Chapter 23 Dax
dax
Having Clementine in my space was a mistake.
A colossal one.
Hours later, her coconut aroma still lingers.
Much as I want to be lying in bed, being surrounded by the memories of our time together isn’t conducive to sleep.
Also, she hasn’t texted to make sure she’s safely home.
I’m trying to have patience and not be the one who texts first, but I’m crawling out of my skin.
Finally, when I almost can’t stand it any longer, she messages.
Home safe. In bed. Almost gave away our sexcapades to Willa. Though even if I had told her I was having hot sex, I wouldn’t have given up with who
I think I could have kept your identity a mystery
Probably for the best no one knows
Admit it. You’re ashamed of me
I reread her message several times, scratching my head, wondering if she’s being sarcastic. Much as texting serves its purpose, in times like these, I hate how there aren’t any contextual clues or tone of voice to help me determine if she’s serious.
My phone rings in my hand, her name lit up like a neon sign. “I’m not serious,” is her greeting. “I don’t think people need to know either.”
I slump against the headboard in relief. “I’m not ashamed of you, Clementine.” Even though she was kidding, I need her to know how I feel.
“Okay, good. I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I’ve got baggage. I’m still technically married, I’ve got two kids, I’m not the most financially stable adult, and . . . yeah. For all those reasons, I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Hey, for none of those reasons. Well, except for the being married part. I don’t need anyone accusing us of having an affair or making you out to be a cheater.
” Not that it’s anyone’s business but ours, but I’d set the record straight if people talked.
“Are you ashamed of me?” For different reasons, she’d have reason to be.
“I considered it, but no.”
Taken aback by her comment, I sit up straight. “What do you mean you’ve considered it?”
“Relax. I’m kidding. Honestly, as long as the boys and my ex don’t find out what I’m doing in my spare time, I don’t care who knows I’m having sex. I’m just happy to be having it.”
“Has it been that long?”
“Longer than I care to admit.”
“Is that why it was so good for you? Like an itch needing to be scratched?” As I say the words, I hate how they sound.
We agreed to casual, friends with benefits, but unless the definition of either of those has changed, it’s more than that. There’s a chemistry with Clementine I haven’t felt with other women. An electric connection, even if we’re not in the bedroom.
“Without inflating your ego, it was all because of you, Dax.”
“Ah, thank you. I can’t take all the credit. It was a combined effort.”
“That’s humble of you. Figured you’d take my comment to the bank.”
“Oh don’t worry. I’ve recorded it for playback on repeat.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?” If we keep talking about sex, I’m going to want more of it, and I’m not sure my hand will suffice.
“Arting.”
“Arting?” I laugh as the funny word leaves my mouth. “Is that a word?”
“I’m going with it, see if it catches on. Maybe submit it to Merriam-Webster for approval.”
“Good luck with your campaign. Let me know if you need support.”
“Thanks. Surely you owe me this. Between the sweater and the decorations, the least you can do is help me solicit backing for inclusion in the dictionary.”
“I’ll sign any petition you put in front of me and help you get the word out on social media.”
This conversation has gone off the rails, but I’m too entertained to rein it in.
“Want to come over for dinner tomorrow? I’m making grilled cheese. Or in Atlas’s case, cheese on toast.”
Her invite fills my stomach with an anticipation akin to honor. Atlas has orchestrated the meals I’ve shared with her and the kids, or they’ve been in exchange for something else. This one seems like there aren’t any strings attached.
“Yeah, sure. What can I bring?”
“Yourself. Unless you want an adult beverage other than beer.”
“Great. What time?”
“We usually eat around six. Does that work for your schedule?”
“Yep, don’t change it on my account. It’s easier for me to be flexible than the kids.”
“I appreciate it. Some people don’t get that.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No, you certainly aren’t. Okay, if I don’t go to bed now, I’m gonna be a walking zombie in the morning. So six tomorrow.”
“See you then. Have a great night, Clementine.”
I don’t miss the hitch across the line. “You too, Dax. Night.”
As I disconnect the call, a worse blunder occurs to me.
We’ll be in the same place, sharing a meal, but I’m a fool for thinking we’ll get to do anything other than that.
My sigh is loud in my empty bedroom.
Clementine
*image of coffee cup*
This is both the best and worst idea you’ve ever had
why
because I’m getting addicted. I can’t afford any more addictions in my life
I promise to never do it again
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves
Oh, thank you for the magical cup of caffeine and the sweet gesture of having it delivered to my house. I appreciate it
you’re most welcome. See you tonight
We’ll be here
Is her “we’ll” intentional? Is there a message there I should heed?
Duh, my brain prods.
“What’s got you smiling?” Meredith’s voice nearly has me dropping the phone.
“Nothing,” I mumble, setting the phone on my desk facedown so I’m not tempted to reread her messages from this morning. I’m glad she enjoyed the surprise treat. That was my intention in sending it.
“Right. I believe ‘nothing’ is making you smile.” She puts air quotes around the nothing, emphasizing as she says it. “Wait. Are you dating someone?”
Heat infuses my cheeks, and there’s no way she won’t notice and comment. “No.” Hopefully, she can’t detect the dishonesty in the one word. Is it a lie anyway? We aren’t “dating” in the dictionary sense of the word. Thinking about the dictionary has my lips breaking into a smile.
