Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
T essa
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’ve been lounging around the house all day.
My ankle still hurts, and I figure two days of rest and I should be good as new for work next week.
Autumn is on call this weekend for the shelter, so I don’t have to worry about following up to make sure the volunteers show up.
We’ve talked about hiring another part-time person.
Someone to staff the weekends, but it’s hard to find someone willing to work both weekend days.
The hours could be flexible, as long as the animals are fed and watered, the cages are cleaned, and the dogs get to stretch their legs.
They could do that in a couple of hours each day.
It’s something I should bring up again and see what she says.
My house is clean, the laundry is washed, folded, and put away, and I have a chicken casserole in the Crock-Pot.
It’s way too much food for just me, so that will be my meals for the weekend, and I’ll take the rest to work and send it home with Autumn for her and Jeremy on Monday.
When I do cook, that’s usually what I end up doing with it.
They don’t seem to mind, and I hate the thought of food going to waste.
I’m scrolling through Netflix, trying to find a new series to binge-watch, when my phone pings with a message.
Number 18: How’s your day going?
Me: Just hanging around the house. Yours?
I hesitate before hitting send. Replying like this opens up an all-new category of texting.
Do I want that? I have to admit, Landon has surprised me.
He came back to the shelter yesterday and, in no time, had everything on my to-do list completed.
Of course, it helped that Autumn was like a mother hen, not letting me get out of my chair.
Needless to say, with his help, I got caught up on all of my busy work that there never seems to be enough time in the day to complete.
Hence, the reason I’m bored. I normally bring it home with me to work on during the weekend.
I don’t mind it, and I know Autumn appreciates me doing so as she does the same thing.
I try to take on that role as she has a husband and a little boy at home.
I’m just me. My mom is back home in Georgia, and my dating life is nonexistent at the moment.
Number 18: Same. How about some dinner?
Me: Already in the Crock-Pot.
I’m glad that this is the truth and I don’t have to lie or just blatantly shut him down again. I would have thought he would have given up by now.
Number 18: Perfect. What time should I be there?
Me: …
Number 18: Come on, Tess. A man’s gotta eat.
His text is followed by a picture of the inside of what I assume is his refrigerator. It’s empty except for a carton of eggs, a gallon of milk, a few bottles of water, a couple of cans of White Claw, and a few bottles of Gatorade.
Me: I’m thinking you need to go grocery shopping.
Number 18: Will you go with me?
Me: No.
Number 18: I didn’t think so. I’ll be there in an hour. Do I need to bring anything?
Me: You’re not invited.
I type the words, but I admit, he’s not the worst company I’ve ever had. I was looking forward to a few days just to relax, but it’s kind of lonely here all alone all weekend.
Number 18: I’ve got dessert covered.
Me: Landon!
Number 18: Gotta go. See ya soon.
I don’t bother to text him back. I know he won’t reply. I also know he’s going to be at my door in an hour, possibly less, if our previous interactions and his tendency to be early is his usual MO.
I look down at the leggings I have on. They have little puppy golden retrievers on them, and the puppies are wearing Christmas hats.
Sure, it’s summertime in California, but my mom bought them for me two Christmases ago.
They’re super soft and comfy, and they remind me of home.
My shirt is a simple black tank top that shows the straps of my sports bra.
My hair is a knotted mess of curls on top of my head, my feet are bare, as is my face, since I didn’t bother with makeup.
I start to freak out, then decide this is a good thing.
He’s going to see me slumming it in my loungewear and run far, far away.
I refuse to be anyone but myself, even for the sexy quarterback.
Sure enough, forty-five minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
I stand from my nest on the couch, and I say nest because of all the blankets and pillows—I take lounging very seriously.
Pulling open the door, I take in the sight before me.
Landon is wearing basketball shorts, a skintight T-shirt, and slides.
In his hand is a box from a local bakery and a bouquet of flowers.
“Are you going to invite me in, Tessa?” His husky voice is laced with amusement.
“I told you that you weren’t invited.” I try to sound stern, but it’s hard when the man brings dessert and flowers. Oh, and let’s not forget he looks good enough to eat.
“Come on now.” He grins, and those damn dimples wink at me.
