Chapter 48
EVERETT
Ishould hate this.
Everything about it should make me anxious and uncomfortable and want to run away.
But as I stand at the counter, waiting for the world’s slowest cashier to put everything through the register, all I can think about is getting back to Bea.
To make her the best hot chocolate I can and spend more time with her.
Hell, there are plenty of other things I really want to do with her as well, but until we’ve talked, I’ll settle for just hanging out. Only just, though.
The memory of her sitting on my counter is burned into my mind. The way her long, bare legs swung over the edge, her pretty pink toes, or at least, nine of them. One was looking a little worse for wear.
She’s unbelievably tempting, and she has no idea.
Listening to her talk about not standing up to the women of my past…I’m not sure I’ve ever heard such bullshit. She’s…fuck, she’s all of them rolled into one and then some.
She’s unapologetically her. She doesn’t care who I am or what I do, and it’s the most incredible experience.
With Bea, I’m just me. She isn’t focused on what a life connected to me can give her.
She just…she wants to know me, and that hasn’t happened since…
well, honestly, I have no idea the last time that happened outside of my teammates.
Listening to her opening up about her parents earlier, all I wanted to do was hold her and spill all my own secrets.
I trust her in a way I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone, and that’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
Finally, the half-asleep guy passes me my bag of groceries, and I hightail it out of there. I’ve got a hot-as-hell, half-dressed woman on my couch waiting for hot chocolate and a pastry.
The second I march into the apartment, her eyes are on me, or more so, the box in my hand.
“You went to a bakery?” She balks when I lower the box full of pastries to the coffee table in front of her.
“You wanted a pastry,” I reason.
“Only if they had some. I didn’t expect y-you t-to g-g-go—”
“Oh shit, no. Not again,” I say, staring at her with wide eyes as her tears freefall.
“I can’t help it,” she wails, angrily wiping at her cheeks.
A smile finds its way onto my lips as I watch her huff in frustration.
“Did you remember the sprinkles?”
I chuckle. “Enjoy your pastry,” I say before spinning on my heels and marching toward the kitchen.
Right. Hot chocolate. I’ve got this.
I might have been living by myself for quite some time now, but I’d be lying if I said I was any good at anything in the kitchen other than the coffee machine.
After placing everything on the counter, I pick up the chocolate powder and turn it to find the instructions.
It’s ridiculous. In a few months’ time, I’m going to be allowed to take control of a newborn baby, and here I am unable to make something as simple as a hot chocolate.
Bea really should reconsider wanting me in our kid’s life. I don’t have anything to offer a baby. I spend my days trying to stop a bit of rubber from going into a net by whatever means necessary. I barely have any redeeming qualities, and any passable ones are overshadowed by my anger issues.
I don’t…I shouldn’t be a father.
Lowering the container, I press my palms to the cool countertop and hang my head, trying to get ahold of my racing thoughts.
I don’t know how long I stand there frozen, drowning in my failures, but I practically jump out of my own skin when a hand presses against my back, and Bea peers around me to see what’s going on.
“Is everything okay?” she asks softly, looking at everything on the counter and then up to my face. I have no idea what she might be able to read in my expression, and to be honest, I’d rather not know.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing the emotion from my throat. “Go and sit down, I’ll bring this over in a bit.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat before she looks back down.
“Oh, you managed to get my favorite,” she praises, snatching up the chocolate powder.
“I love this one because it goes in warm milk and it’s so much creamier than the ones that need water.
” She looks around my kitchen at the very sparse selection of equipment I have.
If she had any questions about my culinary skills, then I think they’ve just been answered.
“We just need one of these,” she says, grabbing a small pan and taking it over to the stove.
“Milk,” she demands, and without conscious thought, I pull open the fridge and grab it for her.
“Do you want one?” she asks before looking up.
“I thought I was meant to be making this for you.”
She smiles up at me, so calm and patient. “We can do it together.”
My throat gets all thick again, and I try and fail to swallow it away.
“I’ll have one too,” I agree, roughly.
“Okay, then I need two mugs.”
I stand there uselessly as she pours milk into one of the mugs and then decants that into the pan. It takes me longer than it should to realize she’s measuring two portions.
“I’m gonna go and get changed,” I tell her, but before I can move, she spins around and looks at me. I swear my heart skips a beat. She’s got the most incredible smile, and the way her eyes twinkle under the bright spotlight above us—
“Open your mouth,” she suddenly demands.