Meredith cocks her head. “I don’t believe you. What’s her name? Do I know her? Is she local?”
“Who are we talking about?” Becks walks into the office carrying a lunch bag.
Meredith spins on her heels. “The woman Dax is dating.”
Beck’s brow rises. “You’re dating someone?”
“I’m not dating anyone,” I grit out, but no way either of them lets this go.
“So, she’s just one of your regular fuck buddies?” he assesses.
The truth of his statement jabs me in the heart. My lifestyle has never bothered me. Hell, three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about his comment. But now, the validity makes me cringe.
I don’t want Clementine to know about my past, but I also can’t have them thinking—if they ever find out who I’m sleeping with—I’m only with her because she fits my pattern.
No, she’s the one who breaks the mold.
Whoa.
Needing to get away from this conversation and the two of them, I push out of my chair so fast, it nearly topples over. “Brake job,” I blurt, taking off for the garage. My heart rushes, and I can’t wrap my head around my thoughts.
I don’t think it’s true. I mean, do I know her well enough to make such a claim? No, probably not.
Do I want to know her to test out my theory?
I pause to consider it, and my answer is yes.
Yes, yes I do. I want more than a casual relationship with her.
I want to take her out on dates, make her laugh, talk like we’re smart, watch her fall apart on my fingers, my tongue, my cock.
I want to help her take care of her kids.
I want it all.
Adrenaline courses through me, and reality crashes in.
This isn’t who I am. At the first sign of commitment, I bail.
Why would she even consider getting involved with me?
As she pointed out last night, she doesn’t need another guy who’s going to make her life harder.
She needs someone who’s going to step up when she needs—and wants—it, someone she can lean on and trust, someone who is all in.
Experience has shown I’m not that guy, so why should I bother even trying? I’m not built for commitment, let alone with a mom of two young kids.
Why does that truth hurt worse than Beck’s minutes ago?
Instead of letting these thoughts consume me, I throw myself into work, banging and tinkering on cars until it’s time to leave for dinner.
Clementine opens the door, stealing my breath.
She’s in an oversized crew sweatshirt and leggings, but her hair’s down, making all the difference.
I greet her with, “Your hair looks good down.” There’s so much more I want to say—and do—but I refrain, keeping my interaction brief.
She reaches out and touches the end. “Thanks. I was letting it dry after my shower, and I forgot to put it up.”
I can’t let the visual of her in the shower invade my mind. I won’t ever get it out.
She moves out of the way, inviting me into the house. I remove my shoes and hand over the six-pack of holiday ale I picked up on the way over. I left work a little early so I’d have time to shower and stop at the store.
“Dax, you’re here,” Atlas shouts, dashing over to me, sliding on the wood floor in his socks.
“Hey, Atlas. How’s it going?”
“Eh.” He sounds like a teenager, and my laugh carries into the small house.
“Dax!” Jace’s welcome mirrors Atlas. “I can’t believe you’re here for dinner.” He throws his arms around my legs and peers up at me with those wide eyes, a darker shade than his mama.
“I was so excited when your mama invited me. I hear it’s grilled cheese, one of my favorite sandwiches.”
Jace bounces with excitement. “Mine too. And Mama got the special bread, so it’s even better. Yum.” He rubs his stomach. It’s the cutest action ever. All over special bread. I’ll never get over the innocence of children.
“I’m honored I get the special bread.”
“And bacon, if that’s your jam. It’s not for Jace, but I’m all about the meat.” Clementine’s cheeks flame redder than a bull’s cloth. Man, I wish I could call her out on her comment, but there are kids around, and I’m practicing being a gentleman tonight.
“Bacon is good for me, please.”
“Jace and Atlas, set the table, please.” Atlas goes to complain, but a glare from Clementine nips it in the bud. Wonder what I can do to earn that glare.
Damn, five minutes in, and I’m already breaking my gentleman vow. If only in my mind.
“How was arting?” I ask instead of the dozen other questions I want answers to.
“Productive. And I made some progress on your sweater. I’ll show you later.”
“Wow. You’re not messing around with the whole time crunch thing, huh?”
I follow her to the kitchen, where the ingredients for dinner are set out. The boys mill about, placing plates, napkins, and silverware on the table.
“I’m usually good about other people’s deadlines, especially when I’m getting paid.
” Again, her cheeks heat, but not as red this time.
“I don’t mean to imply you have to pay me, but when I’m doing work for clients, I get paid, so I prioritize those jobs, which usually means I’m neglecting house chores or laundry, but for some reason today, I had a lot of energy and found a decent balance. ”
“Bet the caffeine treat helped.”
Her hands still in the air, the knife poised above the butter, her expression pensive. “You know what? I didn’t make the connection, but I bet you’re right.” Her excitement falters, and she gets back to work buttering the bread. “Well, that’s inconvenient.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t start every morning with a Merry Mintmas.”
“You could.”
She points the knife at me. Luckily, it can’t do much harm since it’s a butter knife, but I take a step back. “Don’t tempt me. And don’t think about having one delivered every morning. My taste buds and productivity would appreciate it. My hips, not so much.”
I lower my voice, though the boys are busy in their own little world. “Would give me a little more to hold on to.”
Welp. Gentleman Dax has left the building.