Chapter 25 #2
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I did,” I say, then move closer, looping an arm around her naked waist and pulling her close.
She sets a hand on my chest. “But he’s probably critiquing you.”
“For what?”
“Ford, you critiqued him, now he’s critiquing you! You even did doggy-style, and you expect him not to have notes?”
That’s it. She can’t go home tonight. I scoop her up, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her back to bed. When I set her down, I brace myself on my palms on either side of her shoulders. “Stay the night.”
“Give me a T-shirt and I will,” she says.
“You drive a hard bargain.” I hustle to the bureau and grab a Sea Dogs T-shirt with my name and number. I toss it to her. With a pleased-as-punch smile, she tugs it on.
It’s my turn to growl. She looks good in my number.
She looks good in my gear. A streak of possessiveness I didn’t expect hits me square in the sternum as I return to the bed.
I roam my hand down her bare leg. “So, you get off to me while watching videos of who knows what, you mention me on your podcast, you spy on me from your catio...” I blow out a satisfied breath. “Did I get that right?”
She shifts onto her side. “You checked me out from your hot tub, demanded I join you in it, then gave me the first of many orgasms on it. Did I get that right?”
“Many? I gave you two. But sure. We’ll call it many.”
With a wicked grin, she tap dances her fingers up my bare chest. “I say many because I’m pretty sure you’ll give me another later tonight.”
Heat floods my chest. My dick perks its head up. “Yes, you can call it many.”
“And your point is?” she asks.
That’s a good question. What is my point? To prove she likes me?
Ah, hell, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I want to goad her into admitting she’s into me too.
But this isn’t a real thing. We’re doing a fake dating thing.
I should recommit to the fakeness. Here in my bed, as moonlight streams through the open door to the deck, I ought to clear my throat and say, “That was a one-time thing, right? We shouldn’t do that again.
We’re working on the house together. Not to mention, I’m trying to have the best season of my life. ”
But the words that come from my mouth are: “Was it hard seeing your ex tonight?”
Fuck. What was that all about? Why the hell am I bringing up exes…in bed???
Skylar takes a beat, her forehead creasing, as she considers. “I thought it would be hard. I spent five years with him,” she says, regret flashing in those pretty green eyes. “That’s a long time.”
The touch of self-loathing in her voice strikes a chord with me. “I was with my ex for four. I get it,” I say.
“And sure, I wanted him to see that I’m on the other side,” she says. “But as I was getting ready for tonight, I wondered why I wanted that.”
I turn closer to her in bed, wanting to both protect her from whatever she might be feeling and to understand her more deeply. “Yeah?”
She meets my gaze with a soft expression. “I was asking myself why it mattered. Don’t get me wrong,” she says hastily, explaining herself. “It was fun. But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about why.”
Tension grips me as I wait for her answer. “And did you figure it out?”
“I think I needed to go, not for him. But for me. I needed to know I was happier. I was better off,” she says, looking in the distance before turning and meeting my face again. “Because for a while there, after he left, all I could think about was how I was second best.”
It’s like she’s holding up a mirror to all my walls, to the ways I’ve had to protect myself after Brittany took off. “Know that feeling well,” I admit, and it’s easier to speak the truth with her than I’d expected. Opening up feels like second nature when we’re together.
She gives a sympathetic smile. “I learned a lot from everything that went wrong. I never want to be second best. And honestly, I deserve the best.”
My heart warms from her certainty, from the way she knows herself. “You do, Skylar. You really do.”
“Thanks. I spent a while with him. I felt like I had all the time in the world to fall in love, like my parents had. I thought a love like theirs was inevitable. But it takes work and risks. And I need to be with someone who thinks I’m worth the risk,” she says.
Then blinks. Shakes her head. “I mean, down the road. Someday. I’m totally focused on my business now. Romance is just scary…”
She’s talking too fast. Racing through the end of the convo like she’s said too much.
Doesn’t feel like too much to me. “I’m the same. Romance is scarier than a puck flying at your face.”
A laugh bursts from her. “I’ll have to trust you on that.”
“I promise. I’m not wrong.” Then I reach for her hand. Yeah, I need to erect walls, but I also really, really like touching her.
I thread my fingers through hers, looking at our joined hands for several seconds. We fit in such an unusual way. A way I didn’t anticipate. On paper, we should despise each other, like we did the first time we met.
She’s chaotic. I’m controlled. She’s carefree. I’m anything but. She’s a go-with-the-flow person. I’m a structured type of guy.
So why, universe, why the hell do I feel this almost soul-deep connection with my neighbor?
My chest twists. My heart races almost too fast, too out of control. I stare at our hands, like the answers lie there. Only, I can’t find them, so I do the dumbest thing for a guy trying to avoid romance. I open up.
“I’m glad you felt that tonight—that you’re better off.
