8. Eight
Eight
Noah
M y grip tightens on the sweater in my hand as we trek across the parking lot to wherever Lennon parked, and I can’t help but be embarrassed about the entire situation.
There’s a small patch of dried blood painted on the sleeve of my sweater, making me grateful for the black t-shirt I had been wearing beneath it. My fingers trace over the bandage on my arm–the bite now stinging as the cool air pebbles my skin.
I can’t believe a bat fucking bit me.
I had to get a rabies shot at the ER.
And I’ll have to go in for more than just one shot in the coming days.
Lennon folds her arms across her chest to fight off the cold, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. For what it’s worth, after she animatedly rehashed the entire story to the doctor, Lennon was also required to get a rabies shot–just in case.
She didn’t seem upset about my admission to flirting with the nurse, either. I’ll confess I feel bad for the woman. I’d laid the charm on pretty thick prior to Lennon’s arrival, and I was certain the nurse was into it. Unfortunately, our budding romance–or whatever the fuck you’d call it–was thwarted by the arrival of my wife .
I’ve never appeared more sleazy.
Casual hook-ups and blatant unfaithfulness are two very separate things. The former, I’ve grown quite accustomed to, but the latter makes bile rise in my throat.
I check my watch, noting that my entire morning has slipped by, and we are now firmly sitting in the late afternoon. I’ve wasted my entire day off in her presence, but framing it as a waste seems inaccurate.
I’d spent months trying to get close to Lennon to apologize, but now that I’m here, I’ve realized she’s not so difficult to understand. Lennon’s not some pompous classic novel riddled with complex figurative language–meanings so convoluted any literary scholar who claims to understand the author’s intent is just inventing shit. She resembles reading for pleasure–getting lost in a story so thoroughly you forget how much time has gone by. Still complex but far more enjoyable.
She reminds me of all the reasons I chose my profession to begin with–the fun parts.
“Your chimney’s still not fixed,” I say to break the silence.
When I glance sidelong at her, I notice the way she pulls part of her lip in her mouth–biting gently. Her brows lowered in contemplation as Lennon refuses to look at me.
Fuck, I wish she’d look at me the way she had earlier when we were laughing in the ER about her grotesque reenactment of what might have been the closest I’ve ever come to becoming a superhero.
I’d always preferred Spiderman, but Batman happens to be a close second.
“I’m not worried,” she says, wrapping her arms tighter around herself.
I glance at my sweater and wince, holding it up to make my point. “I’d give you this, but I’m afraid there’s still some dried blood on the sleeve.”
Lennon laughs as if I’ve said something ridiculous. “I don’t need your damn sweater, Noah.”
She unfolds her arms, still focused on her steps and whatever’s ahead. “I’ll hire a professional for the chimney,” she says. “I’m not worried about that . However, I hate shots, and I will be sleeping in a house with bats until it’s fixed.”
One corner of my mouth turns up. “Suits your personality.”
“Shut up,” she says, but there’s no malice in her tone. She looks at me, a smile cracking across her face, and I’m thankful we’ve returned to the casual banter. God, she looks good like this.
“You could–” I pause. It’s a fruitless attempt to stop myself from saying the rest of what I’m inevitably about to say. I know I’m going to regret this later. “I have a couch.”
It’s barely an offer.
Lennon cocks an eyebrow in my direction. “No guest room?”
I shrug, fighting the embarrassment that threatens to call me out. After Alexis, I didn’t see a need for more space–another bedroom. Somehow, Lennon’s question feels deeper–like she could discern too much from my answer.
“Cheaper to buy a one-bedroom house.” I offer. It’s a half-truth.
A smirk dances on her lips as we stand next to her car. “And you’d let me stay over?” she asks.
I turn toward her, raising a brow in challenge. “I don’t see why not.”
That smile still rests on her face. “I can think of plenty of reasons why not.”
I gape at Lennon as she reaches in her back pocket for her buzzing phone. When she glances at the screen, she grimaces. I briefly catch the Dad caller ID before she’s glancing up at me. “I am going to take this,” she states before sliding her finger across the screen and stepping away.
I hear the car door unlock as Lennon places herself on the other side of the SUV parked next to us, but I don’t move to get inside.
“It’s going well.” I hear her say before she chuckles–her tone tight. I lean against the back of the car, pulling my phone out and scrolling through my emails. I might as well use my time wisely–answering students while I wait.
After a moment, Lennon returns, her phone still held to her ear as she nods toward the car and starts climbing inside.
“Yeah,” she says as I open the door to the passenger seat and get in. “There was a bat issue, but it’s being resolved.”
When both doors are closed, Lennon starts the engine, and I can hear what’s being said on the other line. I’m not sure I’m supposed to. “I still think you should give this up, Lennon.” The man’s tone sounds scolding. “You’re being foolish. It’s time to stop chasing the fanciful. Your sister is in a stable relationship with a stable profession–one that speaks of her intelligence. I want the same for you.”
