PAST: SIX MONTHS EARLIER
The thingabout this stage of a relationship is the newness hasn’t worn off but the warmth of familiarity is starting to set in. I still get chills when I see Charlie’s name pop up on my screen, but I know he prefers water with dinner and a small whisky after.
He teases me about my careless placement of dropping silverware in the wrong slot in the drawer. I joke with him about believing that popping frozen enchiladas into the oven is “home cooking”. Over the last six months, we’ve built a rhythm of banter, tenderness, and respect between us.
Another plus is Charlie hasn’t raised any emotional red flags, which is a lot more than I can say for some of my past relationships.
For now, it’s enough.
Hootie and the Blowfish’s remake of Buffalo Springfield is playing through my Bluetooth speaker when he appears behind me. One of his enormous hands curves around my hip. He spins me around before tugging me into his arms. I drop the Clorox wipe I was using as he shuffles me across the floor and into the connected living room. His body pressed against mine exudes warmth but without pressure.
Just like us, it’s easy.
He murmurs, “The counter’s sparkling. You’re done.”
I snicker, but melt when he presses a kiss to the side of my neck. A small moan escapes. Charlie must hear it because he tightens his grip on me even as his lips press against the edge of my jaw.
“Is this good?” He checks in. One of his hands grips my chin, tilting my face up to gaze into my eyes. .
I love how he does this—makes certain I’m in the same place he is before taking any liberties. Sliding my fingers up the softness of his beard, I whisper, “Perfect.”
His lips lower to mine then—carefully. I tilt my head so we can fit even more perfectly against one another. I savor the way his lips slide over mine with authority. Then, when his tongue slips between my lips, the current that surges through me leaves me aching for more of him.
More of this.
I lean into him and surrender to this kiss. My hands slide down his neck to grasp his shirt for purchase. Once I have a hold, I yank him closer.
Charlie deepens the kiss, pushing me up against the back of my sofa. The growl that rumbles up from his chest sends a chill down my spine.
The heat between us isn’t new, but the ache is growing with each passing day. Every time we touch, my thoughts turn to mush while my senses sharpen to the point of agony.
It’s becoming harder and harder to not drag him off to my bed.
We’re both gasping for breath when we break apart. I’m certain I’d be a puddle on the floor if it wasn’t for the steadiness of his hands holding me upright. He murmurs my name in a deep sexy voice that twists my insides, “Rhoswen.”
“Hmm?” My lips brush over the smooth skin above his beard seeking more of what I just had.
Like a bucket of ice water being tossed on me, he whispers the words no woman wants to hear at this moment in time. “I think we need to talk.”
Every inch of my body freezes. There’s no way Charlie doesn’t notice. For a second, he clutches me against him before his hands fall away from me. Taking a step back, the loss of his warmth causes a different kind of chill. It’s the kind caused by wariness because that sentence coming out of someone you care about’s mouth?
Never good news.
I ease back so I can perch on the arm of the sofa. As I do, I search his face for a clue as to what’s coming. He doesn’t look angry orirritated, which is good. But a certain guard has shuttered down over his blue eyes. He’s bracing himself.
But for what? The thought of having had this time with Charlie and knowing it might disappear causes a knot in my stomach, but I don’t allow any of that to leak into my voice. “About what?”
He scrubs both of his hands over his face, as he moves around to the front of the sofa. Deciding I might as well be comfortable for this conversation, I slide off the arm and into the seat. Tucking my legs beneath me, I watch as he paces back and forth as he releases some of his agitation. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he meet my eyes—both of which are their own warning.
His first words certainly don’t help. “I’ve been avoiding this conversation. That’s on me.”
My heart sinks to my stomach like a lead balloon. “Avoiding what?”
He stops pacing and drags the tufted ottoman I use as a coffee table closer to where I’m sitting so he can reach out and clasp my hands. “Us. Well, not us but me.”
“Why?”
“Because my past may make you…uncomfortable.”