” I swallow uncomfortably. “Because I did too. I felt that. Not just the whole ‘living well’ thing.” I tap my sternum.
“But I feel it here, deep inside me. Even though he’s your ex, I still felt this sense of… moving on from my past. From Brittany.”
With a bright and buoyant smile, she asks, “Yeah?” Like she’s enchanted by the idea of us both letting go of the people who’ve hurt us.
I tug on the hem of the shirt of mine she’s wearing. “I did. It’s been a while. But yes, I felt it. And sure, I don’t want to go down that path again. Not one damn bit,” I say. “The thought of opening myself up again is—”
“Like a puck to the face?” she says lightly, masking the real worry underneath.
I lean over and drop a quick, firm kiss to her lips. “Exactly.”
But the truth is, I don’t want to be replaced, like I was in my marriage. I fought like hell to be a good husband, just like I work my ass off to be indispensable on the ice.
As I stroke this lovely woman’s hair and talk with her late into the night, I’m starting to think I could feel that way again—vulnerable, hopeful, and most of all, ready.
My chest tightens uncomfortably at the thought.
I need to enjoy this thing with Skylar for what it is—a fake romance. “That’s why it’s a good thing this is fake, right?” I ask, forcing myself to sound easygoing when my heart feels the opposite.
She tenses under my touch. But it seems to pass with a quick, decisive nod. “Absolutely,” she says. “With everything going on, it just makes sense.”
“And this,” I say, doubling down with a gesture from her to me, “will make our fake romance more believable.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Because your dick’s been inside me?”
Ah, hell. I’m an idiot. Time to walk this back. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant the sex helps the fakeness,” I sputter.
With a did you really say that smile, she waits for me to dig my hole deeper.
“I meant…I just meant…we seem believable.”
I’m not sure that’s any better. But as I search for forgiveness in her eyes, I find humor dancing there, delight at my faux pas. She’s not offended by my remarks. She’s having fun with me, the way she does. Because she wants a fake romance too.
I sigh with relief. “I thought you were pissed.”
“Because you just implied fucking me makes a fake romance more plausible?”
When you put it like that…“Yeah,” I say, utterly chastened.
She gestures to her dog on the floor, staring at me again with disdain. “Don’t worry. He’s got enough side-eye for both of us.”
I laugh. I’ve been exonerated, but I know I was kind of a dick. “You can mention this on your podcast.”
“Your dick? My dog’s judgment? Or how you just put your foot in your mouth?”
There she goes, calling me out fearlessly. It makes my stupid heart beat faster, and I’m back to where I was an hour ago.
Falling for her.
Correction: falling even further.
I shut myself up by kissing her, then sliding between those warm thighs and giving her one more of the many orgasms she deserves. Then, another.
Sometime after midnight, she curls up in the dark under the covers, and I do something that surprises me even.
I scoop up the little dog and let him sleep on the bed.
Well, it’s only fair. Zamboni’s already at the foot of the mattress, that perfect little pooch.
The next day I’m walking Skylar to the front door. It’s surreal and weird at the same time, saying goodbye to someone who lives fifty feet away. “Do you want breakfast?” I ask, trying to prolong the inevitable.
She shakes her head, her red hair even wilder in the morning. Well, lots of sex and little sleep will do that to you. “I’ll grab some nuts and a piece of fruit. I have to head to the Dogpatch District anyway to pick up some items for other clients.”
My shoulders slump. I even took both dogs out first thing, hoping she might want to linger here with me.
But I’ve got to stop hoping for things that won’t happen.
I slough off the disappointment as we reach the door.
Along the way, she tosses a knowing glance at the sleek living room couch, covered in charcoal cushions and sporting brushed metal legs.
Then the electric fireplace with its marble mantel, home to a few sleek candles, then back at the kitchen, its white counters pristine.
“I was right, by the way,” she says.
“About how many times I could make you come? Yes, you said many, and I delivered. Four, Skylar. Four,” I say, then blow on my nails.
Yeah, we were busy last night.
She laughs, and it sounds like Oh, you silly boy. “No, about your house. I predicted it’d be neat and clean, with metal accents, and a minimalist look.”
I pfft. “That’s not hard to guess. Also, what’s wrong with being neat?”
“Nothing. But I also suspected,” she says, scanning my living room once more, her gaze landing on the tiny plants that don’t need much watering, “that you’d have plants. And I spy all sorts of succulents.”
I bristle a bit. I don’t know if I love or hate that she nailed the brief of me.
Maybe both. “You were right,” I concede, then curl a hand around her waist, pressing my palm firmly to her back.
“But I’m right too—I only saw your living room, but I bet the rest of your home is bursting with every color of the rainbow, books everywhere, and more mugs than any person should rightfully own. ”
Her eyes widen to moons.
Yup. I’m right.
And I don’t hate that. I love it.