32. Athena
CHAPTER 32
Athena
FEbrUARY 14TH
I have to admit, when Scott told me our Valentine’s Day plans involved yoga pants and no makeup—unless I wanted to wear it, of course— I wasn’t sure what to expect.
My annoying as fuck brothers have kept me occupied for the last couple hours while Scott has been let loose in my apartment. If he’s trying to bake brownies or some shit and sets fire to the house, I’ll kill them all.
Sure, I could afford to replace the building, but I’d really rather not. Abuelita has always said that just because we have money, doesn’t always mean we have to spend it on stupid shit. She and Mamá have come from nothing, and while we live in an enormous house, and we don’t want for nothing, they’ve always been smart with their money.
They’re the people I use for my North Star when it comes to managing my money.
Papá on the other hand, for all the riches he has in his vault, like Scrooge McDuck, he can often make impulsive and rash choices which result in poor investments. I often wonder if he’s lost as much money as he has made. Or worse, perhaps even more.
I did exactly what Scott suggested, I’m not wearing makeup, I’m in yoga pants and a UCR hoodie, and I didn’t even blow dry my hair straight. That shit is wild and probably still damp because my hair takes so damn long to dry.
My building’s still in one piece, at least for now, and from the outside as I approach. Scott also told me no gifts. So, while I have a bag of snacks in my hand containing a packet of Nerd ropes, some seasonal Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and a family sized box of Cheez-Its for my boyfriend, I didn’t go crazy. Even though I wanted to.
I want to give him the world. He has no idea how much he means to me, how amazing he is, how strong, and kind, and funny, and, and, and… At the end of the day, anyone can make money and be wealthy, but not everyone can be a good person. Scott’s the best, and for some reason, he’s picked me.
The thought sends a shiver through my body. He picked me. I hate getting all giddy about a boy, but I can’t help it.
Scott Raine makes me giddy.
I roll my eyes to myself as I walk past the concierge. There are two people sitting in the chairs in the lobby, both on their laptops, and a third who is scrolling on his phone with a bunch of roses draped across his knee.
The elevator ride to my apartment takes longer than usual. It doesn’t, not really, but it feels like it does because I’m impatient to see my guy. Mi amor.
My door takes two attempts to open because my hand is trembling so much, I almost drop the damn key. I’ve never had a Valentine’s date. I’ve never had someone surprise me or go to any effort for me or put me on a spending ban for a holiday.
Usually, my dates want me to spend money on them. I get the check, I buy them gifts, one guy even dated me to ask me for investment in his crypto start up. I applaud his moxie, but also, don’t fuck with me.
Scott never fucks with me, he’s never wanted my brothers’ money, he’s never wanted anything from me that isn’t my most authentic and ‘just me’ self.
“Hello?”
There’s no answer when I call into my apartment.
“Scottie?”
I push the door open, step inside, and drop the bag of goodies on the couch.
“Gizmo? Where the heck are you?”
My stomach drops. Is this my Valentine’s Day fate? To be stood up by my boyfriend?
Hands grip my hips from behind, pulling me against a solid body. His hands skim my stomach and obliques as they travel up my body, settling on my breasts.
“Beep! Beep!” He honks my boobs while burrowing his bristly chin against my neck. “Right here, Bright Eyes.” He squeezes my boobs harder, pulling a low moan from me, his cock hardening against my ass. “I said no gifts.”
I shrug, tipping my head back against his shoulder. “What can I say? I’m the gift that keeps on giving.”
He points past me toward the couch. “I see a bag.”
Holding my hands up, I turn to face him. “Just snacks, nothing more. And if you don’t want them, I’ll take them.” I give him my most innocent smile, batting my eyelashes up at him. “Plus, I’d bring snacks at any time. It has nothing to do with the fact it’s Valentine’s.”
It’s all true, and he can’t argue.
He opens his mouth to speak but snaps it shut.
Smart man.
“I’m not arguing with you, Athena, but I am eating your snacks.”
