26. Jensen
26
JENSEN
Propped on an elbow, I rest my head in my hand and wait for Maisy to awaken. I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight than her in my bed. Her natural face, free of makeup. Her curls fanning out across the black satin pillow. Thick lashes kissing her freckled cheeks. Pouty, lush lips parted slightly, her soft breaths flowing in and out. The urge to trail my fingers along every slope, line, and curve of her face consumes me. But I keep my hands to myself to keep from waking her.
Her cell phone buzzes for the millionth time, and I snag it off the nightstand. I’m not sure how it ended up in my bedroom, but it’s been lighting up with messages for the past hour—group chats and individual texts from her California crew. Apparently, she’s popular among her friends. Needed , according to some of the partially displayed messages.
I scroll through the endless notifications but stop myself from opening the texts and invading her privacy. The tracking app comes to mind, but I sweep the nagging guilt aside. Now that she’s promised to stay, I promise myself I’ll quit looking at it. Not seeing any urgent texts requiring her attention, I return her phone to the table and resume my watch over the sleeping beauty beside me.
The morning sunlight slips through the small gaps in the blinds, and her eyelids flutter as the new day pulls her from the depths of slumber. To my pleasant surprise, she snuggled against me all night. I tried to sleep on my side, but woke to find myself on my stomach with an arm draped across her waist.
Lying on her back, she stretches her arms and legs out straight before rolling toward me and curling into my chest. “Good morning,” she says with a lazy grin on her lips.
“Good morning, beautiful.” I graze my knuckles along her jawline, relishing her soft skin and the fact that she’s still in my bed. “I’m sorry if I crushed you last night after all.”
She hums, the sound raspy and thick with sleep. “Crush away. I haven’t slept that good in ages. How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to know your friends are morning people.”
“Sorry,” she says, wincing. “I got my phone in the middle of the night out of habit. Marcus hates when he can’t reach us, and I forget that won’t be an issue anymore.”
A hint of sadness touches her eyes, but she blinks it away and reaches for her phone. “Geez. They’re busy this morning.” She scrolls through the messages, and there’s surprise in her voice when she says, “You didn’t read them.”
“Why would I?” I’m grateful when she dismisses my rhetorical question and tosses her phone aside. I grab her hip, and tug her against me to bury my nose in her hair. “Please tell me you still don’t drink coffee, because I don’t have any.”
I’m not a coffee drinker. Aside from the occasional soda, I avoid caffeine and other stimulants. My brain doesn’t need any extra help to work overtime.
“I only drink it when I’m jet-lagged and if it’s 90 percent milk and sugar.”
“Sweet tooth.” I suck on her throat, careful not to leave a bruise, and she rocks her hips in response.
“I’m a sweet person.”
I roll her onto her back and kneel between her legs, peeling off her panties. “Are you?”
A contented sigh escapes her when I push her shirt over her breasts and plant open-mouth kisses across her smooth stomach. I swirl my tongue around her belly button, but don’t move any lower while massaging her inner thighs.
“You’re such a tease,” she says, squirming under my touch.
I chuckle at the huffing noise she makes, frustrated with herself for throwing a little fit and appearing needy.
“What do you want for breakfast?” I swipe my tongue along her seam to get a taste of her arousal. “I have fruity cereal and healthy cereal.”
The most adorable scowl appears on her face. “Focus.”
“I’m focused on breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.” I lightly graze her thigh with my teeth, and she shudders, her pelvis lifting from the mattress in search of more . Rather than give her what she craves, I roll off the bed and say, “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
A growl and the sound of palms slapping the mattress follow me to the kitchen. Satisfaction rests on my lips as I set the dishes, cereal boxes, and milk on the island.
Maisy handles her business in the bathroom and glides into the kitchen with my notebook tucked under her arm. The T-shirt she borrowed last night hits just above her knees, the sleeves falling well past her elbows.
