Chapter Eight
Anna
It’s a perfect Sunday. The weather is cool, and the sun is shining. There are things I could do, assignments to finish, books to read. I could go shopping or into town to watch a movie. But no, I’m sitting on the balcony watching the scant street traffic. My stomach aches and my skin feels too tight. I know what’s wrong. I’m infected with want of Baylor.
It’s going to happen again.
Addiction is best defeated with abstinence. So I’m going to be strong. I’m not going to reach out to him. I just need to get off my ass and do something.
On the table beside me, my phone dings.
I’m hoping it’s Iris telling me where she is so I can join her. But it’s not.
Unknown: Hey. It’s Drew. You busy?
I stare down at the screen, my mind trying to make the letters form comprehensible words. Drew? Texting me? I glance over my shoulder, as if he might be behind me or something. Which is completely juvenile. I’m still pretty sure he’s made me a little insane. There is a part of me, however, that gives a little leap of excitement. The lower part of me, I think darkly as I text him back.
Me: How did you get my number?
I head into the apartment, the feeling of being watched still riding strong.
Unknown: Class study roster.
Me: Damn study roster.
Unknown: Highly grateful for it myself.
“Yeah well, you would be,” I mutter, but, who am I trying to kid? I am too. The phone dings again.
Unknown: Where are you now?
My cheeks start to hurt from my repressed smile.
Me: Home.
Unknown: Where’s that?
I pause, my heart now giving a little leap as well. I shouldn’t do this. He’ll hurt me. Without even trying. I have to protect myself. The thought barely forms, and yet I find myself responding.
Me: Why?
Unknown: I want to know, obviously.
Me: Is this a booty call?
Damn if all my happy parts aren’t perking up now. Traitors.
Unknown: In the spirit of the brutal honesty in which we interact, yes. Yes, it is.
I laugh, too shocked not to. And a grin pulls at my cheeks when I respond.
Me: Brownie points for that honesty, Baylor.
Unknown: Then give me the address, Jones. My list of semipublic places has grown thin. I’ve come up with janitors’ closets and bathroom stalls. Both unsavory. And I don’t want someone other than me seeing your gorgeous butt. I’d like to refrain from punching people, if possible.
I have to agree about the lack of privacy, although my brain’s stalled out on his reference to my butt. He thinks it’s gorgeous? Okay. I can do this. I can keep it about sex. Only sex. Awesome, hot, perfect...
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap out my address. Sweat blooms along my skin the second I hit Send.
My phone is quiet. For too long. When the text signal chimes again, my heart skips a beat.
Unknown: I’m on my way.
My heart promptly begins to race. And so do I.
I practically slam down my phone as I fly into action, grabbing strewn clothes, trash, a sock, my ratty comfort bra, and a variety of other junk that’s cluttering the place. It all goes into the closet. Okay, I shouldn’t care what my place looks like. If I’m a slob, I’m a slob.
But I’m also a girl, and I’m not letting him see my place in any other condition than pristine.
I don’t know how far away he is; why didn’t I ask where he was? Skidding into the bathroom, I look myself over in the mirror. At least I don’t have a zit or anything. Which makes me think of George and his zit analogy. Fucking George.
I look all right, but Drew’s coming here for one thing, and I’m now slightly sweaty. I don’t have time to wash my hair so make do with washing my body, shaving all pertinent areas in record time before dashing butt-naked out of the shower and into my room. I stub my toe on the dresser.
“Fuck!” I’m hopping around on one foot as I tug on some yoga pants. The doorbell rings and I’m still half dressed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Grabbing a sweater hanging over my desk chair, I shove it over my head. A quick, frantic look down to check for stains—please don’t let there be stains—calms me somewhat; the sweater is a nice one, deep green and silk wool knit.
One second before I open the door, I pull out my hair tie and fling it into a far, shadowy corner of the living room.
