Chapter 20 #3
He laughs softly. “You and Wren are close?”
“Yeah. The closest. We talk every day.”
“Tell me more about her.”
I think of how to describe Wren. “She’s smart and curious.
Everyone that meets her falls in love with her.
She’s easy to talk to and she can make anything fun.
She loves learning new things, which is why she keeps changing her mind on a major.
” I stop myself from rambling on and on.
“If she were the older one, I would have spent my life living in the shadow of my much cooler sister.”
That pulls a laugh out of him.
“She’s coming to visit me for a weekend over her semester break. Or us, I guess. Is that okay?”
“Of course. I’m excited to meet her.”
“Are you close with your parents?”
I feel as if I can sense the answer before he shakes his head.
“Or grandparents, aunts, uncles, whatever,” I add in case he had a situation like me growing up and his parents weren’t the ones who raised him.
“No, I’m not close with any of my family.”
Despite his tensing earlier, it’s not how I would have imagined. Travis is just so happy and playful. I pictured him with a doting mom and a dad who took him fishing and taught him to play catch.
I want to ask why but that doesn’t seem appropriate, so I just say what I’m thinking. “That surprises me.”
He removes his hand from mine and sits forward, elbows on his knees, looking ahead instead of at me.
“My parents weren’t really interested in doing the whole raising a kid thing.
My dad took over my mom’s family’s development company after her dad died.
I think I was five or six. But honestly even before that I don’t remember spending a lot of time with them.
They had other priorities and I just sort of managed myself. ”
“At five?” I try and fail to conceal my outrage at the thought of him being on his own at five. I remember all too well how Wren was at that age when our parents died. I know it isn’t the same, but she needed them. And I have to believe Travis needed his parents too.
“I had babysitters, and I did a lot of sports and other activities.”
My face must be talking for me again because Travis gives me a quick half smile.
“Don’t look at me like that, babe. I had more than most kids—house, food, money for whatever I needed.”
“What about love and attention?”
He laughs softly but the sound is hollow. “There wasn’t a lot of that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I have great friends and teammates, a hottie wife.” He winks. “We can’t have it all, right?”
“I guess not,” I say, not truly believing it and having a million more questions. “Do you keep in touch with them?”
“No.” His voice is harder now, more definitive. “We haven’t talked in years.”
My chest is tight as I digest all this and adjust the mental picture I had of Travis. We’re more alike than I thought, through very different circumstances.
“I’m still sorry. That must be hard.”
He says nothing and I can feel his need to change the subject. I take a breath and push away all this new information for now. I can figure out what it all means later.
“So…” I angle my body so that my knee rests against his thigh. “Speaking of this hottie wife of yours…”
One dark brow lifts. “Yeah?”
“I was thinking about what your friends said.”
He takes my hand again, letting his thumb linger in that spot below my ring. I wonder if it’s as comforting to him as it is to me. “You’re going to have to be more specific. They yap constantly.”
I laugh lightly. I really like the relationship he has with his friends, even more so knowing what I do about his family.
“They said we might need to hold hands or kiss in public so people wouldn’t question this…” I point between us. “Is that what this is?” I ask then quickly add, “It’s okay. I don’t mind a little public display of affection. I just thought we should talk about it, so things don’t get confusing.”
Because when he touches me, I forget this isn’t real.
“Very few of my actions with you have been to please other people. Least of all holding your hand.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kiss you just to prove we’re not faking it.”
That should be comforting but it isn’t.
“But if you want to kiss me, go for it.”
I laugh, the sound a little too strained. He joins in, the playfulness making my pulse pick up speed.
“You do, don’t you?” His eyes light up. “You want me to kiss you.”
His tone is awe-filled, shocked like he’s just put together the epic mystery of his wife and her repressed feelings.
“What?” My voice is squeaky, slightly unhinged. I scoff. “No. I…”
His grin is entirely too wide and happy. Somehow, he can see right through me.
“You’re hoping I’m going to kiss you.” He studies my face for any response, but I give him nothing. I barely breathe.
“Is it the sweater?” He pulls back slightly so I can get a good look at it. “My cologne?”
“That is not…” I trail off and shake my head.
“I’m going to figure out what does it for you, darling. And then, watch out. You’ll be begging me to kiss you again.”
