Chapter 32 Warren
THIRTY-TWO
WARREN
The box of baby clothes and the mini bathtub balance precariously in my arms as I wait for Harriet to answer the door.
“You’re early,” Harriet greets. I can’t see her from behind the mountain of stuff my sister and mom forced on me when they knew I was visiting her today.
“Yeah, sorry. Overestimated how busy the traffic would be.” I shift my arms awkwardly. “I come bearing gifts.”
“Oh, wow. Well, come in. Watch your step.” She places her hands on my forearms to guide me inside the warmth of the cottage. “You can put it all on the table.”
Before I even place it on the small dining table, she’s sifting through the haul, awwing and cooing. “These are precious. Diana mentioned she had some old gender neutral clothing. I’ll text her thanks.”
My brows rocket to my hairline. “You have my sister’s number?”
“Uh-huh. She’s given me lots of tips on brands.” She extracts her head from the box, looks up at me, and immediately blanches. “You’re naked!”
I lower my gaze to my jeans and sweater. “Unless you have X-ray vision, I assure you, I’m not.”
She bats the air. “Your face is naked. Where’s the beard?”
Ah. “Had to shave it off for apparatus testing.”
“Oh.” She’s not stealthy enough to hide her disappointment.
“Did you…like the beard?” My shoulders draw back, feeling oddly insecure. I could grow it back in a week, but I don’t tell her that for fear of sounding insecure.
She blushes. “On you, yes. Not that I don’t like what you’ve got going on under it, but, um…”
“What?”
She drags a finger down my jaw, sending a shiver across my body. “You’ve done an awful job. Did you do this drunk? With a pair of garden shears?”
Now I’m the one blushing. Since when do I fucking blush? “I was in a rush.”
To see her and wish her luck for her meeting tomorrow.
The corner of her mouth tilts up. “Do you want help? It’s kinda patchy, and your mustache is wonky.”
“That’s not necessary,” I start, but she’s already abandoned the mini socks and hats, gesturing me to follow her upstairs.
“I can’t, in good faith, let you wander around the streets looking like that.” She winks before disappearing around the corner.
Like a dog with a bone, I follow.
This is the first time I’ve seen the main bedroom since she moved in. Throw pillows, blankets, candles, photographs litter the space. The once blank canvas is filled with soft, feminine accents. I chuckle at the assortment of signs hanging on the wall.
Inhale the good shit, exhale the bullshit.
Do we really need a sign that says Live, Laugh, Love?
I linger, taking it all in, and imagine her cozied up under the thick comforter of an evening. Does she read? Watch TV?
“In here,” she calls.
I enter the small en suite to find her holding a pair of grooming scissors and razor. My stomach churns. Did they belong to her ex? I’m about to decline her offer a second time when she clocks my expression.
“Relax. They’re unused. I bought them for when my dad visits.” She pats the lid of the toilet. “C’mon. Park it.”
Nothing is in sync around her and my legs move before my brain grants them permission.
She crosses all my wires. I know it’s trouble as I lower to sit—that allowing myself to be in such close proximity to her for any amount of time is bad for my blood pressure—yet I do it anyway.
Glutton for fucking punishment, and I’m the maker of it all.
Harriet drags the laundry hamper across the tiled floor. There’s no time to prepare before she’s wedging herself between my spread legs, our eyes almost level.
I stop breathing. It’s for the best.
The sink sits directly to my left. She fills it with warm water and shakes the can of shaving cream.
“What are the rules? Mustaches are okay, but no beard?”
“Yes. The rest needs to be clean shaven for them to check our equipment fits. Have you done this before?”
“Nope. Don’t worry, I haven’t seen Sweeney Todd. ” She smiles angelically. “I’ll trim the mustache first and then shave. Lean forward a little.”
I do as she asks. With steady hands, she snips away at my mustache. She holds the side of my face to tilt me in whichever direction. The rational part of me thinks I should close my eyes. The leading, irrational other half enjoys watching her lips twist in concentration, brows furrowing slightly.
When our eyes clash, I look away. Not a smart move, as I’m drawn to the freckle above her upper lip.
Fuck. Now I’m remembering biting and kissing that exact freckle while she writhed and arched underneath me.
My cock stiffens behind my zipper and my body screams at me to move and ease the building pressure.
I’m about to ask for a break when she pulls away, beaming proudly at her handiwork. “Perfect.”
Not the word I’d use to describe this moment.
I keep quiet and nod stiffly, willing the blood pumping south to divert elsewhere.
She squirts cream into her hand, lathers it up, then looks at me for consent.
I shouldn’t. I’m not sure how much more of this I can handle.
This was supposed to be a flying visit, and instead, I’ve locked myself in a torture chamber.
I nod like the weak man I am.
Harriet smears the foam over my cheeks and chin before picking up the razor. “Stay still. I don’t want to rush this.”
Please, please, fucking rush.
“Okay,” I croak.
Her hands return. This time, it’s worse. She leans closer, the outside of her thighs brushing the inside seams of my jeans. Her warm breath fans over my face, sweet, with a hint of coffee. What flavor cereal did she choose today? Does she need restocking? What god-forsaken perfume does she wear?
My racing thoughts keep me somewhat distracted, but only temporarily.
She twists my head so I’m forced to look at her again.
A hardship and blessing. Apparently, she needs to be closer, and when she scoots forward, her knees knock into my tightly locked hands, not so discreetly hiding my growing erection.
For some unearthly reason, I move them to rest on the outside of her thighs. She jumps at the contact, and I pull back.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s fine.” Is her voice breathy? “It might be better. To steady yourself, you know?”
I return them and resist the urge to caress the velvety material of her leggings.
She continues with her task, though this time, our eyes don’t flit away whenever they meet. They loiter, and every time her blue orbs find mine, her pupils dilate. My heart jackhammers against my ribcage—fighting to get out, get away, get closer? I don’t know.
It’s then, after spending longer than necessary watching her delicate throat work with a swallow, that I notice she’s finished.
We don’t move.
Her fingers coast down my jaw until her thumb rests in the divot of my chin. My fingers flex, needing to feel the warmth of her silky skin. God, I’ve never ached for someone as much as I do her.
A meteor strike couldn’t force me to move in this moment.
We could pretend the world outside this tiny bathroom doesn’t exist. No past or present, just the now. I could kiss her. She could kiss me back. I could lay her out on her messy bed. She could help me escape again.
Could but shouldn’t.
The night we shared in October will have to suffice. It has to.
Harriet swipes her thumb over my top lip, her voice raspy, skating over my skin until goose bumps rise. “All done.”
And I’m undone, an unraveled mess of tattered strings and broken pieces.
I rise, careful not to touch her.
“I need to clean your face.” She goes to grab a washcloth, but I get there first. I’m moving sharply, hands trembling. This was idiotic of me.
“I can do it. You did a great job.” I haven’t even looked in the mirror.
She blinks at my dismissive tone. “Of course. Any time.”
This can’t happen again. Friends don’t do this. I’m ready to hightail it out of here, face a mess or not. A reaction she doesn’t deserve. She’s being kind, and here I am again, reacting shitty.
“Thank you for helping. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it.” I stare at my feet, not wanting to see disappointment in her eyes again.
“I get it. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” She brushes past me and pauses inside the doorway. “I’ll miss the beard, but I also hope you return to full duties, so I better get used to it. Thank you for dropping off the clothes.”
She goes to make her escape, only I catch her by the wrist before she can disappear. “Good luck with your meeting tomorrow. Text me how it goes?”
“You remembered?”
I shrug as if it’s no big deal. The real truth: there isn’t anything about Harriet I’d ever forget.