And then Baylor’s standing before me, hands shoved in his pockets, short hair tousled as if he’s run his fingers through it. Golden eyes under straight dark brows, a little dimple on his left cheek, body to kill or die for. He makes my knees weak. Every damn time.
We stare at each other, him grinning, and me with my heart pounding like a kettledrum. Do we talk? Are we just supposed to go at it?
“Hey.” My stunningly witty opener.
“Hey, yourself.” His gaze runs over me. “You look pretty. Flushed,” he adds, his grin deepening. “But pretty.”
“Yeah well—” I stand back and wave him inside. “I’ve just run all over the house cleaning it so...” I shrug.
He laughs a little, walking into the center of the living room. God, but he’s tall. Without heels on, I’m an elf next to him.
“I’d say you were joking with me, Jones.” He turns and catches my eye. “But I know how honest you are.”
I bite back a smile and close the door. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Funny, I thought I was giving you a compliment.”
“Have we drifted into the compliment stage?” I’m a little too breathless, and I have no idea what to do except babble.
“Jones, I’ve been giving you compliments since day one.” His voice is low and easy, and it makes my toes curl into the carpet. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”
Taking a breath, I ask him the important question. “You want a drink?” Or do we just start fucking like bunnies?
I don’t even know what answer I’d prefer until he says, “A drink’s good.” Something in me eases a bit, when really I ought to be more agitated.
He follows me into the open kitchen, his eyes taking in everything, from the decorating by IKEA and secondhand furniture to Iris’s hot firemen of NYC calendar hanging on the dividing wall to the kitchen.
“Nice place,” he says kindly. Because it isn’t that nice.
“We did what we could with my mom’s castoffs. Though some of it has seen better days.” I glance at the big brown sofa. “I think Mom got that thing when I was ten.”
“I did the same. When my parents...” He trails off, looking pained.
“When they what?”
He clears his throat, ducking his head as he gives the back of his neck a scratch. “Ah, when they died.”
My insides lurch on a jolt of prickly heat. “Your parents are dead?” Of course they are, he just said that. “I mean... Hell, Drew, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a weak attempt at a smile. “How could you be expected to know?”
“This is probably one of those common knowledge things about you, isn’t it?”
“Maybe. But then we both know you don’t follow football or my life.” He sounds oddly relieved about that.
“Did you—” I fight to keep my voice from wavering “—go live with your grandparents or relatives?”
He clutches the back of his neck again. “Naw. I don’t have any. It was just me and my parents left at the time.”
Jesus. All I can think is that he’s an orphan. Alone in life. And look at what he’s accomplished. It isn’t my business to feel it, but pride and admiration swell within me. Not that I can tell him that without it sounding patronizing.
“Drew, I am sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does.” He doesn’t look at me.
“How...” I wince. “Never mind.”
“Nothing wrong with being curious either.” A small, wry noise leaves him. “It happened the summer after I graduated high school. They were hiking in Colorado. A flash flood came and... It was... I don’t know. I mean, who the fuck expects something like that?”
No one. I want to hug him so badly that my arms ache. But I don’t think he’d appreciate the gesture. If it were me, I’d take it as pity. As if he’s worried about that very thing, he glances toward the kitchen. “Can I still have a drink?”
“Sure.” I snap out of my daze and move to the fridge. “Right.”
Baylor leans a hip against my breakfast bar.
“We’ve got—” I open the fridge and peer in “—one Blue Moon, water, white wine, and orange juice.”
“I’ll take a water.” His stomach gives a loud and impatient gurgle. Color tints his cheeks, and his mouth tips wryly. “Sorry.”
“Hungry?” I ask, pouring him a glass of filtered water.
“Almost always.” He doesn’t even try to make it sound like an innuendo. And yet somehow it does. Probably because I can’t be in the same room with Drew Baylor and not think about sex. But I behave as I open the fridge again and rummage through it.
“Okay, there’s cheesecake, two pieces of chicken satay, yogurt, though we really shouldn’t touch that, or Iris will kill us...”
