Chapter 25 #2
Although it feels good to get the grime of the city washed from my body, it’s not as fun as it was when I took a bath with him.
Sipping the wine, I close my eyes and relax, imagining Warner’s hand coming around to rest on my belly.
The way his breath blew across my neck, causing bumps to pebble across my skin.
I take another sip and then a gulp before sliding my hand under the water and between my legs.
I’m tender, but it’s deliciously sore. He did that.
He marked me as his, and I find that so incredibly titillating.
I’ve never been a woman who dreamed of her Prince Charming coming to save her.
I can save myself. But something about that man has me ready to tie myself to the railroad tracks and scream for him.
“Hey there.” That sultry voice runs through me like an awakening.
I open my eyes to see Warner leaning against the doorframe with a grin on his face.
The vest is unbuttoned and flapped open, and his tie is loosened and hanging around his neck all crooked.
Even his hair is a mess of brown strands going in all directions.
He’s basically his usual gorgeous self, while my hair probably looks like I lost a fight against a pigeon today. And the pigeon won and built a nest.
I sit up suddenly, and water splashes over the sides while I try to tame hair that I don’t stand a chance of doing.
“Hey there. You’re home early. I didn’t expect you until .
. .” I shake my head after giving up the fight with the wild strands of my hair in this knot.
“Actually, I didn’t know when to expect you home. ”
“I’m early.” He chuckles. “Even Baker was surprised to see me. But I didn’t have a reason to rush home before.”
If I wasn’t already a melty mess from this man for how his mouth did me justice several times last night, I’d be a puddle on the floor after hearing him say that. I start to lift, but he says, “Stay. Enjoy your bath. I’m going to change clothes and watch some baseball.”
“I didn’t know you liked baseball.”
“There’s a player I like to watch. Called back to the Major League to play at thirty-five.”
I grin. “Does it give you hope?”
“Argh.” Covering his chest like he’s been shot, he slumps. “That hurt.” Thank God he laughs afterward. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough of your old-man jokes.” He disappears into the bedroom.
“Good. I have plenty more where that came from.”
“Keep ’em coming, Sass,” he calls from a short distance.
Well, guess I don’t have to finish what I started when I have an expert in-house to do the job for me.
I finish washing up and then get out of the tub.
After blowing out the three wicks of the giant candle, I pull on a pair of his boxer briefs and another one of his tees.
I hold the green cotton up, and the blue lettering reads Fuck it.
Let’s go to Nantucket. I laugh. My guy is so goofy.
Carrying the ceramic candle back into the living room like Baby carrying a watermelon, I enter the living room and set it in front of him on the coffee table, and say, “I carried a candle.”
His eyes dart to the candle. “Huh?”
I lean against the arm of the couch, and reply, “You know, from Dirty Dancing? She carried a watermelon for Johnny.”
“I’ve never seen it.” His eyes go to the candle again. “There’s a candle in the bathroom. Why’d you burn this one?”
I glance back at the centerpiece, the only thing on the coffee table. “Because you never have, and it’s too pretty not to see it lit up.”
He stands and goes around the other side of the couch from me and into the kitchen. “I never did because it’s not meant to burn. It’s art.” I turn to watch him open the fridge door, blocking him from my view.
“The bowl is pretty, but it’s still a candle, Warner.”
The door is shut, and if it didn’t have soft closure, it would have slammed.
With a bottle of beer in his hand, he twists the top.
“It’s literally a piece of art, Delaney.
I won it at an auction a few years ago before the artist passed away.
Now its value has tripled, but you just lit that profit on fire. ”
Sure the candle was an accident, but I get a sinking feeling that something bigger is going on here. “I’m sorry. I—”
“That’s the first time you’ve apologized for anything you’ve done.” He tips the bottle back and chugs half of it before lowering it back down and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. What in the world is going on with him?
“That’s not true. I’ve apologized when I have needed to.”
“Are you calling me the liar?”
“The liar? Like if you’re not it, I am? Am I catching the gist of what you’re saying?
” He moves back to the couch when the announcer says Griffin Greene is stepping up to the plate.
Standing with his eyes glued to the TV, he appears mesmerized as if we weren’t in the middle of something here. “Warner?”
I’m ignored.
“Did you hear me?” I ask. I look at the TV, watching the baseball player step up to the plate. Grabbing the remote, I click it just as the sound of the bat cracking is heard.
He shoots me a glare. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I toss the remote on the couch between us. “You start a fight with me and then ignore me like I don’t matter in this equation.”
“There is no equation. There’s me, my apartment, and the baseball game on TV. Then there’s you burning shit down per usual and then acting like it doesn’t matter to me.”
“I said I’m sorry for lighting the candle.” I try to keep myself from reacting to his anger. He has a right to be mad. He doesn’t have a right to ignore me. “I’ll pay for it. Then you’ll have your money back.”
He laughs, like infuriatingly loud, and then drinks more beer. “I have a strong feeling that you don’t have a hundred K lying around.”
I look at it again, making sure we’re talking about the same one. “For that?” I ask, pointing at it.
