“Thanks again . . . for the video,” Brooks says, breaking what’s becoming a weighted silence. I don’t think I’m alone in feeling . . .something.
I roll my head along the head rest of the wooden rocker I’ve claimed as my own. Brooks seems content on the porch swing, though I’m not entirely sure about those bolts holding the chains to the beam.
“Of course,” I say, taking a small sip from my wine glass and holding his gaze. Wine nights on the porch were a common thing when my sister lived nearby. Now that she’s gone, I haven’t cracked open a bottle in ages. I don’t think I can handle much more than this glass, so I’m taking it slow.
Brooks has barely touched his. I think he obstains from things like alcohol because of his family history. I probably shouldn’t have offered him the glass, but I was craving the comfort of sitting outdoors with someone I care about and waxing poetic about life. Of course, life is the last thing I should talk to him about. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to, though.
“You called me Linds,” I say, the two sips I’ve had making me braver than I should be.
His brow pinches.
“Earlier, at the ballpark. When I showed you the video and you thanked me. You called me Linds.”
His gaze drifts to the side as his mouth pulls in on one side.
“Yeah, I guess I did.” His focus returns to me. “Should I not have?”
I shake my head slowly, then realize the mixed message that sends, so I start nodding. I abruptly stop when I realize that response feels wrong, too, and we laugh softly. The crickets pause their chirping, which fuels my smile to stretch bigger before I verbalize my honest response.
“What I mean is, it’s fine. I liked it.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes in reaction to my words, and a lump forms instantly in my throat. I swallow, suddenly aware of the vibrato in my own breath. I think I’m shaking.
“I wish I had met you earlier in life,” I confess.
He takes a deep breath, shifting in the swing so he’s slightly turned to his side and facing me. I haven’t stopped rocking since I sat in this chair, and I’ve picked up speed in the last ten seconds. His gaze lingers, his lips on the cusp of a smile, the curve so faint it makes my tummy feel uneasy in the most exciting way.
“Maybe we were supposed to meet now,” he finally says.
He slides to the end of the swing seat, moving his feet to the ground so he can lean toward my chair. His palm rests on the ornamental finial on the end of the armrest, and his forearm flexes as he forces my rocking to a stop. I want to look away from him, but I can’t seem to.
“I can’t,” I croak, shaking my head. “Wecan’t. Not now. It could only have worked in the before, when I could have been reckless.”
I’m definitely quivering, and I’m certain Brooks can tell. Maybe it’s the wine making me emotional, or perhaps my ex still makes me feel small. His words, which he passed through our sons like a toxic game of telephone, still sting. I can’t seem to shed my worry that he’s going to eventually take me to court. That he's going to throw my new living arrangement in my face—I didn’t exactly run it by him before doing it. I worry my boys won’t be with me—that they won’t want to.
My throat closes up from my internal emotional assault, so I excuse myself before I start to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I say, clutching my wine glass and heading inside, away from temptation. When I don’t hear the door close behind me right away, I know he’s followed me. And when I stop in front of the kitchen sink to pour the remnants of my wineglass down the drain, I’m not surprised when I feel the warmth of his body close in on me from behind.
“I’m here now, Lindsey,” he says, sweeping my hair over one shoulder before dropping a soft kiss on the nape of my neck. “I’m here, and I want you. I want to make you feel like the beautiful woman you are. To give you all the pleasure you’ve been denied. Even if it’s just for tonight. We can go back to the rules tomorrow. Tonight, maybe we deserve to break them.”
My knees literally get weak, and I cling to the edge of the sink while Brooks’s lips graze my shoulder, pausing to kiss my skin while his hands snake around my waist and clutch my hips.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, and I know he doesn’t mean it. He has to know I won’t.
I spin so I’m facing him, and run my palms up the center of his chest. His body is so warm, and his pectorals are hard from the disciplined work he puts in. My fingers trail higher, along his neck and into his messy hair that’s still damp from his post-game shower.
“I’m not this girl,” I say, ignoring my better judgement and letting my eyes rake over his squared jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the fit of his white T-shirt.
“What kind of girl,” he asks, moving his hands to the sides of my bare midriff, his thumbs teasing my bare skin before playfully hooking the belt loops on my jeans.
My gaze makes its way to his, and the blue in his eyes is as clear as spring water ice. It nearly renders me speechless.
"The kind of girl who chases hot ballplayers and tries to landthe big one,” I say in a soft tone.
He inches closer, and my arms fold against his chest, my hands gripping fistfuls of his T-shirt as I lift my chin to maintain eye contact.
“I’m not the big one, so you’re fine.” He closes his eyes and kisses my brow. My cheekbone. My jawline. He hovers over mymouth for a few delicious seconds, \a whispered laugh leaving his lips when I finally let out a breathy cry.