“Wha—” My question is cut off when she sprays whipped cream into my mouth.
Laughter peals out of her as I gawp, taking a moment to understand what just happened.
I look from her eyes to her mouth, and then down to her hand, where the offending can of whipped cream hangs.
“You did not just squirt that in my mouth.”
She continues giggling.
“Oh, you’re going down.”
I launch myself at her. She tries to run, but she doesn’t stand a chance against me. In only seconds, I wrap my arm around her waist, pinning her back against my chest.
“Everett, no,” she cries through her laughter.
She attempts to hold the can out of my reach, but my arms are substantially longer than hers, and I snatch it free with no effort.
“No, no,” she squeals, wriggling against me.
Goddamn, it feels good.
I hold her tighter as I bring the nozzle toward her mouth.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart,” I warn before I press the button.
Cream squirts out, filling her mouth and covering her lips.
I release her, allowing her to spin to face me.
One look at her state, and I bark out a laugh.
“Ah, you’ve got a bit of…” I point at my mouth to show her what I mean as her tongue sneaks out and licks away some of the cream.
She takes a step forward, her head tipped back so her eyes can hold mine.
Desire pumps red hot through my veins as her tongue sneaks out again.
My fingers itch to reach out and pull her back into me so I can taste that sweetness on her lips.
She gets so close, the heat of her body burns into mine. She’s right there. Right fucking there for the taking. All I’ve got to do is reach out and—
“Oh, you little fucking …” My words trail off as I look down and watch the cream drip down my T-shirt. The cream from the can she stole while I was distracted, thinking about how badly I wanted to kiss her.
Twisting my fingers in the hem of my shirt, I pull it over my head, careful not to cover my entire face in cream.
It hits the floor with a wet slap, and I finally do what I was craving. I reach out, wrap my hand around the back of Bea’s neck, and tow her into me. The can clatters to the floor and rolls away, quickly forgotten.
“You’re in trouble, sweetheart,” I warn darkly.
She bats her lashes at me like she’s the most innocent woman in the world.
But I know better. I know how well she takes my cock while I have her pinned against a wall.
I know exactly how she feels as she comes all over me, the sounds she makes when she doesn’t think she can take any more.
I haven’t forgotten a single second of it.
She comes to me, powerless to deny what’s been crackling between us since the night we met.
Her warm breath dances over my skin, making goosebumps erupt.
I pull her closer, lowering my head so I can take what I need.
Her eyes shutter; she’s right there with me. Our lips are almost touching when something starts sizzling behind me.
“Oh shit, the milk,” Bea cries before darting away and lifting the pan from the stove as milk bubbles over the side. “I think it’s hot enough."
I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I muse. The milk isn’t the only thing at boiling point.
“We need three spoonfuls of chocolate in these,” Bea instructs, sliding the mugs she’s filled closer to me as if that moment between us didn’t just happen. “You want to stir until there are no lumps.”
“No lumps,” I repeat. “Got it.”
As I stir, she cleans up the stove. I want to tell her to leave it, but I can’t find the words, so instead I just watch her as she leans over, letting the T-shirt she’s wearing ride higher on her thighs. Still not high enough to answer my question of what she might have underneath.
“Now, cream,” she says, appearing on my side.
She squirts the whipped cream on the top before finishing it off with marshmallows and sprinkles.
“Voilà,” she sings, handing one over to me.
“Beautiful,” I mutter as I watch her walk toward the couch. She places her mug on the coffee table, grabs the box of pastries, and settles with her legs beneath her.
She flips the lid and studies the contents for a few seconds before making her selection.
Lifting it to her lips, she takes a bite of the cinnamon bun and moans in delight.
“What are you doing? Come and sit down and have one,” she says once she’s swallowed, placing the box on the cushion beside her.
I saunter over, swipe a sweet treat from the box, and sit on the opposite couch. Sitting beside her as I did earlier is too tempting.
If we’re going to make this work in any way, it’s better that I keep my distance.
It’s too easy to lose myself in what I want. But for the first time in my life, what I want isn’t the most important thing. I need to do what’s right for Bea, and I know without a doubt that it’s not me.
She watches me with a frown, but she doesn’t comment as I devour the pasty in three huge bites.
“I know it’s late and it’s probably not the right time,” I explain, my heart rate picking up with the words I’m about to say. “But we need to talk.”