“Forget it.” He clicks on the TV again. I see his eyes home in on the tiny Eiffel Tower. I’m regretting leaving it there now. Of course, I didn’t know he was going to be upset over a candle, though I should have. “Great. He’s already hit, and I missed a homer.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve knocked it out of the park of assholery in your very own living room.” I walk back to the bedroom without hearing another word from him. I go into the bathroom and grab the glass I left next to the tub and swallow the remainder.
When I walk into the bedroom again, he’s standing in the other doorway.
The black eye is already changing from purple and blue to green and yellow, healing more each day.
His cast is still pristine like it was just put on today.
Last night I was kissing his shoulder, where there is more bruising, but the scratches are almost healed.
There’s so much broken—from his arm to his skin—but I’m starting to wonder how he’s doing on the inside.
“How was your day?” I ask, whispering between us.
I see the slightest tilt of his head and the way his shoulders loosen under the question. “It was good to be back at work again. But I had some issues come up with my emails.”
My day was better with him in it. Until now, that is. I missed him. Not sure how that’s even possible to be this lovesick over someone so quickly, but it just hit hard.
“That’s good.”
“What?”
Moving my eyes to the floor in front of me, I sit on the end of the mattress. “What?”
“You said it was good I had email issues.”
“Oh, sorry you had issues. My thoughts had wandered away.” And into the ache in my heart that’s pulsing for his touch and the comfort has presence brings me.
“Delaney?”
I’m not sure if he meant my name as a question, but it sure sounded like one.
I stare at him, feeling confident he’ll finish it.
Seconds pass, trapping us in an uncomfortable silence.
I can’t stand it. I’m used to noise, my rowdy brothers, and my parents joining in on the laughter.
Even when Joe moved out, he’s still there all the time.
Silence doesn’t sit well with me. It’s unsettling like I’m in trouble. “Am I in trouble?”
“Why would you be in trouble, Delaney?”
“Why do you keep saying my name like there’s more to what’s being said?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, rolling his head over his shoulders as he comes into the room. “Maybe because I expect you to break my legs when I’m sleeping with all the shit you’ve been pulling.”
The insult sends me to my feet, ready to defend myself. “Are you comparing this past weekend to the plot of Misery?”
“If the shoe fits, sweetheart. Didn’t you once say that to me?”
Throwing my arms out wide, ready for this fight, I yell, “Everybody freaking says that, Warner.” Still staring at him, I add, “You’ve even said it to me.”
“This is what you do, Delaney. You twist the narrative to fit a story that’s in your head. You argue with no other goal in mind than to wear me down. It works most times because the hurricane that is you sucks so much energy from the room that it’s left devastated after you’ve gone.”
“You missing me when I leave doesn’t sound so awful.”
He laughs, but there’s an edge of frustration to it.
“There’s a prime example.” Taking a deep breath, I can see the change in his body, the ease he’s forcing into his posture, and the anger morphing into something else.
Disappointment? He comes to me, takes my hand, and then leans down eye level with me.
“Don’t ever mess with my business again. ”
Jocelyn . . . She snitched on me the first chance she got, bright and early on Monday morning. I can’t blame her, though I need to blame someone right now, and she’s the lucky candidate. Looking him square in the eyes, which seems to be important to him, I reply, “Understood.”
“Good.” He leaves the room, and says, “I’m ordering pizza. What toppings do you want?”
I’m still a bit stunned to the spot but manage to reply. “Pepperoni.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.” Pepperoni pizza beats the cup o’ramen I bought for us.
I sit back on the bed again, thinking about what he said.
Who have I become? I crossed a line when I emailed pretending to be him.
But that’s just one of so many more that I’ve erased completely.
I don’t recognize myself or the life I’m living anymore. Good or bad, it’s of my own doing.
He has every right to be upset. And I need to sit in this reality check for behaving so horribly. Warner is a good man. He stands his ground and protects what’s his. He’s more than made it clear that I fall into that category. I never intended to hurt him, but I have.
Returning to the living room, I sit next to him on the couch and take his hand between both of mine.
When he looks at me, I say, “I’m really sorry.
I’m so ashamed of what I’ve done. I don’t expect your forgiveness.
I crossed lines that . . .” I drop my head forward, staring at the connection of our hands, the size difference, and how his fingers wrap around mine as soon as we touch.
“I have so many excuses, but none will justify what I’ve done.
All I can tell you is that I’m genuinely sorry for hurting and upsetting you. ”
The moment he pulls his hand from mine, the water pooling in the corners of my eyes falls over the dams of my lower lids. His arm comes around my shoulders, and he pulls me in to cuddle against him.
He doesn’t say anything else about it, but we both know that there was more to it than just the emails. The truth always comes out, and the floodgates have been opened.
Hours later, I stare at him again while he’s sleeping. The shame from earlier still weighs heavily in my chest, but I’ve also started to feel something else—an emotion I never expected. Grateful. I reach over and tuck the sheet under his chin as he quietly slumbers next to me.
I’m so lucky and damn thankful this utterly irredeemable man survived. But more than that, he’s letting bygones be bygones when I didn’t deserve his forgiveness, or forgetfulness.
Leaning over, I kiss his lips gently, so I don’t wake him, and whisper, “I love you, Warner Landers.”