanted to stay on that couch and let him have his way with me. I wanted to be the kind of person who could comfortably let him have his way with me. I wanted to be the freak he deserved, the person worth waiting for. I wanted to know I wouldn’t run at the slightest scare.
But was I really that person for him? Was I ready to be that person? Since the answer wasn’t an immediate yes, it had to be no.
I cleared my throat. “I want to hang out, like these alleged normal people do. I just think with everything I’m working through right now, I need a good friend.”
He coughed and his voice came out low and even, like a newscaster. “Yeah. Totally. A friend date. That’s what I meant. A hangout. Ya know. Dinner and beers and just like stuff I’d do with the guys.”
I don’t know if it’s medically possible, but I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating at that moment. Did I want to be one of the guys? No. Would I have to be one of the guys until I was sure I wouldn’t ruin his life and be the source of his downfall? Yes. So a friend date it would be. “Right. Yeah. A friend date. Just, uh, send me some times you’re free.”
“Yep. And, oh yeah, a rookie named Owen is going to contact you and bring you your car keys. Or, uh, I think his real name is Garner, but we already have an Austin Garner, so he’s Owen.”
I bugged my eyes at him. Hockey names only ever made 30% of sense at best.
