Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
E lla
I can’t stay here. I can’t even stay in the same city as him. So I start driving.
The problem is that I don’t know many people in the Bay Area, and as much as Tatum loves me, I don’t think she’ll appreciate me showing up at four-thirty in the morning. So I drive north, my foot on the gas and my hands on the wheel knowing what my brain hasn’t managed to process—I’m going to Napa. It’s the one place I’ve been in the area with the kind of wide-open spaces I need to think.
Not that there’s much to think about. I’m not going back to a guy who cheated on me, no matter how sorry he says he is.
But I don’t know what I’m doing instead.
The scenery slips past me under a half moon and a dark sky. I barely notice any of it. When I reach Vallejo, still thirty miles south of Napa, I pull off and find my way to a coffee shop that’s open and serving hot coffee and whatever else I want from the all-day menu. I want a huge stack of pancakes, a scoop of butter melting on the top, and a lot of syrup. It’s strange that Callum makes me sick at the same time that I have a huge appetite, but I’m too worn out to question it.
A tired-looking woman with a pink diner dress under a white apron sidles up to my table with a menu, but I shake my head and give her my order. “Cream in the coffee?” She writes everything down on a little pad with a tiny pencil, which she tucks into the apron pocket and makes her way to the kitchen. Her white clunky tennis shoes squeak as she goes.
Thumbing through the address book on my phone, I locate the number for my lawyer, who I can’t call at this hour. Even if I did, she won’t be in the office. I continue down the alphabetical list of everyone I know, ultimately deciding that the people who live in time zones where they’ll be awake aren’t the ones I want to tell about Callum. So I sip the coffee when it arrives and lean my forehead on my hand, trying to figure out something resembling a plan.
An hour later, I’m no closer to a plan, but my stomach aches from downing three mammoth pancakes and enough coffee to supercharge a rhino. That’s when I get back into my car, which seems to be on autopilot bound for Buttercup Hill.
I shouldn’t be here. I’m just a future wedding guest with no wedding now, and none of the people there owe me any of their time. Least of all Archer. Which is why I’m about to get back into my car and head for the Oakland airport when Archer’s front door swings open. Shirtless in a pair of low-slung sweatpants, he looks awake but tired. The smooth muscles of his chest and abs catch the pale light from his outdoor sconces, and my mouth waters. I don’t even try to look away. When my eyes land back on his face, I see him squinting but hardly scowling. He looks confused but pleased to see me.
Archer blinks into the relaxed, dim light of early morning— it’s maybe half past six—and cocks his head when he sees me standing between my car and his front door.
“What’s up?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. His question is too big to answer.
“Did we have an appointment?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair and taking a step toward me.
Shaking my head, I take a step backward. “No. Sorry.”
What am I doing here?
I turn toward my car and yank open the door, but Archer’s long stride has him standing next to my car, blocking my access to the front seat. He’s pulling a shirt over his head, and my brain is a muddle of regret for coming here, disappointment as his naked chest disappears, and lust over his perfectly mussed hair and the intensity in his gaze.
“Wait. Would you just hang on a second?”
“You’re in my way.”
“Yeah, that’s intentional.”
“You’re a big oaf and I need you to move.”
A hazy, sleepy grin creeps across his face. “I’m an oaf?”
“Like Shrek, only a little less green.”
“Shrek was an ogre,” he says, smirking now and hanging his arm on the top of my car door. I wish he didn’t look quite so damn handsome when I feel like a mess, but it’s comforting to have something nice to look at, at least.
“Are we really splitting hairs over which word I should use to insult you?”
“Funny, I’m not insulted.” He definitely doesn’t seem insulted. In fact, he seems almost…content. If I didn’t know better—i.e., that it’s a horrific hour to wake a person on a Saturday, unannounced—I might even think he’s glad to see me.
“Why are you smiling?”
The smile fades and I worry I’ve scared it off.
“Wait, no. You were almost happy. I don’t want to ruin that. ”
“Almost?” The crease in his brow is proof I’ve offended him, though I’d think the oaf comment would’ve dealt a heavier blow to his ego.
I shrug. “I just mean…I liked the smile.” Slowly, it returns, lips turning up at the corners, cheeks pulling upward, even if he seems to be fighting it.
“Why are you here, darlin’?”
As usual, being called darlin’ by the gruffest man in Northern California melts my resistance.
“I…” Shaking my head, I tell myself to ask the oaf in front of me to move aside because I don’t have an answer to his question, at least not an answer I’m ready to tell him.
“Talk to me.” His voice is a quiet rasp that sends chills over the back of my neck and down my spine. If this man has the power to do that to my body with one word, I imagine what he could do to the rest of me if he just reached out and?—
No.