Lennon glances warily in my direction before her grip tightens on her phone as she backs out of the parking spot. Clearing her throat, she appears visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t want to be a doctor, Dad.”
My brow furrows at the shift in her tone. She sounds weak, and if I know anything about Lennon, it’s that she is nothing of the sort. The woman on the phone is not the same woman who demanded I make out with her. It’s not the same woman who called herself my wife just to get into the ER. Everything about her has shifted with one phone call. When I look up from my email inbox, I can see it, too. She’s gone cold–her spark dying like whatever he’s said has completely snuffed out her flame.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“I have to go,” she says.
When she finally hangs up, I don’t say a word. I’m not sure what I should say. I feel as if I’ve intruded on a conversation I wasn’t meant to hear–seen something I wasn’t meant to see.
“Sorry.” Lennon leans forward, turning her blinker on as she changes lanes.
I can’t keep my eyes off her. It’s like I need to take in every subtle shift in her demeanor and take notes on how to fix it. There’s so much I’ve yet to uncover about this woman, but I know for damn sure that whatever is sitting next to me–it isn’t her. I’m used to brash insults, not apologies. “What are you saying sorry for?” I ask.
Lennon keeps her hands fixed to the wheel. “You overheard that. Weird vibes. I was saying sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
When she glances my direction, those green eyes hold my stare for a moment, widening before she looks away. “Okay,” she whispers.
I’ve spent a lot of time with women since Alexis, and not once have I felt this ache in my chest or this pit in my stomach. It’s like I need to do something about whatever the fuck is wrong with her, but unfortunately for me–Lennon only shares what she wants. While she’s forthright with quite a lot, there are layers of vulnerability beneath the surface, and I don’t think asking will get me answers. She has to tell me on her own.
I settle for a change in topic. “Do we need to pick things up from the Inn?”
“What?” she questions.
I adjust my glasses, keeping my tone casual. “You’re staying on my couch, correct?”
Lennon flushes, the subtle shade of pink sending a thrill through my blood.
“I mean,” I continue, cracking a smile. “Unless the bats are your thing–”
“We can pick up a few things.”
The corner of her mouth quirks up, and the banter settles some of that aching feeling. I still want to know why she shut down. What the fuck is wrong with the career she’s chosen to pursue?
Lennon is far from unsuccessful. She’s the same age as Griffin’s girl–meaning she’s still in her twenties. The fact that she's done as much as she has screams success and determination.
The girl bought a fucking bed-and-breakfast.
It’s far beyond what I’ve been able to accomplish in my early thirties. Sure, I bought a house, but it’s about twelve square feet away from qualifying as a tiny home, something my mother hates. She believes I was shortsighted–that I needed space to start a family.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that dream was dead.
I barely have the space to host a girl who is trying to escape the bats in her chimney.
“I’ll have you know,” I start. “There are no strange animals living in my house.”
Lennon laughs, resting her head on the back of the seat. “Odd, considering you live there.”
We stopped at the Inn to grab a few things before I gave Lennon directions to my house.
I usually avoid giving women my address, let alone inviting them to sleep on my couch. If I were going to invite a woman over, I’d probably recommend sleeping in the bed–with me. But even then, it’s rare that I open my space to someone else. I find it blurs the line of what I establish very clearly in my relationships.
Sex. Nothing else.
Lennon could never be that , though. With our ties to Griffin and Ellis, maintaining the appropriate boundaries for a purely physical relationship would be nearly impossible.
Especially when it feels like she’s finally letting me see more of her. I want her in my space, but as I unlock the deadbolt and open the door, my stomach twists.
Lennon walks in before me, looking around as if she’s searching for a flaw. I’m hyper-aware as I realize how impersonal my home is. The bed-and-breakfast may be falling apart, but at least the house has character. My house feels stiff–cold.
I’ve worked hard to create a nice space, but it’s hardly a home, and something about that makes me feel self-conscious.
I close the door behind us with a soft snick .
“Well,” she starts, scanning the warm beige and cream hues found on the walls and the accent pillows.
Well?”
When Lennon turns, the light has returned to her eyes, and I’m thankful. Whatever weird cloud made its home over her head after she spoke with her father freaked me out.
“It’s clean,” she observes.
I raise a brow. “What did you expect?”
She smiles, sharp like a knife, and damn if it doesn’t do something to me. “Well, I wasn’t expecting curtains and accent pillows. A bachelor pad should scream man . I’m guessing you don’t have a headboard.”
“What does that have to do with–”
She’s gone, stomping down the hallway on a mission to find I don’t know what. My secrets? The aforementioned headboard, perhaps?
“Where are you going?” I trail behind her until she practically kicks down the door to my bedroom and lets herself in.
Her head tilts to the side as she takes in the queen-sized bed with my comforter neatly sprawled across the mattress. There’s a second disorganized bookshelf in the corner, the only thing I fail to keep neat and organized.
