Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ARTHUR
“What’s your favourite thing about your condo?”
The fact that you’re in it, I think, which feels like a dangerous thought to have this early. Thankfully, my mouth is full of the best sandwich I’ve ever tasted, and that buys me a few precious seconds to come up with a less unhinged answer.
“I don’t know.” I drain the rest of the wine in my glass. “The location, I guess.”
Her full lips flatten into a line. “That’s a terrible answer.” She looks genuinely disappointed, and I can’t help laughing.
“What is it with you and favourites?” I ask.
“A person needs favourites,” she says seriously. “It makes life more fun. You think about a place, or a moment, or anything at all, and you pick the part of it that makes you happiest.”
“So you have favourites for everything.”
“Obviously.”
“Everything,” I repeat.
“Try me.”
I roll the empty wineglass slowly between my fingers, turning it by the stem.
It probably looks like I’m thinking hard, but really it’s just an excuse to keep looking at her.
She looks even more beautiful than she did when she walked into that snooty restaurant.
Her carefully styled hair has softened, a few loose strands framing her face.
She’s leaning back in her chair now, legs crossed beneath the table, relaxed and content.
And the quiet satisfaction that hits me then takes me by surprise. Because she looks happy here, in my home. And I like that far more than I should.
“Favourite day of the week.”
“Saturday, obviously.”
“Why is that obvious?”
“Because it’s the first day of the weekend. There are no obligations,” she says, like she’s explaining gravity. “I can relax, drink coffee, do laundry. Sometimes Sam and I go to the farmer’s market for hot chocolate and people watching.”
“You could do all of that on Sunday,” I point out.
She scrunches up her nose. “Nope. I teach aquafitness on Sundays. And I have to do grocery shopping and food prep for the week. Plus, there’s the low level anxiety of another work week starting. Completely different vibe. Saturdays reign supreme.”
I can’t argue with her logic, so I don’t. “Favourite ice cream.”
“Cookie dough.”
I make a face but wisely keep my opinion to myself. “Favourite holiday.”
“Easter.”
My reaction must be obvious because she tilts her head. “What?”
“Nothing. I just assumed you’d say Christmas. You have kind of a manic elf energy.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I love Christmas, but it’s chaos.
Cookie orders, expensive kid interests, teacher gifts, stocking stuffers.
And the weather stress. Snowstorms used to cancel my shifts and I’d have to burn vacation days just to stay home when the school was closed.
” She shrugs. “Easter is easy. Better weather. Less pressure. More candy. I hide chocolate eggs all over the house, we make pancakes, and spend the afternoon playing board games. It’s perfect. ”
I can see it clearly, the two of them laughing in a kitchen that smells like syrup and coffee. They’re a tight unit. I find myself wondering if Sam knows how lucky he is to have a mom like Elliot.
Something tells me he does.
Once again, I find myself wondering where I would fit into their lives, if I fit at all. I’m not built for family, and God knows I didn’t come from one worth admiring. My childhood wasn’t a foundation. It was something I survived, and even that feels generous some days.
If by some miracle I don’t screw this up with Elliot, what am I supposed to be to her son? I’m no father figure. Maybe Sam doesn’t need one. He seems steady and happy without it. He has Ben. Maybe he won’t need anything from me at all, and maybe that should be a relief.
“You still with me?” Elliot asks, her head tilting slightly.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and slide my empty plate away. “I was just trying to remember the last time someone cooked for me.” The lie comes easily.
She snorts. A small, unguarded sound. “I buttered bread and melted cheese. Let’s not pretend this was a home-cooked meal.”
“It was delicious. And you made it, in my home. That counts.” I meet her eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She straightens in her chair, posture suddenly careful.
“It’s been a while since I cooked for anyone other than Sam.
” She opens her mouth again, then closes it.
I wait, letting the silence stretch. Her expression shifts through half formed thoughts before she finally adds, quieter, “It’s been a while since I’ve done other things too. ”
It takes me a beat to catch up. We are not talking about grilled cheese anymore. She won’t look at me now, and my mind scrambles for something smooth or reassuring. What comes out instead is rough and low.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes stay fixed on the napkin she’s twisting around her fingers, winding it tighter and tighter.