I was always going to let him in. I just had to make him think it was an inconvenience. Stepping back, I give him ample space to enter the house before closing the door behind him.
“Is that dinner I smell?” he asks, making his way to the kitchen to deposit the bakery box. He turns to face me. “Do you have a vase?”
“Yes, and I do.” Reaching under the kitchen sink, I pull out a vase and add some water.
I place it on the counter, and Landon carefully unwraps the flowers and slides them into the vase.
I watch him and his big hands, and those strong arms as he arranges the flowers until he’s satisfied.
They’re beautiful, and my heart tips over in my chest when I think about what it means when a man brings a woman flowers.
Sure, it can be a kind, friendly gesture, but in most cases, that’s not it.
They want more—romantically. He’s making it increasingly difficult to remember that he’s in this for the chase. Or is he?
“There. Where do you want them?”
“The table is fine.” I point to the center of the kitchen table and then rush to move the bowl of apples and oranges that are currently taking up that space, relocating them to the counter by the stove.
“So, what’s for dinner?” he asks.
“Chicken casserole.”
“It smells delicious.”
“Thanks. It won’t be done for another hour or so.” I glance at the clock and see it’s a few minutes after four.
“Perfect, let’s get you off that ankle.” He places his hand on the small of my back and guides us back to the living room.
The heat from his hand sears through my shirt and warms my skin. It makes me wonder what his calloused hands would feel like as they roam over my body. No, don’t go there, Tessa. I take a seat and gather my nest, sliding under the cover and holding the pillows to my chest.
“What’s up with all that?” He points to my lap.
I shrug. “It’s more of a comfort thing. I like to cuddle, and well, when you’re single and live alone, that’s not possible, so this is the next best thing.”
“I’ve never been much of a cuddler.”
“Have you ever tried it?”
“Not really, no.”
“There you go. Don’t knock it until you try it.” He nods and reaches for the pillows in my arms. “Hey, what are you doing? Get your own.” I point to the loveseat that houses two more pillows just like mine.
“You said don’t knock it until I try it,” he reminds me.
“Fine.” I concede and hand him the pillows.
I expect him to hold them to his chest like I just did, but instead, he tosses them on the floor and then pulls the blanket off me.
I don’t fight him and let him pull it from my lap.
My eyes dart to the blanket on the back of the loveseat, so I stand to grab it.
In fact, I think I’ll just start over with my nest there; he can have the couch. He is a lot taller than me.
Carefully, I begin to step over the pillows he tossed on the floor.
That’s all I need is to reinjure my ankle, or worse, injure the other one.
However, before I have the chance, his hands are on my hips as he pulls me into his lap.
“Ahh!” I scream, not expecting this turn of events.
“What in the hell are you doing?” I ask, trying to sit up so I can stand.
“I’m trying it out.”
“Trying what out?”
“Cuddling.”
“Not with me. With the blankets and pillows.”
“You said they were second best. I need to try the real thing to know if I’m a cuddler, right?”
“Not with me.” I try again to stand, but his hold is tight.
“Only with you” is his deep whispered reply. His lips next to my ear cause goose bumps to break out across my skin. “Just let me try it.” His thumb slides under my tank top, and he begins to trace the skin just above my leggings.
I open my mouth to tell him no, but instead, it closes on its own, and I nod.
It’s been way too long since I’ve cuddled with a man or had a man’s hands on me.
His are big and warm, and if the pad of his thumb is any indication, surprisingly soft for a man who spends hours a day on the football field.
“How do we do this, Tess?”
“W-We uh, should lie down.” I can’t believe I’m encouraging him, but the thought of snuggling up with him is far too tempting.
He taps my hip and, this time, allows me to stand.
I could make a mad dash for the loveseat, or hell, I could kick him out, but I do neither.
Instead, I stand and watch him arrange the pillows.
He grabs the throw and tosses it over the back of the couch, and then reaches for the remote.
Once he has what he thinks we’ll need, he stretches out on my couch, lying on his side, and pats the small space in front of him.
I hesitate. Am I really going to do this? I mean, sure, it’s just cuddling, but what if he thinks that means I’m willing to have sex with him? Well, I mean, I am willing, but I won’t do it. You know, catching feelings and all that.