CHAPTER SIX
SETH
I'm in a foul mood when I wake up.
My phone buzzes incessantly with texts from my COO, my project managers, and my assistant. Everyone needs something, and despite my clear instructions that I’m not to be bothered unless the world is physically ending, they continue to hound me.
Don’t they care that this is my health and my life on the line?
Fuck!
I run an agitated hand through my hair. It seems like it doesn’t matter to them as the phone continues to buzz with the flood of incoming messages.
I could have dropped dead during that meeting, and my death would have inconvenienced them in that they had to wait for my cooling body to be picked up. But business must go on.
And it can go on without me.
Defiantly, I turn off my phone and head into the bathroom to shower.
Hot water pounds against my shoulders, easing some of the tension that's lived there for months. Maybe years.
I step out, water dripping down my back, and grab a towel. Drying off quickly, I wrap it low around my hips, already thinking about-
No. Not work.
I switch my thoughts to something far more pleasant.
The morning walk. Jennifer will be here in twenty minutes, and we've been doing the lake trail every morning since the day she found my pill organizer. Doctor's orders: thirty minutes of movement daily.
Except it's stopped feeling like a chore. It's become the best part of my day. Hell, anytime she’s around has become the best part. For the past two nights I’ve been stalling and drawing out dinner conversation in a desperate bid to keep her here longer with me.
When she leaves, all the life in me seems to depart with her right out the door.
Which isn’t fair. It’s too much to place on her, and she’s not responsible for my happiness. Even if she does greatly enhance it. I need to learn to live for myself. Having her there beside me is just a benefit of living.
Grinning, I walk out of the bedroom into the main living space, heading for the kitchen to start the coffee before she arrives.
“Oh, my!”
I freeze.
Jennifer stands in the middle of the living room, clutching a spray bottle and a cloth, her eyes wide as saucers. Her gaze drops, then snaps back up to my face, her cheeks flooding with color.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Seven forty-five.
“It's seven forty-five,” I say calmly, watching her reaction. “You're early.”
“I... yes. I'm sorry. I thought...” She waves a hand vaguely, not finishing the sentence. Her eyes keep trying not to look at my chest, my abs, or the green towel slung low on my hips. It's almost amusing how hard she's fighting it.
Almost.
Because the way she's looking at me, even as she tries not to, does something to me, not just my cock, which is slowly lifting the towel, but also my heart and my head.
She's gorgeous when she's flustered, her short brown hair slightly mussed from the wind outside, those big brown eyes wide and overwhelmed.
And her curves in those jeans and that simple purple t-shirt are impossible to ignore.
How many nights and mornings have I dreamed about peeling her clothes off and laying claim to the sweet body underneath?
Countless.
I take a step toward the kitchen, watching her track the movement. Her lips part slightly, and I wonder what she's thinking. If she's imagining what I look like under this towel. If she's feeling brave enough to come closer.
“I need coffee,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intend. “And my meds. Do you need this towel for the wash?”
Her mouth opens and closes. “I... what?”
“The towel.” I gesture to the one around my hips, watching her face flush even deeper. “Laundry. Do you need it now?”
“No! No, I can... later is fine. I'll just...” She spins around, presenting me with her back, her shoulders rigid. “Sorry. I'll come back.”
She's heading for the door, practically fleeing, and something in me snaps.
I don't want her to go. Don't want to let her run from this thing that's been building between us since the moment we met. We’ve been taking things slow.
Far slower than I normally would, because this is more than something physical for me, and I want her to know that.
But it’s getting damn hard to keep my hands off her, and when she’s looking at me like this, my control is close to snapping.
I move quickly, catching up to her in the entryway. “Jennifer.”
She stops but doesn't turn around. “I'm really sorry. I should have knocked louder or...”
“Look at me.”
Slowly, she turns, keeping her eyes stubbornly on my face. That flush is still high on her cheeks, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. She's breathing fast, shallow, and I want to press my mouth to that pulse point and feel her heart race under my lips.
“We're still doing the walk this morning, right?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle. “After I get dressed?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She looks relieved to have something normal to focus on. “I'll just... I'll wait outside.”