“Well, same,” I say, mostly because I can’t think of a good reason not to tell the truth.
This time she looks up. “Yeah?”
I nod.
Her sharp, perceptive gaze studies my face, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m bluffing. “You don’t believe me?”
“No, I didn’t say that,” she rushes to clarify. “I just think maybe we have different definitions of what counts as ‘a while.’”
“Ah.”
“Like, you could say Montreal and Toronto are both going through Stanley Cup dry spells,” she continues, “but it’s been almost thirty years longer for one of them.”
I grin so wide it actually hurts. “I appreciate you using hockey metaphors to make your point. Truly.”
She smiles back. “You’re welcome. I guess what I’m saying is that my dry spell might be a little longer than yours.”
“Right.”
“Considerably longer, if we’re being honest.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not a competition, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“But if it were, I would win.”
“You sound very confident.”
She shrugs, lips twitching. “There are dry spells, and then there are droughts.”
The moment the words leave her mouth, her nose scrunches like she’s realized exactly how that sounded. I lose it, shaking with laughter before I can stop myself. She groans and tosses her napkin at my chest, but she’s smiling now, the tension broken.
“What I’m trying to say.” Her cheeks have turned a rosy shade of pink. “Is that it’s been a while for me. And not just since I’ve had…” She makes a little waving motion with her hand.
“Table sex?”
She squeezes her eyes shut as she laughs.
God, I love making this woman laugh. “Sex of any kind.” She clarifies.
“But also it’s been more than a decade since I’ve been on a date.
I started dating my ex when I was seventeen and I haven’t seen anyone since we split up.
So…I’m not really sure how to do any of this. ”
I swallow hard and nod, emboldened by her honesty.
“Before my injury I dated a lot. Maybe dated isn’t the right term.
I was never with one person long enough to consider them relationships.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have a great personality.
And getting hurt really didn’t improve my disposition.
There have been a handful of few and far between hookups in the past ten years, but that’s it. ”
Elliot smiles at me, soft and a little shy, and I hate the stretch of table between us. I don’t want anything creating distance right now. “Okay,” she says gently. “Sounds like maybe we’ve both been out of the game for a while.”
“Seems that way.”
“That was another sports reference,” she adds, eyes bright. “For your benefit.”
“I caught it,” I say dryly. “And I appreciate the effort.”
The silence that follows settles around us, quiet and full. “I’m really glad you’re here,” I say, before I can overthink it.
Her expression softens. “Me too.”
Before doubt can creep in, I push my chair back and stand. My knee barely protests. Between the exercises and the warmer weather, my body feels lighter, steadier. I realize I haven’t moved this easily in years.
“Can I give you the tour?” I ask, holding out my hand. Maybe I’m trying to be polite. Maybe I just need to touch her. My heart thumps when she places her hand in mine.
I don’t let go as I lead her from the kitchen into the living room. Her hand is smaller, warmer, and fits into mine like it was always meant to be there.
“This is the living room.”
“It’s…cozy.”
I have to laugh because it really isn’t. There is a leather couch, a coffee table, two lamps, and the biggest television I could buy. It’s not much but it’s all I need. “I told the decorator to keep it simple. I’m no designer.”
“You don’t have to be.” Her hand squeezes mine.
“The bathroom is down the hall. And then there’s a spare room. And my bedroom.”
One angular eyebrow quirks. “So when you said tour, you meant a verbal one? I was expecting something a bit more physical.”
The fact that my dick starts to get hard when she says “physical” is exactly why I need to slow things down.
“Well, I can show you the other rooms, of course. The spare room is a mess. Just a space for me to do my physio exercises and a bunch of sports memorabilia.”
Elliot takes a step closer and now there’s very little space between our bodies. “And your room?”
I search her green eyes. “I thought bringing you to my bedroom on the first date might be a bit presumptuous. I don’t want to pressure you or make you feel obligated in any way.”
Her tongue wets her lower lip and I almost forget what we’re talking about. “You make me feel a lot of things, Coach. But pressured and obligated are not among them.”
“Christ, Elliot. I like when you call me that.”
Her small hands rest on my arms. “What else do you like?”