When she turns around, her body framed by the background of my bed, I can’t help but let my mind wander. I’ve conjured up enough images of Lennon sprawled out on my mattress that it’s difficult to keep them from flashing in my mind with her standing so close.
“You do have a headboard. A bedframe, too. I’m impressed, Mr. English Professor.” She smirks before chewing on her lip, as if she longs to keep the smile from growing too wide.
“She’s impressed.” I lean in, just slightly. “Though I’m afraid your expectations were far too low. You seem surprised I own a bed at all. Where did you think I slept?” I ask. “In a coffin next to my bats, like you?”
Her smile breaks free. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“Why are we standing in my bedroom, Lennon?” I shove my hands in my pockets, leaning back on my heels.
Her nose scrunches up, and she glances away. “Right.” Her cheeks pink–a soft color I’d love to make deepen. “Your bedroom is open to all but me.”
I tilt my head, brows pulling together. “I don’t invite many women into my bedroom.”
She pins me with her stare, her eyes flaming with challenge. “So, I’m good enough to see your bed, but you’re unwilling to kiss me.”
I swallow, the silence stretching between us–thick and heavy. When my smile drops from my face, my gaze flicks to her pink lips–full and gently parted.
I step forward, noting the way she sucks in a breath. “I’m surprised,” I admit. Her green eyes remain unwavering, and I suddenly want to rise to whatever challenge she’s throwing my way. Does she still want me to kiss her?
Would it be so bad if the lines blurred a little?
The faint scent of mint surrounds me, her breath hot and close–so close. “I didn’t think you’d be one to beg.”
Lennon lifts her chin, my eyes dropping to her mouth just briefly. “I would never beg,” she asserts.
A corner of my mouth turns up, my resolve pleasantly absent. I want her. I want her honesty, her barbs, her laugh.
Fuck.
“So, you’re not begging?” I question, my fingers finding the smooth skin of her wrist, gently encircling it on instinct. The desire to pull her closer consumes me. “What would you call this, then?”
Finally, her eyes drop for a moment, the longing driving me to the brink of insanity. “Kiss me,” she says.
All the blood rushes to my cock at her words.
She still wants this, and I’m too far gone to consider the consequences.
“Not begging?” I question, my voice low.
Her lips brush mine–just briefly. “I’m not,” she whispers. “I’m demanding.”
I make a decision–a fucking stupid one, but I’ll worry about that part later.
I kiss her. She stiffens at first, giving me a moment to second-guess everything before she finally melts into me, soft lips pressing to mine as she fists her hands in my shirt and tugs me forward. I tangle my hands in her hair in response, desperate to pull her closer.
Drunk on her sharp inhale and the way she presses into me, I trace her bottom lip with my tongue. She tastes like cinnamon and apples–like the autumn outside. I’m not sure I know what I’m doing at this point. Making out with Lennon shouldn’t be complicated–it’s not as if she were offering me a relationship, and she knows my history better than most women I’ve hooked up with. So why, oh why, does it feel so fucking different when her lips part and her tongue meets mine?
My hand tightens in her hair, pulling gently before I walk her back until she’s against the wall. The grind of her hips, the contact. It pulls a groan from deep in my chest.
I’m all too aware of how fucking hard I am, and suddenly aware of how reckless this is.
Our lives are too entangled. There’s no getting out with Lennon. No way to escape her if things become too much–if someone starts feeling something.
I move my hand, slowly gliding it until it rests gently around her throat. I run my thumb over her soft skin there and note the rapid pulse beneath my fingers before grinding myself against her, chasing friction as she groans into my mouth.
Swallowing the sound, I do it again–getting the same result, and suddenly, I’m high on it.
It’s not enough. Kissing her isn’t enough.
I’m greedy for her. I want her soft panting in my ear. I want Lennon to chant my name. There’s so much about her I want–too much. The way she unabashedly says what’s on her mind, her sense of humor, the banter–all of it. I could drown in this woman.
Fuck.
What am I doing?
I break the kiss, pulling back and noting the heat in her gaze. It’s enough to make my knees weak and solidify the fact that this was a terrible fucking idea.
Lennon isn’t Charlie, or Julia. She’s not like any of the women I’ve slept with, and that makes this far too dangerous.
I’ve bent so many rules with her already. Mutual friends, fixing her house, inviting her to mine.
This can’t happen again–it won’t.
One corner of my mouth turns up in an expression so opposite of everything I’m feeling, it seems like I’m lying to her face.
“There,” I say. “You wanted to make out. You got what you asked for.” I step back, trying to fight off the bile rising in my throat–the uncomfortable feelings raging in my gut. “That was that. We won’t be doing it again.”
I step back, hoping like hell she doesn’t look down to where my cock strains in my pants. I roll my tongue along my teeth before clearing my throat. “Make yourself at home.”
And then I leave her there.