I grin at him. “I’m a snack.”
He slides his hands under my hoodie and finds my skin. “You’re my favorite snack.”
There’s a war happening on his face. He clearly wants to bounce me on his cock here and now, but there’s something else on his face. After a long moment stretching out between us, he shakes his head. “Not yet. I have a plan, dammit. I’m not letting you distract me with your wiles.”
“My… what?”
He wags a finger at me as he walks toward my kitchen. “Your wiles.”
“Aaaaand which part of me would that be, exactly, Mr. Raine?” I purse my lips together, ogling his hockey butt as he ignores me, continuing his journey to the kitchen.
He shakes his head. “I’d answer, but I’m afraid you might turn me into a spider if I get too sassy.”
I love when he brings the mythology. “She didn’t turn Arachne into a spider because she was sassy, she turned her into a spider because she was a wicked good seamstress.”
He spins to face me, pointing finger guns at me. “I’m wicked good at so many things. And I think making webs would be so much fun.” His finger guns morph into Spiderman hands as he pretends to shoot webbing out of his hands.
Do they ever really grow up?
I shake my head, letting out a semi-exasperated laugh. “What’s the plan?” I’d normally rock back on my heels and tuck my hands into the ass pockets of my jeans, except I’m not wearing them. I’m not wearing heels, or jeans, or my signature red lipstick, and to be honest, I feel kind of… vulnerable?
He flashes me a devastatingly handsome smile, gesturing for me to step all-the-way into the kitchen. He’s wearing an old, worn UCR t-shirt and those low-riding grey sweats that make me swallow my tongue and turn my brain into a porn show. Fucking hell.
When he lifts his hands above his head, making his shirt ride up so I can see his Adonis belt peeking out between the fabric, he snickers.
We both know I’m wet, just from seeing a sliver of his skin and his junk sitting pretty in those sweats. Bare feet complete the package, and while I wouldn’t go barefoot in the hockey house, the fact he’s not wearing shoes or anything in my home makes something stir inside me.
The man is a vision, he’s tall, more startlingly gorgeous than I think he realizes, and he’s just good vibes, you know?
As though he’s seeing the pornographic footage on repeat inside my mind, he reaches behind his head, grabs the neck of his shirt, and pulls it off over his head.
Sweet, delicious abs, it’s not even my birthday.
He discards his shirt over the back of one of my dining chairs and picks something up from the counter. When he tosses it to me, he smirks. “Catch, Bright Eyes.”
It lands in my hand, a cream, squishy ball of dough. “?Qué es esto? Pizza dough?”
He nods, still smirking. “You ready to get your hands dirty, pretty girl?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say “Sí, Papi,” but I bite it down, my face heating with the power of ten fires, and instead, I simply nod.
He studies my face like he’s scented something, but after a beat he jerks his head. “Come on, we’re making dinner. Everything else is upstairs.”
Upstairs? “You mean on the roof?”
His smile widens, and everything about him radiates joy, like a new puppy spinning in circles chasing its tail. “Yeah, sound okay?”
Pizza on the roof with my guy sounds pretty romantic to me. There’s a great view of downtown Cedar Rapids from my rooftop. And a space heater, because it’s fucking February and if the space heater isn’t working, we’re going to have to abort that plan and move inside.
We spend a few minutes kneading dough, our elbows touching while we work the stretchy substance out on the counter. Scott stuffs his crust with mozzarella sticks, and when he’s done, we place our pizza bases in a pizza pan. We add tomato sauce, select toppings from Scott’s pizza topping buffet, and now it makes sense why he has blue Band-Aids on each of his thumbs, my boy chopped everything himself, from scratch.
Also explains why I was out of the house for so long today. He’s so teeth-erodingly sweet.
While our pizzas cook, he pours us each a glass of Champagne, then holds out his glass ready for a clink.
“To the person who sees me.” The words stick on their way out of my mouth, like they’ve steeped in honey and are slow to escape. “And the person I love more than Twizzlers and Top Gun.”