I’m torn between wanting to tell him about Callum, admitting that everything he saw in him was correct, or keeping my failings to myself out of embarrassment that I’m in this situation.
It’s not that I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right—I don’t want the disappointment of being wrong.
Archer brushes a finger under my chin, enough to ignite my skin and make me suck in a small breath. Tipping my chin up, he lets his gaze linger on my face, moving from my eyes to my mouth, which starts to water under the strength of his stare, and back to my eyes, which are locked on him. His pupils dilate and he lets out a long, slow breath.
“Why?” It’s almost a plea. The muscles in Archer’s face have gone slack. His eyes are soft and welcoming, communicating that I can trust him.
I feel weightless, shaky in anticipation of what will happen when I tell him. Archer’s other hand, strong and steady, comes out to grip my hip. Like he knows the barest wind could blow me over.
“I walked in on Callum and his tour manager last night.” My throat feels tight as the awkward words wedge their way out. “In bed,” I add as though the first part wasn’t clear.
The softness in Archer’s expression disappears in an instant. His jaw tightens and a muscle starts ticking in his cheek. His eyes, which looked so gentle and calm a moment ago, now look charged and ready for battle.
“That fucker.”
Archer drops his hand from under my chin, but his other one still grips my hip. He looks like he just ate something that tasted putrid.
“There may be more to it that I don’t know, something going on with him, or maybe I freaked him out with all the wedding plans,” I start to protest, to tell him that Callum isn’t a bad guy. All my fears that somehow this is my fault bubble to the surface. Maybe Callum just did a bad thing, but… wait, why is my knee-jerk response to defend him?
Archer shakes his head. “No. Don’t do that. Not for a second. This isn’t on you. Him cheating has nothing to do with you and everything to do with him being a grade-A piece of shit.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I’d like to drive back down there with you and tell him to his smarmy face.”
“That would be a waste of a good road trip.”
Deeper lines crease Archer’s forehead. One side of his mouth pulls down. “I’m going to ask you again. Why’re you here, darlin’?”
It’s a fair question. After telling him I intended to go through with a fake marriage for the sake of the adoption, I know I look like I’m just here on the rebound after being betrayed. “It’s where I want to be.”
He nods, but his expression doesn’t change. “Because you need a shoulder to cry on? I can be that, I suppose. ”
“No.” I take a step closer.
“Why, then? I don’t do rebounds with other men’s women.”
I shake my head. “No. That’s not it. I had hopes for a relationship with Callum, but as you know, it was for specific reasons. The wrong reasons. And I never felt for him what I’m starting to feel for you.”
His eyes soften, and he swallows hard but doesn’t move.
“This isn’t a rebound,” I continue. “It’s what I’ve been wanting since I met you. And now I need to know what it’s like to have your hands on my skin.”
His hand, which had been balled into a fist by his side, unclenches. He raises it and slowly traces the side of my face, from my temple down to my chin.
“This feels like the beginning of something that could get very, very good.” His voice is a sexy rasp.
The beautiful, searing heat of his touch reminds me that the last thing I want is to leave this place or do anything to detract from this, his hands touching me.
I reach my own hand to touch his and hold it against my cheek where it rests. He sucks in a sharp breath. I wonder if his heart is beating out of his chest like mine is. I reach for the soft fabric of the worn band t-shirt he’s wearing and gingerly place my hand against his chest, over his heart. I feel it’s steady beat and imagine the blood rushing through his veins the same way mine is making me lightheaded now. I also feel a hard plane of muscle beneath my hand that makes me want to strip the shirt right off his body and touch his skin.
His hand moves from my hip, slowly grazing before lifting my hand from his heart and bringing it to his lips. His warm breath feathers over my skin, sending a chill across mine. My shoulders relax. I feel myself lean closer to him, heart hammering in my chest. My skin vibrates with my pulse, and I feel more alive than I have in my life and he’s barely touching my skin.
Our eyes stay locked in an unbreakable acknowledgement of the before and after. Before we kiss, life comes with all of its mistakes and regrets.
After…it’s the great leap, the first steps on the dusty surface of the moon, uncharted and magical. I want to linger in this in-between state for one more moment because I can already tell that after Archer’s lips meet mine, there will be no going back.
As a shaky breath of air enters my lungs, I also know that I don’t want to go back. I’ve been fighting against the feeling of wanting this man from the day I walked into the old barn and saw him staring at me in the doorway.
I almost didn’t even recognize the moment as significant because it felt like the film sets where I spend half my time. The lighting perfect. The air still. Everything about the moment felt like a curated movie designed to signal a romantic moment instead of what it really was—the beginning of something that could change the trajectory of my life. Something that already has.
Archer tips his forehead against mine and I feel the weight of his inhale, as though he’s wrestling with his conscience like he was the last time I saw him, trying to talk himself down.
