All of You, page 8
Ten minutes later, and not soon enough, Britney is inside the limo as it drives away from the house. I’m glad to see the last of her.
He sighs, leading the way toward the trail into the woods.
“Are you okay?” I lengthen my strides to catch up.
“Yeah.”
“Do you feel bad for sending her back to New York?”
I'm sensing he does and while I don't fully understand his relationship with her, I want to, even if it’ll hurt. He said she’s like a sister to him. He cares, and while I get that on some level, what nags at me is Britney isn’t his sister.
And her little dig before she left tells me she’s protective of Matt but not in a sisterly way. She sees him as hers and possibly may want more than just friendship.
“Kind of. She needs to work things out with the father. Coming up here when she wasn’t supposed to…” He rakes his good hand through his hair.
“What? She didn’t come up here with you?”
“No. Kai, the father of her baby, broke up with her when he heard the news and she jumped on a plane to me.”
Sympathy pangs in my chest. No matter what my feelings are toward Britney, it would be horrible to be rejected by the man who fathered your child. And what’s interesting is Matt is accepting of her seeking him out. He is the person Britney always turns to, or at least from the little I’ve seen.
Is Matt the one she’s always wanted? On some level, he must be okay with it. He certainly enables it. And it can’t all be because of his sister Savannah.
“Running away isn’t the way to handle things.” He’s talking about Britney, but I can’t help but take his words to heart, apply them to my situation. Isn’t that what I’m doing?
“She’s going to be a mother. She needs to grow up.” He rolls his shoulders, looking around at the trees and snow. “Claire, it’s a mess, but as much as I could use a sounding board, it isn’t my place to share her business.”
“No. No, I get it. You care about her though. This is hard for you.”
“It's hard but not in the way you think. If she wants the baby, I'm happy for her. And Kai, if he decides to take responsibility for his actions, I think he’d be a good father.” He kicks at a small clump of snow on the path. “I’m just frustrated at this whole mess. And also at my sister and the inevitable discussion we need to have.”
It amazes me how readily he’s assumed responsibility for Britney’s dilemma and more so, how much sway his sister has over him. It’s plain to see he loves them both, and now more than ever, I want to meet Savannah. The child prodigy who has her older brother wrapped around her finger. So much so, look at what he’s done for Britney. I wonder how far he’s willing to go.
Could his loyalty and caring for Britney be all about his promise to his sister? A big part of me wants to believe that’s the case, but it doesn’t seem possible. Matt could be Britney’s person because that’s what he wants, even if he isn’t willing to admit it. Not out of some kind of sibling obligation.
“I hate to say it, but I’ve been Britney’s keeper for most of her life. I kind of fell into it by proximity. Same age, same school and classes. I accepted the position. That isn’t my role, but we've got this dynamic going now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’re so used to playing these parts. Maybe even comfortable in a strange kind of way. We know what’s expected. Britney needs help and I step in and help.” He frowns, stretching his neck from side to side. “And now with a baby coming she's going to need someone. I'd like to think that's going to be Kai, but only time will tell. Right now, it’s not looking so good.”
There’s a long tense beat and I hold my breath, unsure where he’s going with this. Is this some kind of major revelation for him? Is he considering stepping into the role of father? Is he second-guessing his decision to send Britney away?
“I’m not the father, nor do I want to be.” His expression is pained. “But I can’t leave her alone.”
“No, I get it.” I bite at the inside of my cheek, not sure what else to say. All of what he’s saying are reasons why I like him so much.
He hasn’t said it outright, but it sounds like he’s considering raising the baby as his if Kai bails. Would he take care of Britney and the child both financially and emotionally? Marry her?
He’s loyal, dependable, and always willing to do the right thing. But…but in this case, the right thing means Britney gets him.
Ugh, what am I doing? Matt isn’t mine.
At the same time, acid burns hot in the pit of my stomach. Despite how impossible things are, I can’t stop wishing for a chance with Matt.
The two of us are here, finally alone.
“Enough about me.” He stops to look at me. “I've been meaning to ask…but first things first, can I hold your hand?”
A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth and no amount of internal chiding to keep it together and act my age could stop it.
Matt wears his own smile and the way he’s looking at me—like he wants to eat me—well, butterflies become a thing. Truly. My insides are suddenly aflutter, and every nerve in my body sparks in anticipation.
And I don’t know what to do with any of it. How my body reacts to this beautiful man or the way he’s staring at me.
The reckless part of me, a small part that’s locked away, wants to run back to the cottage, invite him to sit down at the table, and get his fill of me. I’d willingly be his feast.
My cheeks heat just imagining all the sexual, hopefully pleasurable things I’ve only ever dreamed about. And only ever with Matt in the leading role.
“So, can I?”
At first, I scrunch up my nose, completely unaware of what he’s referring to, our conversation forgotten to my naughty mind. But when he sticks out his hand, it all comes back to me.
“That’s what you wanted to ask me?” I squint up at him.
“No, but I’d like to hold your hand while we walk. Is that okay?”
I give up all pretense of being calm and collected, eagerly sliding my hand in his and marveling at how small my hand looks in his giant mitt. These strong, assured hands toss a pigskin ball for millions.