His eyes glisten with warmth as he clinks his glass against mine. “That’s high praise, Athena.” He tips his head to the side. “Not sure I could say that I love you more than hockey…” He purses his lips together like he’s actually weighing up which he loves more.
“Hockey can’t suck your cock.” It’s the simple truth, and if you can find me a man who isn’t led through life by his penis-y penis, I’ll eat my words.
He lifts his glass a little higher. “To the woman I love more than hockey.”
That’s what I fucking thought.
He smiles at me as we each take a sip from our glasses. About twenty minutes later, we’re both wearing sweaters, he’s got his UCR Raccoons ball cap on back to front, and we’re standing at the door to the roof with three pizza boxes, and a cooler with the rest of the bottle of Champagne in it—though it’s cold enough out here the cooler was probably wishful thinking. He didn’t let me carry any of it.
When the door swings open, I can see why. The sight in front of me takes my breath away, and both hands fly to my face to drown out a gasp. There are strings of lights hung across the rooftop space. There’s a giant beanbag-seat-thing which might simply be a stack of blankets and quilts facing the wall next to another food buffet. Only this time, it’s snacks, popcorn and candy.
Pizza, snuggles, snacks, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s got a projector set up to show something on the wall.
How is this my life? Overwhelm threatens to swallow me whole, my jaw shakes, my eyes fill with tears. I’ve never been so emotional until I let Scott Fucking Raine inside my heart, and now I feel like a weak ass crybaby.
Shit. This man is good.
He’s staring at my face, watching my every reaction. When I don’t say anything—not because I don’t want to, but because the words are all caught in my windpipe—he simply walks toward the giant cuddle pod, puts his haul down, turns to me, and opens his arms.
I rush to him, gripping his cheeks with both my sweater-covered hands and kiss the ever-loving-shit out of him until neither of us can kiss for another second unless we take a breath.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I love it so much.”
He casts his eyes to the side like he’s looking at his work. “Are you sure? If you’d rather we get dressed up and go out, I don’t mind. I just thought with all your?—”
I stop his lips with another kiss. I don’t need to know why he did it, I don’t need to be offered alternatives to something that’s already perfect. “Stop doubting yourself, Scottie.” The words are so full of emotion I’m hoping he pays real attention to them. “I don’t ever want to change you.”
His face softens, his eyes swirling with a myriad of emotions.
“I will only ever want the same you that I first met, the same you that farts in front of me on the couch, the same you that confesses your love to me in front of my brothers, the same you that loves me so fiercely. Never feel like you’re not enough for me, Scottie, because you’re my everything.”
He nods, but his thumb presses between my brows. “Don’t have sad eyes, Bright Eyes. You know I always want to make you feel better when you’re sad. I’ll always be your shoulder.” He shrugs. “You know, to cry on, or put your feet on, whatever the situation calls for.”
He wiggles his brows, breaking the thick and suffocating tension between us and making us both laugh. “Let’s eat. We have our whole lives to convince each other that our inadequacies aren’t real, but the pizza’s probably cold already.”
Guiding me to the oversized, squishy pillow thing on the ground with his hand on my lower back, he gestures for me to sit down. While I’m shaking my butt into the giant cushion, he sits next to me, serves me my handmade pizza in its box, a tin of Fresca, and hits play on Notting Hill.
Be still my aching heart, this man is such a romantic.
By the time we clear all three pizzas, eat the strawberry, marshmallow, and brownie skewers Scott tells me are responsible for one of the Band-Aids on his hand, and devour the popcorn, the movie is over, and the end credits are coming up on the wall screen.
I’m too comfy to move, and the fact Scott’s not making any overtures about standing up suggests he’s feeling a similar vibe.
I find my way under his layers, stroking my cool hand on his hot stomach enjoying the contented noise it pulls from his body.
He yawns. “You wanna head inside?”
I shake my head against his chest. “No.” My hand moves over the crotch in his sweats. He’s already hard. “I want your cock.”