“Highly unlikely.”
His grin is all confidence.
Even talking about kissing has my stomach in knots. The talking and the hand-holding and the giant diamond ring. It’s too much.
“Maybe we should do it and get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” He looks appalled at my suggestion.
“It’s just that we’ve already kissed.”
“Oh, I know.”
“That night is this hazy memory that feels almost like a dream. And now we’re married and there’s all this tension and anticipation when we’re together in public.
We’re not together but we’ve been together.
My brain and my body are struggling to make sense of it all.
Maybe if we kiss it’ll make things easier. Like exposure therapy.”
His stare is unwavering as he says, “Let me get this straight. You want me to kiss you to ease the sexual tension between us?”
Not how I would have phrased it, but accurate enough. I nod.
He chuckles like he thinks my plan is absurd. Maybe it is.
“Please?” My stomach can’t take three more months of this. I’m a ball of anxiety any time he’s close.
His hand moves to the side of my neck. Goosebumps race down my arms, and my pulse picks up speed.
“This isn’t how I pictured it,” he says, voice low and gruff.
I don’t have any witty retorts. I can barely breathe.
Slowly, he leans in, holding my gaze until the very last second.
Our first kiss in Vegas was spontaneous and frantic in all the best ways.
But this is slow and intentional. His full lips press against mine, warm and soft.
He lingers there, neither of us moving. We’re breathing each other in, letting the kiss build almost of its own volition.
Warmth spreads through my chest and then pools low in my stomach. Ever so gently Travis’s lips pry mine apart. He hums and slants his mouth to better cover mine. The hand at my neck pulls me closer to him.
I’m not sure who initiates it, but suddenly his tongue is in my mouth and I’m stroking it with mine. He tastes like scotch—hints of sex and longing.
I reach up and rest my hand on his chest. He makes another deep hum as I grip his shirt in my fist. I need him closer, and I need more.
He pulls back before I’m ready. I’m spinning, lightheaded. When I open my eyes, I see that desire mirrored back at me.
Travis lets out a long breath and then reaches for his drink. Only after he’s taken a sip does he speak.
“Better?” he asks, low and husky.
“Yes.”
I’m in so much trouble.
The following Monday I come downstairs in the morning to find Travis in his full hockey uniform—pads, helmet, even skates.
“What are you doing?” I ask, coming up short on the last step. He had back-to-back away games and just got home last night.
The time apart did not help me stop thinking about him. We haven’t spoken about the kiss, but it’s consumed my thoughts.
“Testing a theory. You haven’t seen me in my uniform before.
” He struts across the room, which is not as smooth as he thinks.
I’ve seen Travis skate and I’ve seen him in his uniform.
In fact, I’ve seen him in various dress attire in all kinds of scenarios: before a hockey game (suits, wow), warming up before games, playing games, sitting on the bench during a game, half-dressed (intermission), after doing press in compression shirts, and even a few ab shots that some camera person caught when he lifted his shirt up to wipe his face mid-game.
(Don’t judge my video history. I married him, I figured I should do some research.
And no, I won’t be sharing this with Travis.
I’ll take it to my grave. Kinsley has already agreed to delete all my browser history if I die first. And vice versa.)
The point is skates are for, well, skating, not the march, hobble side to side thing he’s doing across the runner in the hallway.
Does he still look good? Of course. Pretending not to find my husband attractive has become our favorite sport.
The thing is, it’s actually a lot easier to resist him when it feels like a game.
“Is it working? Are you having any urges?” He stops and strikes a pose like he’s shooting an imaginary puck.
God he’s cute. I bite back on my molars to stop a smile from forming.
“I have to go to practice,” I say like this is just another day. Living with Travis, it kind of is.
“Have a good day, babe!”
Tuesday night when I get home, Travis is watching gymnastics on the TV in the living room. Correction: He’s watching me do gymnastics on the TV.
“Hey,” he says over his shoulder.
“How did you find this?” I skip the obvious question of why he’s watching it in the first place because I’m certain it has something to do with getting me to beg him to kiss me again.
Is the ploy to pretend he’s into gymnastics?
Whatever the plan, I don’t have the heart to tell him this routine in particular still haunts me.
I was so close to medaling in the all-around and then two deductions on floor cost me.