He smiles down on me, and it’s as if the sun has come out all for me and then he’s casually pulling me along. I stumble, still stunned we’re joined, but I don't pull away or second-guess anything. I like my hand in his.
“How are you doing?” He glances at me. “Have you come to any earth-shattering conclusions on what you’re going to do?”
If only I had an answer for him. I don’t. I’m no closer to solving my dilemma.
11
Matt
“So, turnabout is fair play.” I pull out a dining room chair for her.
“Thanks.” She places the napkin on her lap. “What are you talking about?”
After our walk, where we talked a little about the choices she had regarding her career, we came back to the cottage to make dinner.
While we prepped the homemade burgers and fries, I wanted to tell her about my own career decision looming over me. Our worlds are different, as are our careers, but we’re faced with a similar problem.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me. I promised to tell you why I came up to the cottage. Don’t you want to know?”
“That’s right, you did, and yes, I do. I thought it was obvious.”
I chuckle. “No. You’re subtle. I’m impressed, but it’s only fair I tell you.”
“So you aren’t here on vacation?”
“Yes and no. This was a chance to get away from it all, but I also have a decision to make. I played a good season with the Fury but not my best. We didn’t make it to the playoffs, and there are rumors I might be traded.”
“Oh, no.”
“It’s all part of the job. I have a meeting at the end of the month where I must tell the team managers if I’m staying on and possibly get traded—which could be good or not—or I retire.”
“Retire?” She rests the burger back on her plate. “What? You mean give up football altogether?”
“Uh-huh.” My mouth is full, and I nod, swallowing before continuing. “Like you, this past season I’ve lost the magic, the rush I used to get from being on the field, holding the ball, smelling the grass.” I look down at the food, and the loss spreads to my appetite. “I’m not getting any younger. If I’m lucky, I only have a few more years in me.”
“But you’re only twenty-eight.”
“Yeah, but in football, the average player typically only gets a few years, and they’re lucky if an injury doesn’t take them out sooner. I’ve had a good run.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do?”
“Nope. I keep going back and forth.”
She places her hand over mine and our eyes meet. “Not too long ago someone very wise told me that it’s your choice and no matter what you choose, it’ll be all right. If football is no longer for you, that’s okay.”
I chuckle at my words being played back to me. “True. I was thinking since we have similar problems, we could make a deal.”
“A deal?” She cocks her head to one side.
“Why don't we help each other out?”
“How so?”
“I’m not suggesting we have the answers but like we were today, we could be there for each other. You know. Talk through our options with each other.”
“I'd like that. Today did help if only to make it easier to talk about what happened.”
“Good. It’s settled then.”
After dinner when everything’s cleaned up, Claire slips into the pantry, scanning the shelves.
“What are you doing?” My forearm rests against the doorframe, leaning into the small space.
Her scent, something nostalgic, sweet, and fresh like pastries or baked goods, cloaks every corner of the tiny room. A room where its contents, boxed and canned goods, should be the most obvious smells. But it’s all Claire. I want to hole up in here with her and breathe her in.
“I want dessert.” She taps a finger against her delectable mouth, contemplating.
“There’s ice cream, cookies, and I think there’s a few muffins left.” I hope.
She’s such a good baker that I’ve devoured about two-thirds of the muffins in one day, and I shouldn’t have. I’ve got to watch what I eat.
One good thing about being here is I’m working out more than usual. And at the rate I’m eating her food, I’ll need to keep it up to stay in shape.
“Cookies?” She wrinkles her nose. “Those are store-bought. I want to bake cupcakes.”
I nearly choke on my laugh. She never ceases to surprise me.
“Cupcakes? Wow. You weren’t kidding when you said you love to bake. I just don’t know how much more my waistline can take.” My hand pats the slabs of stomach muscle and she giggles.
“Yeah, I can see you have a problem.” Scoffing, she brushes past me, and I forget to breathe. All my concentration is on the warm tingling sensation of her gorgeous curves skimming my hard planes.
“You change your mind on dessert?” My voice cracks, and with my back to her, I will my body, especially the nether region, under control.
“No. I’ve been wanting to make these cupcakes for so long but haven’t had the time.” She pulls eggs from the fridge. “I think we have the ingredients.”
“What are you making?” I bounce on my feet like an impatient kid.
“Do you like Ferrero Rocher?” She grabs the room-temperature butter container on the counter.
“You mean the chocolate balls in the gold wrapper?”
She nods, opening a cupboard and taking out a clear plastic box of those very chocolates. “My absolute favorite.” She places them on the counter. “I assume you aren’t allergic to nuts, given how many of the muffins you already ate.”
“Nope. No allergies.” I reach for them, and she playfully bats my hand away.
“Good. I’m making Ferrero Rocher-stuffed cupcakes.” Her eyes darken to denim, taking on a dreamy quality like she’s under a spell, and my knees weaken. “I’ve been dying to do this.” Now she bounces on her feet and grabs her phone. “Let me find the recipe.”
“I’m game even though I’m more of a cook than a baker.” I rub my hands together, forcing myself not to inch any closer.
She’s beyond tempting.
