Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
[Love is…] when two people have a strong connection to each other.
That night when I got home, Oliver was already in bed and Gil was in his room. I knocked on his door. “I’m home.”
“Good.”
“Thanks for watching Oliver. Everything go okay?”
“Yeah. It was fine,” he said, his voice muffled through the door.
“Good. I’m home now so…if you were going out, you’re free.”
“It was canceled.”
I raised an eyebrow but didn’t call him out on his obviously fake plans. “Oh. Got it.”
I waited to see if he’d say anything else, maybe ask me about my date, or possibly snap, throw me over his shoulder like a tool-wielding caveman, and have his way with me. But he did none of those things. “Well, goodnight then.”
I tossed and turned, tried to read, refused to think about accounting programs and toolbelts and computer mice and jealous roommates at all.
The minutes felt like hours as they ticked by.
I tried counting sheep but started to wonder if sheep came in mini sizes like horses.
They do, I googled it. After it led me down a rabbit hole into the world of miniature animals, which led me to the world of competitive chicken showing, I forced myself to put the phone down and go to sleep.
It did not work.
“Ugh.” I threw the covers off and shuffled to the bathroom.
After I peeked in on Oliver who was sound asleep, two black balls of fluff curled up next to him.
One kitten lifted its head but not sensing much in the way of danger, it fell back to sleep.
I thought that was the one Oliver was calling Duck.
The other one was Goose. At least for now.
Since sleeping was impossible, I crept quietly to the living room. Maybe I could work on Mom’s slipper. Mother’s Day was in a couple of days, and I wasn’t even half done. The curse of the unfinished project haunted me on the daily. The evidence was that hall closet I pretended to ignore.
Sunny and I had worked on the concept of finishing something fully. “If you did fewer things in a day, but finished them all, how would life be different?” she’d asked. She was eating one of my muffins at the time.
But my plans were waylaid when I realized someone was already in the living room. Gil was stretched out on the couch in a t-shirt and gym shorts, ankles crossed and an arm covering his eyes.
I stared down at him, enjoying the way the moonlight seeped through the edges of the curtains and highlighted tantalizing strips of Gil—the hand spread over his stomach, the slice of skin where his t-shirt had ridden up. Even his feet caught my attention.
There was something truly wrong with me when I realized I found his feet attractive.
“Should I turn over so you can get another view?” he asked, even though his eyes were still covered.
“Excuse me, I was getting a drink of water and couldn’t help noticing you.”
His arm slipped down to reveal his face. “It’s okay. If I came upon you laid out on the couch, I’d stop and take in the view, too.”
I flushed. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He shook his head, winced, and closed his eyes. “Migraine.”
“Oh.” I rounded the couch. “You eat something sugary?”
“I may have caved and eaten a muffin.” He cracked one eye open. “Strawberry cream cheese muffins? Who does that? Who makes those and leaves them laying around in the open?”
“So, it’s my fault?”
“Lately? Yes,” he muttered but I wasn’t sure I was supposed to hear it.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Nah. I’m fine.” He covered his face again. “Just waiting for the meds to kick in.”
“Okay then, I’ll get that water and get out of your way.”
He mumbled something that sounded like goodnight.
I bit the inside of my cheek as I made my way to the kitchen but halfway there, an idea hit me. “You know, when I was younger and any of us had a headache, my grandma swore by this little trick she did. I’m not sure if it actually works, but…I could try it.” I paused. “On you, I mean.”
“What does it involve?”
“Pressure points on your hands.” I shuffled back to the couch. “Like I said, I don’t know if it actually works, but I always felt better after.”
He sighed deeply. “Fine.”
A giddy feeling rushed through me for some reason. “Are you okay to sit up? That’ll make it easier.”
He pulled himself up slowly and settled on one half of the couch. I hesitated before sitting next to him. With a leg tucked under me, I faced him. “Come on then. Get a little closer.”
He did as I asked, until his leg pressed against mine. My eyes darted to his, and then away, afraid he might see how one small touch was affecting me.
I took a slow breath. What a stupid idea this was. Let’s get closer to the fire. Just put myself right here next to it. Let the flames make you feel all warm and soft and pliable. Playing with fire was always the smart move.
“Hold your hands out,” I said, my voice lower.
Again, he did as asked, stretching out his hands, palms down.
I slowly slid my hands under his, like I was waiting for him to be the voice of reason and tell me to stop. He didn’t. Warm, dry skin coasted over mine, rough, calloused hands. Hands that knew what a toolbelt was and how to use it.
Stop thinking about his toolbelt.
I wondered what he’d do if my hands kept going. What would the skin on his wrists feel like? Would his arms be just as warm? Suddenly, I wanted to know more than I wanted my next breath.
With a frown, I snatched my hands back. Get your act together. He’s in pain. Focus.
“Is everything okay?” Gil asked, his voice sleepy and low.
I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah. C-can you turn your hands over?” When he did, I rubbed my hands together quickly. “Grandy said this was important. To gather all the energy.”
He scoffed. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” I did not bring up the fact that Grandy was also convinced a little bourbon in a baby’s bottle was good for them. “Now be quiet. You don’t want the energy I’m gathering to be angry and annoyed, do you?”
“Am I really supposed to answer that?”
“Quiet. I’m working here.” After rubbing my hands together for another twenty seconds, I found the spot at the base of his thumb and forefinger on each hand and squeezed.
Not painfully, but firmly. I counted to twenty under my breath and then loosened my hold enough to make small circles with my fingers.
His eyes were on my face, I could feel them. I repeated the process two times. The quiet of the room surrounded us. The slide of his breath tickled the shell of my ear. My heartbeat fluttered when he exhaled.
I released his hands. “All done.”
His hands hovered before falling to his lap. He moved his head back and forth slowly. “That might have helped a little.”
“Good.” I smiled.
“Thanks.”
Something brushed the tips of my fingers. When I looked down, Gil’s hands had inched closer to mine. Probably not on purpose. I should move away, get up, and leave.
Except I didn’t.
He didn’t either. His fingers traced the backs of my hands with a featherlight touch that sent a shiver through me.
With a shaky breath, I looked up. Our eyes met and held. We were so close now. My heart pounded. I couldn’t move. I could barely think.
“Kiss me,” I whispered.
“I want to,” he said just as quietly. “But I won’t. It’s not a good idea.”
I snatched my hands back and shot to my feet, mortified.
“I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.
Of course it’s not a good idea. You and me, we need to keep our eye on the prize.
Except my prize is different from your prize and that’s the problem, isn’t it?
” I shook my head, words spilling out of my mouth at lightning speed.
“I lost my mind there for a minute. Lack of sleep. I tried counting mini sheep and it didn’t help so…
Well, anyway, did you know there are competitive chicken shows? ”
He stood up slowly. “You should go back to bed.”
“Good idea. Yes, that would be good.” I could crawl under my covers and pray a sinkhole opened under my bed in the next two hours. I tried to squeeze between him and the couch, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm, sending a shot of pure heat through me.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Without looking at him, I scurried by and scrambled to my room.