Chapter 12 Lindsey
TWELVE
LINDSEY
Is this what life would be like?
I could kick myself for letting that thought float through my mind, even for a blip. Because once I entertain it, it’s all I can think about. And the hard answer is, yes, in another life. Not this one.
I wait with Holly and the boys while Brooks changes after his game, and feel like one of the wives I saw out there.
I’m sure a lot of them know our situation.
Holly is a bit of a celebrity in that clubhouse, and it’s not like my family doesn’t have a name around this town.
But in the moment, walking to our vehicles together, it feels so normal. It feels good.
When we get home, Brooks puts Holly to bed while I bathe the twins and tuck them in for the night.
Now, here we are, just the two of us sitting on a dark front porch, sipping wine that I normally drink with my sister while we listen to the chirping crickets and wait for shooting stars.
I know this place isn’t permanent. I understand that all of this is temporary, a convenient arrangement that works for both of us.
But I can’t stop wishing for a way it could be real.
“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. “We can’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 wine glass 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 land the 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 my mouth for a few delicious seconds, \a whispered laugh leaving his lips when I finally let out a breathy cry.
“You’re wrong,” I say, sliding my hands up along his jaw before lifting on my toes. “You are the big one. In every single dangerous way. But I don’t care. At least, not tonight.”
His mouth drops to mine in the very next breath, and there is absolutely nothing subtle about his kiss. About anything, really.
As he sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, he bends his knees and scoops me into his arms, wrapping my legs around him as he pivots to march toward the stairs.
He takes them two at a time, not even needing to look as he climbs and kisses at the same time.
He makes a beeline into my room, not wanting to disturb Holly, I presume, and pushes the door shut behind him with one hand while I slide down his body and squirm out of his grip of his other.
Our lips part, and I can feel the burn on mine from his rough kiss and the scratch of his stubble.
“Tell me to leave your room, and I will,” he says, slowly gathering his shirt from behind his neck, then pulling it over his head before discarding it on my floor.
I shake my head and toe my shoes off one at a time.
I take cautious steps backward, toward my bed, and let myself enjoy the attention of his heated stare.
I peel my socks off, then whisk my own T-shirt up over my head, feeling every bit of the cool air kiss my nipples under my flimsy white cotton bra.
Brooks licks his lips as his steps sync with mine.
And when the backs of my legs hit the foot of my bed, I halt at the realization that this is it. The moment of truth.
Falling for a single dad wasn’t part of my plan. Of course, being a single, divorced mom wasn't either. Maybe it's time I start saying yes to whatever the universe seems to think I need. Right now, I need Brooks Callahan to fuck me senseless.
Brooks reaches into the front of his joggers and grips himself as his gaze washes over my breasts, then dips to my navel.
He lifts his chin slightly, a tiny nod encouraging me to strip for him.
I haven’t done something like this in years, not since Brandon and I first started dating.
Once we got pregnant, the seduction dances ground to a halt.
I’m not sure I have what it takes to please him. But I’m willing to try.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my leggings and wriggle them down my hips, stepping out of them before kicking them toward my T-shirt. My eyes trail down the center of Brooks’s chest, then lower to where his hand is now wrapped around his now exposed cock, and I’m instantly wet.
I shiver from a rush of cool air, and Brooks steps toward me, gliding his free hand up my arm and to my shoulder, stopping at my bra strap.
He hooks his index finger underneath and slowly drags it down my arm, stroking himself while he strips me of my last remaining garments.
It’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced, and the ideas running through my head would make the old Lindsey blush.
That Lindsey was all talk. She lived vicariously through her sister, and she faked most of the orgasms she had with her ex.