“You don't have to leave.”
“I think I do.” But she's smiling slightly now, the panic fading. “For both our sakes.”
I let her go this time, watching as she slips out the front door. Then I head to my bedroom, grinning despite myself and the throbbing of my erection. She’s not ready for more. Yet.
Twenty minutes and a quick shower later, dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt, I find her on the deck with her coffee, looking out at the lake. The morning sun catches in her hair, and something in my chest tightens.
“Ready?” I ask.
She turns, and her eyes do a quick sweep of me before she catches herself. “Ready.”
We take the lake trail at an easy pace. I've learned she's not a fast walker, and she slows down to notice things. The way the light hits the water. A bird call she doesn't recognize. The smell of pine warming in the sun.
It's teaching me to slow down in a way meditation apps never could.
“How'd you sleep?” she asks.
“Seven hours.” I can't keep the satisfaction out of my voice. “No interruptions.”
“Seth, that's amazing!” She squeezes my hand, and her smile is genuine and proud. “That's the best yet, isn't it?”
“Yeah. I haven't slept seven straight hours since...” I try to remember. “Honestly, I don't know. College maybe?”
“How do you feel?”
I take inventory. My head is clear. The constant low-grade headache that lived behind my eyes for years is gone. My chest feels loose, each breath expanding it without pain. “Good. Really good.”
“I'm proud of you.”
The words hit me harder than they should. When was the last time someone said they were proud of me for something other than closing a deal or hitting a revenue target?
“I couldn't do it without you,” I say quietly.
“Yes, you could. You just needed a reason to try.”
“You're my reason.”
She looks up at me, those brown eyes soft and gooey like melted chocolate, and I have to kiss her. Right here on the trail, with the morning sun warm on our shoulders and the lake glittering below us.
She tastes like coffee and something sweet, and when she sighs against my mouth, I want to forget the walk and carry her back to the cabin.
But I don't. Because what’s simmering between us, the slow build, the anticipation, and the getting to know her, is part of the healing too.
Sure, I might want to tear both our clothes off and part her sweet thighs almost every moment I’m with her, but being with Jennifer is more than that.
I can see a life with her, not simply a few pleasurable moments.
When we finally make it back to the cabin, my watch shows we did the full thirty minutes. Plus another ten because we kept stopping to kiss.
“Breakfast?” she asks, and I nod.
“Sounds good. What are we making?”
“We?” She raises an eyebrow. “You want to help cook?”
I grin. “I'm not completely useless in the kitchen. I made a lot of omelets in college.”
“Okay then, Mr. Omelet. Show me what you've got.”
We fall into an easy rhythm. She chops vegetables while I whisk the eggs. I tell her about my tiny apartment kitchen in graduate school and how I lived on eggs and ramen and coffee. She tells me about learning to cook from her mom and Sunday dinners that lasted for hours.
“I miss that,” she says softly. “The slow Sunday feeling. Like time doesn't matter.”
“We could do that.” I'm already planning it. “This Sunday. We make something that takes hours. Homemade pasta or a roast or something.”
“You'd want to spend all day cooking?”
“I'd want to spend all day with you. Cooking is just the excuse.”
She blushes, and I love that I can make her do that.
Over breakfast- perfectly fluffy omelets, thank you very much- I check my blood pressure with the monitor I keep on the counter. It's become part of the routine. Morning reading, evening reading, log it in the app my cardiologist monitors.
“One thirty-two over eighty-four,” I read off the display.
Jennifer leans over to see. “Is that good?”
“It's better. Still not perfect, but better.” I pull up the app and show her the graph. “See? Day one was one sixty over ninety-eight. It's been dropping steadily.”
While she studies the graph, I study her. My gaze moving over her profile and memorizing every small detail about her, from the way she nibbles on her lips when she’s concentrating to the adorable little crease between her eyebrows.
“You're doing so well,” she says finally. “I'm really proud of you, Seth.”
There it is again. That pride in her voice and the warmth in her eyes. It makes me want to be better and do better. Not for the company, or the shareholders, or the board.
For her.
And for what’s slowly building between us.