“You should bring some clothes over here for when you stay the night.” She averts her eyes, a sign I’ve said the wrong thing, and climbs onto a stool. So I change the subject and gesture at the breakfast spread. “Fruity or healthy.”
She crinkles her nose at the box of oat and almond cereal. “Fruity.”
We dig into our breakfast as she flips through the notebook, studying my horrendous drawings with poorly veiled amusement on her face.
“Is this you doing a cartwheel?” she asks, squinting at one particular sketch.
“No. I almost fell off the roof when I saved your Barbie doll after Logan threw it up there.”
She rolls her eyes and continues turning the pages. “‘Saved’ is a bit of an exaggeration.”
“You got it back, didn’t you? I was a damn hero that day.”
Still flipping, she doubles back when a flash of red on one page catches her eye. “Why are you covered in blood? And why the hell am I dressed like Catwoman?”
“It’s not blood. Remember the outfit you made me wear to the homecoming dance my senior year?”
Maisy insisted my date would prefer me in a color other than black, so she raided Logan’s closet and forced me into a red shirt and matching pants. We laughed at how ridiculous I looked and laughed even harder when Logan realized I was wearing his clothes.
“Logan was furious. He didn’t like anyone touching his things,” she says, smiling at the memory.
I packed the pages of the notebook with as many of our playful moments as I could. Unfortunately, I didn’t finish drawing a full picture of our future. But I’m not complaining. She’s here now, which is all that matters.
“What are these?” She points to the stick figures standing outside a brick house—the house where we’re currently enjoying breakfast together.
“Our kids.”
With her lips pressed in a tight line, she scans the page, taking in all the other hand-drawn details. The crooked house, the weird-looking dog, the garden of wild rose bushes.
”You don’t want kids.” It’s not a question, but an observation based on her shuttered facial expression and the stiffness in her hunched shoulders.
My stomach suddenly feels like an empty cavern despite the cereal I’ve eaten. I rest my spoon in my bowl and plant my elbows on the counter, hands folded and pressed to my mouth to keep from saying the wrong thing. To keep from saying anything at all.
Tension sits heavily between us as I consider her reaction to the imaginary kids. I assumed by the way she cared for her dolls when she was younger, treating them with love and tenderness, that she dreamed of having her own children one day. That, perhaps, her delicate handling of them was her way of pretending to be the mother she didn’t have. Apparently, I assumed wrong.
She casts me an uneasy glance and asks, “If I don’t, does that change anything for you? For us?”
I want a family—of course I do—and raising that family with her would be a dream come true. More than anything else, however, I just want her. While I find the thought of not having kids of my own someday disheartening, the notion of a future without Maisy is a thousand times more painful. It’s unacceptable.
“No. It changes nothing,” I say, my tone gentle and reassuring.
“You’ll tell me if it does? You’d be a great dad, and I’ll never ask you to settle for less than the future you want.”
Turning on my stool to face her, I skim my knuckles along her cheek, reassuring her further with my touch. “The only future I’ve ever envisioned is one with you in it.”
“If you’re sure. Honestly, I’ve never given much thought to having kids, so who knows if I’ll still feel this way in a few years. I could change my mind. But I don’t ever want to take anything away from you, J, and if I can’t give you what you want or need, I’ll understand if you?—”
I lean forward and cut off her nervous rambling with a firm kiss to her lips. “I’m sure, birdie.”
Her shoulders relax, and her mouth twitches as she attempts to lighten the mood. She points to a different drawing on the page and says, “I could totally get behind this Komodo dragon.”
“That’s a dog,” I deadpan. She grimaces, and my stomach dips yet again. “You don’t like dogs?”
Mirth shines in her hazel eyes when they meet mine. I swear her twisted sense of humor will be the death of me. “I love dogs,” she says.
“Four-legged kids it is then.”
“We’re talking an awful lot about the future after just one night. We’re supposed to be exploring this.”
Shaking my head, I say, “There’s nothing to explore. We both said we’re all in. But we can put this notebook on a shelf and take things one day at a time.”
