Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
James
I smell Winnie before my eyes are open, before I’m aware of her body curled into mine.
Caramel Perfection . I don’t know if it’s a blessing or curse to know the name of her bodywash, because I can’t get the name out of my head, like I can’t get the scent out of my nose.
Somehow, she still smells of it even though I used my body wash in her bath last night.
I draw in a deep breath, closing my eyes to focus on her scent.
I haven’t woken up many times with regret for something I did the night before. As sleep slowly lifts away from me, I refuse to feel regret now.
Not for the kiss on the elevator, not for the way I took care of Winnie after running into Dale in the lobby. Not for holding her after her nightmare or kissing her in the darkness. No regrets.
That doesn’t mean I have any idea what I’m doing here or what to do with the woman in my arms.
Maybe you should listen to your dad. Try. Risk.
And maybe lose …
But at least TRY.
In what’s an absolutely unwelcome intrusion to my thoughts, I suddenly hear Yoda’s voice in my head, telling me there is no try. Do or do not. I bite back a laugh just as Winnie sighs softly, the sound sending a pulse of warmth through me.
She shifts, and I let my body move with her, not wanting to wake her. I’m not ready to let her go.
Her skin is so soft under my palms, and in the light peeking through the crack in the blinds, I get a chance to study her up close. I start with the tattoos on the arm I’m closest to.
It’s delicate work, real artistry. The designs are not necessarily flowery, but thin, black lines flowing like ribbons or vines, twisted with the occasional flower, image, or word. I see a tiny anchor here, the word hope there, next to a rose. A secret garden of treasures on her skin.
I have one tattoo on the inside of my upper arm, a somewhat hidden spot because it’s just for me, in memory of my mom.
It’s her name, written in Japanese lettering.
I made sure to get the design drawn by a friend who grew up in Japan and moved here with his family when he was six.
I didn’t want to think I was getting my mom’s name and really spell out something like disco ball .
Winnie and I talked about a lot of things last night, but I didn’t ask about her ink. I wonder if there’s meaning behind them, like mine for my mom, or if she based them on vintage tattoos or artwork.
The urge to press my lips to their lines, to trace the path with my mouth on her skin almost overwhelms me.
But I’m not sure how Winnie will feel about the vulnerable things she shared in the night or about waking to my lips on her.
The last thing I want to do is push her—or myself—too far, too fast. If I’m going to take this risk with her, it’s going to be slow.
It has to be. Especially considering her current employment status.
I don’t need to worry about getting in trouble with HR, obviously, like in a normal job.
But there are reasons companies often put nonfraternization policies in place.
If things go bad, they’ll go bad on multiple levels. It’s complicated.
Winnie stirs again, which probably means she’s close to waking up.
Ever so slowly, I begin peeling back my body from hers, pausing when she grabs my arm, nuzzling her face on it and leaving a trail of drool over the dusting of hair.
I bite my lip, holding back my smile. She’s adorable, and I know she’d be horrified if she knew she wiped drool on me.
I wait again until she settles, then manage to extricate myself from her without stirring the bed too much.
I take a big risk by running my fingers over a lock of her hair just before I step away.
I’m on my feet now, but the sight of Winnie with her sleep-creased face, her beautifully inked skin, her rumpled hair—it all tempts me to climb back into bed, to wake her with kisses.
Backing away, I decide to head to the lobby so I can grab a coffee to wake her with instead. I asked Winnie in the night who took care of her, and in the silence, through her tears, I heard what she didn’t say: no one .
Sure, she has Chevy, who sometimes oversteps in his protection. She’s got Val and Lindy, and probably half the town of Sheet Cake in her corner. But I’m realizing how much Winnie is like me—so busy taking care of other people that no one sees what she needs.
Until now. Until me.
* * *
The plan was to get coffee and return to Winnie. But that was before I spotted Dale in the lobby.
Plan A—take care of Winnie—has been temporarily set aside for Plan B—avenge Winnie by making Dale pay. Which, arguably, is part of taking care of Winnie.
Would she have asked me to do so? Probably not.
Would she stop me? I’d like to think no.
Either way, she’s upstairs in bed, and Dale is down here handing his ticket to the valet.
Anger rises hot in my throat, a flush I feel spreading through my limbs.
Dale was the only one Winnie trusted to tell about her father.
And it sounds like the whole time, he was with his fiancée.
The thought makes my fingers curl into my palm and my throat tighten with anger.
But I’m not getting physical. That’s not my style—at least, other than with my brothers, and that’s different.
We know we love each other, even when we’re driving each other nuts.
Dale isn’t going to get beaten up. He needs something else.
Something more creative.
I never thought I’d be glad to see clowns under any circumstance at all, but a small group of them selling balloons outside the coffee shop is exactly what I need.
Especially because these aren’t the little kid clowns.
These are teenage clowns, which means they’re without supervision.
More importantly, they’re more than happy to accept money for what I want them to do.
I hold out a crisp bill. “I’ll give you twenty bucks to fill that guy’s car up with your balloon”—I glance down at a netted bag filled with the things—“ swords .”
Right after we checked in, I pretended not to notice these guys making balloons into “swords” so phallic they deserve a ticket for public indecency.
“Make it fifty.”
I pull two more twenties from my wallet. “Keep the change. It’s that guy over there. The valet is bringing his car around.”
“Dude, we won’t have time,” one of the clowns says, and I realize he’s right. Dale and his fiancée are already moving toward the front doors as a silver SUV pulls up out front.
“If one of you can stall them for two minutes, I’ll handle them. Just … give me two minutes.” The clowns scatter. One of them pulls out bowling pins, jumping in front of Dale and starting to juggle. Perfect.
Also perfect—a large group of the legging ladies, as Winnie calls them, emerging from the coffee shop, looking fresh and full of energy and, most importantly, like they’re sniffing the air for the scent of desperation. I intercept them as quickly as I can without startling them.
“Good morning,” I say. I’m met with giggles and hair tosses, even from the ones I see wearing wedding rings. I don’t have much time, so I dive right in, pointing toward Dale and his fiancée. “My friends over there have been asking all weekend about what you do.”
When I see six sets of hungry eyes turn that way, I go in for the kill, using terms I’ve heard snatches of while in elevators and hallways this week.
“She said something about needing a purpose, wanting to invest in something to bring in extra income. I think she was too shy to approach anyone, but if someone were to ask before she leaves …”
And they’re off. Practically at a sprint, and just barely intercepting Dale and his fiancée before they make it to the front doors. Which is a good thing, because just outside the glass, a group of teenage clowns is now filling Dale’s SUV with balloon “swords.”
Dale deserves worse. Much, much worse. But I’ll hope his actions naturally catch up to him one day. For now, this will do. I’m whistling as I make my way back upstairs to find Winnie.