Her gaze meets mine as if sensing my internal battle, the urge to abandon baking for another kind of dessert. We share a brief, potent stare, and every flutter of her eyelashes is like a tickle inside my chest, as if they are fingers crooking in a come hither gesture, coaxing me to make a move. She glances away for a split second and it’s enough to break our tether.
“I’m at your service. Your sous-baker.” With a flourish, I extend my hand and bend one leg while sliding the other back into what I hope looks like a bow.
“I don’t think that’s a thing.” She presses her lips together to stop a smile or maybe a giggle. “It’s either sous chef or assistant pastry chef.”
Claire and her random facts. Of course she’d know the right word. I love it and belt out a laugh. It’s a little too loud and a little too much, but it’s like soda spilling over the side of a just shaken can. I have to release my pent-up desire somehow or I’ll combust.
“Noted. I’m your assistant, or call me whatever you want.” I lower my voice to a raspy whisper. “I’m here for you. No matter your heart’s desire.”
She flushes all over at the last of my words, and I swear I feel the blaze ignited within her from where I stand.
“Okay.” She averts her gaze, now staring at her phone. “Let’s see if we have what we need.”
“Hit me. I’ll check.” I march to the pantry, and she reels off ingredients.
I present each item to her like Vanna White before lining them up on the counter. We have everything, and like before, we talk, laugh, and work well together making the cupcakes.
While they’re in the oven, we make the icing, and when they’re done, Claire places them on a wire rack to cool. A dozen dark chocolate cupcakes line the counter, and I lick my lips, eager to taste.
“Do you want a beer while we wait?” I open a can and hand it to her. “We could play cards.”
“I don’t, uh…” She hesitates in taking the beer. “Okay.”
“What do you feel like playing?” I grab the deck of cards from the shelf. “Texas Hold’em? Gin Rummy? Five card draw?”
She sits, watching me shuffle. “Five card draw.”
“Excellent. What should we play for?”
“Before you say strip poker, what about these?” She holds up the remaining golden foil wrapped chocolates.”
“Aren’t we going to get our fill of those with the cupcakes? I like the idea of strip poker better.” I’m teasing, kind of.
Claire’s in a thick, cream cable knit sweater, jeans, and heavy woolen socks. I’m not sure what she has on underneath, but it could be a while before we get to any skin. Strip poker seems tame enough and a whole lot of fun.
“Good point. Then these.” She brings a bag of pretzels to the kitchen table, doling out the dark, salty twists like poker chips. Once done, she takes a sip of her beverage. “Ooh, this is good.”
“You like?”
“Yes. I don’t really drink and beer isn’t what I’d normally go for, but I like this.”
“Cool. It’s my fave IPA.”
“What exactly is an India Pale Ale?” She studies the can in earnest, and I can’t tell if she’s truly interested. But this is Claire after all. I’ve quickly gathered she loves to learn.
While we play, I talk about IPAs, wheat and Belgian style beers, and she asks good questions but declines another beer—still nursing her first—when I open a new one for me.
“Damn, woman, you’re a card shark.” She rakes in the pretzels, and I marvel at how she is kicking my ass.
“I have two brothers. They’re useful, sometimes.”
“Something tells me you’re a quick study and just this good on your own.”
Her smile is cute and implies I’m onto something. I chuckle and hand her the cards.
She starts to shuffle, looking at me. “So tell me about ales and lagers.”
“You really want to know?”
Bobbing her pretty blonde head, she deals the cards, waiting for me to explain. I forge into the world of ales when my phone rings beside me on the table. Britney’s picture fills the screen.
Mid-deal, she stops doling out the cards as if the game is over. “You can get that.”
I hit ignore. “Nope. Don’t want to.”
As if Britney knows now is a bad time, the calls keep coming. I let them all go to voicemail, but Claire isn’t able to hide her growing discomfort. Fortunately, the stove timer dings and the cupcakes are ready to be frosted.
She sways when she stands and I’m quick to grab her arm. “Are you drunk?” It’s meant as a joke but she might be.
“Maybe.”
“Wow. You’re a little thing, but one beer?”
“Hey, I don’t drink.” She isn’t quite slurring but her words come out slower than usual.
Standing next to her in the kitchen, I watch her work. Everything about her is mesmerizing. The curve of her shoulder, the elegant arc of her neck, and the lean muscles and tendons flexing as she moves and draws in air. She steals my breath.
Meticulously, she pipes the velvety milk chocolate swirls onto the top of the twelve chocolate cupcakes. With every squeeze, the pink tip of her tongue darts out of the corner of her mouth.
It’s the cutest thing and also simply the most erotic thing I’ve seen in a long time. Her lips and tongue, mixing with the rich aromas of chocolate and hazelnut, cause my stomach to growl. The anticipation of tasting her—no, the cupcakes—is overwhelming.
“There. All done.” She stands, brushing hair from her neck, and in the wake of her hand, she leaves a smudge of chocolate icing on her skin.
“You…” I point, grappling for words that won’t form. I’m only able to process one thought. Taste her.
“What?”
“You have…” I point again but this time, I lean in, bending and licking at her sinfully sweet skin. Pure Heaven.