When she sighs again, the sound of her relief both hurts and heals. It hurts because I want to fast-track our future, secured by her solemn vow to stay at my side. It heals because she’s not racing out the door to get as far away from me as she can. Maisy knows I’m an intense man, and I’ll have to work on balancing my level of intensity with her need to remain cautious and move slowly.
“Thank you,” she says while scooping a spoonful of cereal. “I will say that if you plan on keeping me around, you’ll need to buy some groceries.”
“Make a list—whatever you want. But fair warning, I can’t cook anything from scratch.”
Pink tinges her cheeks. “I enjoy cooking, and I’m pretty good at it.”
“Then we make a great team.” I hold out my fist to bump knuckles, biting back a grin when she narrows her eyes.
“We’re not doing that,” she says.
“How about a chest bump? Or a slap on the ass?” My teasing earns me a handful of cereal in the face, but I welcome the food fight because she’s laughing right along with me.
After we clean up our breakfast, she gets dressed and makes a beeline for the front door.
“Will you be back tonight?” I ask as she steps outside. I’m in my underwear, so I don’t cross the threshold behind her.
“We’ll see how the day goes.”
She glances down the street with a look of uncertainty on her face. Either she’s worried someone might see her wearing the clothes she had on yesterday, or she’s freaking out again and wants to bolt.
Even though option two is the real reason she’s nervous, I plant a shoulder on the doorframe, arms folded over my chest, and tease her. “You act like you’ve never done the walk of shame before.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and she whisper-hisses, “It’s not the walk of shame.”
I smirk. “Isn’t it? You showed up late last night, got what you wanted, and now you’re leaving. Plus, you look thoroughly fucked.”
Huffing, she pats her hair and adjusts the purse strap on her shoulder. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“I’m going now,” she says primly before turning and striding away with her chin held high.
“Thanks for the good time. Let’s do it again soon,” I call after her while waving. No neighbors are around, but I’m having too much fun riling her up to assure her we don’t have witnesses.
She sends me a scathing glare before climbing into the truck and slamming the door.
As she drives offs, my amusement fades, giving way to my recollection of her standoffish demeanor. She didn’t hug me or kiss me goodbye, and she made no promises to see me later or even tomorrow. I got nothing from her, which means she won’t be back any time soon. All I can do is prepare myself for the sting of rejection sure to come.
Birdie
I’m staying at Pam’s again tonight.
Me
Okay.
Although I saw it coming, I’m bothered and hurt that Maisy has so easily brushed me off over the past two days. She’s not one to play games, so her distant behavior isn’t some ploy to get me to chase her. However, I wonder how she would react if I did. What if I showed up at Pam’s house and demanded Maisy come home with me? Without a doubt, she’d curse at me and run me off.
I’ll give her space, but only because I no longer have to contend with distance. She’s in Walford. Now I have to keep her here.
Charlie and Ainsley huddle around a table with their textbooks open and papers spread out. They must have a class together; this isn’t the first time they’ve come in early to work on an assignment.
Strolling toward their table, I ask, “What are y’all working on?”
“Studying for a history final,” Charlie mutters without looking up, flipping a pen between his fingers, his eyes scanning his notes.
“Cool.” I slide my hands into my front pockets. “Mind if I interrupt for a little impromptu staff meeting about the festival this weekend?”
Ainsley sets her pencil down, giving me her attention while Charlie’s gaze searches the room. “Shouldn’t we wait for Javi?” he asks.
Hiding my annoyance behind a blank mask, I say, “You do know Javi doesn’t actually work here.”
Bewildered, his eyebrows hike up behind his floppy curls. “Seriously? But he’s here all the time.”
“I’ll give him a recap later.”
I’ve offered to pay Javi for his help at Bruno’s, but he refuses. Sure, he’s a social butterfly who enjoys being in the mix, but I’m no fool. He helps as an excuse to babysit me, especially now that Maisy’s in town. More than likely, he’s concerned that if he’s not on watch, I’ll wander off into my mind’s desert like a lost soul, unable to find my way back. He has his own career as a life coach, but he invests a lot of hours in keeping my business from going under.