“I want you more than I’ve wanted anything in my life, but I’m worried it’s not right…” His words sound choked and regretful. His eyes meet mine, assessing whether I agree.
“Stop worrying. It’s right.”
“Yeah?” There’s still sadness in his eyes, but his hands curl around mine, holding me in place.
I nod against his forehead. “I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.”
His chest rises and falls with another strangled breath. His hands slowly work their way up my arms, leaving goose bumps in their wake, until they roam over my shoulders and he’s cupping my chin in his hands.
“I’m glad you did.” His voice has that morning gruffness, though I suspect he wasn’t sleeping when I pulled up. “I just…” He closes his eyes and presses his lips together. “I know you came here out of a rough situation, and I don’t want to mistake that for something else.” His throat works as he swallows hard. “I don’t want you to regret anything that…might happen.”
I nod, more certain than anything of what I want. “I’ll only regret it if it doesn’t happen.”
His whole body shudders like I’ve set off a firestorm. He takes one more slow breath, eyes fixed on mine. They glow with a feral darkness I’ve never seen before. It’s hot, sexy. It’s everything I need.
Like a rubber band stretched to its limits, I can feel his self-restraint snap. Still holding my face in his hands, he lowers his lips to mine. Carefully. Gently. Like there’s no going back once our mouths collide.
When I feel the soft pressure of his lips, my veins light up with heat that almost knocks me over. I hold on to him to steady myself and lean into the whirling dizziness that comes from a kiss I’ve wanted so badly it hurts.
I don’t breathe. I can’t.
I let him kiss me until it’s the only thing I feel, the pressure of his lips begging me for more.
My hands move into his hair, which is soft and silky as my fingers brush through the strands. Every part of my body aches to get closer to him, to feel him against me.
Our tongues tangle and taste. I feel myself running short of breath, but I don’t care.
Finally, he breaks the kiss, his breath a rumble against my mouth. “God, Ella, I can’t get enough of you…” I don’t respond with words. Instead, I pull his face to mine again and kiss him hard, urging him toward something I can’t articulate.
More.
“Morning.” A soft voice startles us apart. Archer swears under his breath and rests his forehead on his fingers.
I look up to see a woman standing in the doorway of Archer’s house wearing a short, hot pink dress. It’s a definite walk-of-shame dress. No one wears that on a Saturday morning unless it’s a leftover from Friday night.
My eyes stretch wide, but my brain is already directing traffic, telling me to turn around and get back in my car. I’m sure my mortification is written on my face.
“Ella, hang on,” Archer says calmly, even though he looks caught like a deer on a hunting ground. “She’s just a friend.”
It still doesn’t look good. My mind spins, and the lack of sleep and the oxygen deprivation I just experienced aren’t helping. For all I know, he’s just placating me with that story about taking care of a friend. The last thing I need is to pour my heart out to a man who’s in the middle of a hookup or a date or whatever Archer Corbett does when he’s not worrying about grapes.
Archer looks torn between my rapid dash away from him and the woman still talking from the doorway. “How did I end up here? Ugh, I’m seriously so hungover.”
“Ella, hang on. Just come inside and we can talk.”
“No thank you.” I slide into my car and start to close the door, but Archer wedges himself in the space in front of it. “Do you mind? I need to drive my car, and I can’t with your large body blocking my door.”
“Actually, I do mind. I want you to come inside.”
“Why in the world would I do that when you already have someone inside?”
“I told you she’s a friend.”
“Feels like I hear that a lot these days. Callum’s tour manager was a ‘friend’ until I found him banging her last night. Why would I believe any guy?” I’m still dizzy over our kiss, and I’m trying to push away the image of him kissing her too.
Archer kneels in the space next to my car, still blocking the door. Expression serious and unwavering, he holds me by the forearms.
“She’s a friend. I was at a bar last night with my brothers and she had too much to drink. No idea where her purse ended up, so I brought her back here. She slept on the couch.” His voice is rough but soothing. I want to believe him, but walking in on Callum last night has me mistrustful of all men.
“I should go.”
“Is that what you want?” His face is an unreadable mask, which helps because I need to make this decision myself, and not stay just because he wants me to.
I close my eyes and allow myself a moment to sort through the past twenty-four hours, when I’ve gone from dreaming about a future family to the present when I have no idea what lies ahead. But I nod.
“I’ll come inside.”
The presence of the woman in the dress has put a halt to whatever just passed between us, and now all I feel is cool air when Archer stands up and offers me his hand to pull me to standing outside my car. But he doesn’t let go, and I take comfort in the strength of his large, warm palm and strong fingers wrapped around mine as we walk toward the woman still standing in the doorway, her dress looking even more sheer the closer we get.
I hope I’m not making another mistake.