Behind me, Baylor takes his water and has a long drink before peering over my shoulder. “Iris? Your roommate, right?”
“The very one.” Every muscle in my body twitches at the close proximity of his. “She’s on a Greek yogurt kick.”
“Ah.”
“There’s also...” I peek under an aluminum lid. “Ooh, kebobs.”
“Did you have a party or something?” His arms rest on the edges of the door, bracketing my shoulders, and I feel oddly sheltered.
“They’re from catering gigs. The right to bring home leftover food trays is one of the main reasons I took a job in the catering department. Iris and I save a boatload on our food budget.”
Baylor’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m pretty sure you are every athlete’s dream roommate.”
I do not ask if that includes him, but turn back to the food. “Well? What will it be?”
“You’re really going to feed me?” He sounds surprised.
“Of course I am.” I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Or don’t you want me to?”
Because I can take it back. I can simply lead him into my room and—
“No, I mean, yeah. I want it.” Baylor full-on blushes now. “Shit. Food. I mean—”
I laugh. “I know what you meant.”
He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just make the kebobs.”
Still laughing, I pull out the container and a pack of eggs. “Okay, but I don’t do reheats. I like to think of leftovers more as raw material for new meals.”
His self-deprecation melts away, and he leans back against the counter. “What are you making me, Jones?”
“A frittata.” I grab a small hunk of Gouda that actually was left over from a party. “With cheese.”
“Sounds awesome.”
It’s surprisingly easy and fun with Baylor in the kitchen. He helps me free the meat and veggies from their skewers, and then I chop it all up into smaller sizes, while he grates the cheese for me.
“You know how to cook,” he observes as I begin refrying the kabob pieces. The scent of onions and beef perfume the air.
“I’m proficient.” I whisk a bowl of eggs and pour it into the frying pan. “Growing up, it was just my mom and me, so I helped where I could.”
Four generations back, my mother’s family immigrated, not to New York with the rest of their Italian brethren, but to Georgia. But my father is pure Irish, and here for a visit when he met my mother. Pictures of him as a young man paint him in tones of milk white and vivid orange.
I ended up a physical blend of them with pale ivory skin that tans but also freckles, dark green eyes, and dark red hair.
I really don’t remember much of my dad now. Time has a way of fading the sharp edges of a person’s image. Unfortunately, it also has a way of letting a wound fester and burrow deep beneath the skin.
“Iris is the real cook here,” I babble on. “She’s like a fifth-generation Mexican American, and her family owns this kick-ass Mexican restaurant in Tucson.”
Drew watches me push the eggs around. “What happened to your dad?”
It’s a quiet question. Because he knows firsthand that my answer might be bad.
Is it? I’m fairly numb to the whole dad thing. Until I have to talk about it. A familiar lump of pain settles at the back of my throat. I ignore it and shrug. “Out of the picture since I was seven.”
Baylor is looking at me now. I focus on scattering the cheese over the half-cooked eggs and tossing the whole pan under the broiler. “There,” I say. “In a minute we’ll have a frittata.”
My voice is overbright and too brittle. I shouldn’t have talked. I shouldn’t have cooked for him. This is a hook up, not some after-school tell-all. But it’s too late now. And he’s still watching me with eyes that are too knowing.
“Why is he out of the picture?” he asks softly.
I pull out two dishes and get the forks. “It’s a shitty story.”
“I told you my shitty story.” He sets the plates and forks out, one set next to the other. “Besides, I’m a great listener.”
While his job is to give orders and think fast, something about his calm demeanor and quiet strength makes me want to confide in him.
“When I was seven, my father told my mother that he couldn’t handle parenthood, that I was too much of a pain in the ass, always whining for attention.” My smile is weak and wobbly. “His words.”
I turn and pull out the frittata, setting it down to cool on the stove. It’s golden brown and the cheese bubbles. I pick up a knife and hack at the frittata. “So, he went back to Ireland, and my mom raised me.”