“What about him?” Charlie jerks his chin toward the bar where Trevor taps away at his laptop. He changes work locations more often than he changes his damn crew socks.
I lean my elbows on the table and shake my head. “Don’t worry about him.”
Just as I open my mouth to kick off the staff meeting, Javi bursts through the door with a to-go cup from The Drip, the liquid sloshing over the rim and wetting his hand.
“I’m here. I made it,” he says, catching his breath, winded from the one-block sprint.
“Made it for what?” I ask, frowning at his sudden appearance.
He couldn’t have possibly known about this impromptu meeting. As the thought crosses my mind, Ainsley slips her cell phone over the edge of the table, a blush warming her cheeks.
“Did you text him and tell him about this meeting?”
She winces, seeming a little chagrinned at least. “He may not technically be an employee, but he works here a lot. And we might need him at the festival, right?”
“I’m sure the three of us can manage a beer cart and the table.” My tone leaves no doubt I’m ruffled by their lack of confidence in my management skills.
Once again, Charlie looks around the room and asks, “What about Riley?”
Jesus Christ. Does this kid have zero faith in me too?
Riley is another server who helps when we have big events—parties and karaoke nights and such. She’s a freelance server who floats between multiple restaurants and bars in the area, a labor source that works well for bars in small towns like Walford.
“We won’t need anyone’s help,” I snap. Charlie flinches, and regret floods through me. I sigh and rub a hand across my scruff. “Trust me, between the three of us, we’ve got this covered.”
Javi and Ainsley share a look that makes my skin boil. It’s bad enough for him to monitor my mental well-being, but to have Ainsley keeping an eye on me like his little minion irks me to no end. This is my bar, my pride and joy. I’m the boss here, and I don’t appreciate them observing me as if I’m a loose cannon.
I summon my calm through a long inhale. “Our setup will be simple. We’ll serve cheap beer from kegs. The indoor bar will be closed until the festival ends, then we’ll open it for the night, business as usual. Two people will man the cart, and one of us will work the table for the karaoke sign-ups and the prize raffles.”
Crap. That reminds me, I need to create and print a Bruno’s gift certificate to add to the Main Street gift card bouquet offered jointly by the businesses. Every year, it’s the most high-value prize and the most coveted.
“How big is this festival?” Ainsley asks. This will be her first year to experience Walford’s May festival, which has a larger turnout than the one held after Christmas, triple the number of attendees at least.
“Big enough,” Javi replies between sips of his drink. “People come from all over for the local artisan’s stalls, but we estimate only about a quarter—maybe less—will drink beer throughout the day.”
I hammer the point home. “Like I said, it’ll be simple. No frills, no spills.”
Nods and murmurs of agreement come from the trio. With a rap of my knuckle on the table, I call the meeting to a close and leave the students to their textbooks. My next stop is the kitchen to prep food for the evening. Thankfully, Javi doesn’t follow and joins Trevor at the bar instead. I’m irritated that he barged into my meeting as if I don’t have a handle on things, and I can’t deal with him right now.
Alone in the kitchen, I check the tracking app on my phone. It didn’t take me long after Maisy left the other morning to break my self-made promise not to look. The app shows she’s at Pam’s house now. I’d love to see the blinking dot at my house every minute while she’s in town. I vowed to be patient, but a desperate man can only maintain his resolve for so long.
Phone in hand, I consider sending her a text. Each time I’ve drafted a message today, asking when I’ll see her again, I deleted it. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing and scaring her away.
I know better than anyone how words can affect people. They can cause problems after being misinterpreted or misconstrued. They can also burrow into your mind and stay forever, a constant reminder of your shortcomings. When Maisy needed me to be Mr. Perfect for her, I failed. On Vera’s porch, those two words seared into my brain, and they haunt me to this day.