Sometimes I wonder if my dad would have stayed if I hadn’t begged him not to leave. But I had. And he’d merely looked pained. After he left, I’d curled up under my bed. And my mother had done much the same. Only she had cried. I never did. I wouldn’t let myself.
A warm hand covers mine, and I still. Gently, Baylor relieves me of the knife before cupping the back of my neck.
“You’re right,” he says. “That was a shitty story. And your father is an undeserving asshole.”
I study the floor. “What? No ‘you’re better off without him’?”
Baylor’s thumb strokes along my hairline. “But you know that already.”
“Yeah, I do.” I risk a glance at him. His expression is so serious, as if he’s hurting for me, when he’s the one who has no family left. Something deep within my heart clenches.
The gentle exploration of my neck doesn’t stop, and his voice drops low and tender. “Some people never understand the gift they have.” A light pressure on the back of my neck eases me closer to his warmth. “And some people wait a lifetime to have someone to love.”
Emotion wells up within me, and it’s warm, but dizzying. I want to burrow in and let him take my pain. He’s strong, maybe he can weather it. Oddly, I want to pull him close and hold him as if he is the one in pain. I don’t understand it. This isn’t light or fun. This is consuming me. A steady, relentless attack.
As we stare at each other, his lids lower and his head dips toward mine. My lips part and ache with the need to touch his. I want his taste, to draw his breath into me and let it fill my lungs.
His whisper brushes my cheeks. “Anna...”
The front door opens, and I spring back, nearly knocking the damn frittata off the stove. Drew puts a hand out to steady me, but I’m already turning toward Iris as she saunters into the apartment.
She stops short as she sees us, and George, who is following close behind, slams into her. “Damn, woman, give a little warning—” Abruptly, he stops talking, and they both gape at Drew.
Iris I could have handled. George is another task entirely. And I know I’m going to pay when an obnoxious light gleams in his eyes.
His voice is just shy of singsong when he says, “Hey, Baylor. I’d say you were the last person I expected to see in Anna’s kitchen, but I’d be lying.”
Drew raises a brow at me, and I glare at George, who just smiles and steps forward, offering Drew a hand. “George Cruz.”
They shake hands in that hard, abrupt way guys do when they’re sizing each other up, and I roll my eyes.
“And this is Iris,” I say, for my friend is simply standing there grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Drew offers his hand to her. “The roommate who has excellent taste in parties.”
And Iris fucking titters. God, this is too weird. Baylor is too big for the kitchen, towering over all of us.
“Oh, hey is that food?” George makes a grab for the pan, and I slap his hand. He snatches it back, holding it to his chest. “Ay, woman! Share the love, eh?”
“Get your own.” I split the big frittata down the center and spoon half onto Drew’s plate. “Eat,” I tell him.
George is far from done whining. “But I’m hungry too. Why does he get some and I don’t?”
Iris coughs in her hand, going red. “You have to ask?”
Drew laughs, though his cheeks go a bit red too. He’s smart, however, and promptly tucks into his food.
George on the other hand, pouts. “Seriously, Banana? No food?”
Drew’s head snaps up, a smile spreading over his face. “Banana?”
“Yup.” Iris helps herself to a yogurt. “Anna Banana.”
“Her mom calls her that,” George puts in helpfully. “Anna has a ratty old stuffed banana hiding in her closet—”
I smack his head.
“Ow, damn!”
I cut a small slice of the remaining half of the frittata, take it for myself then pass the rest to George, the ass. “Just take your ill-gotten gains and flee.”
He makes a happy sound and steals my fork.
Drew’s soaking it all in, and though his smile is large, there are shadows in his eyes. “You guys know Anna well.”
Fishing.
Iris helps. “We’ve been together since freshman year.”
“Roommates,” George says around his mouthful of food.
Drew’s brows rise at that. “All of you?”
“Until George moved out last year for fear of ‘being overrun by estrogen.’” Iris makes a face. “His words, not mine.”
George nods to confirm, his expression lofty. “A man can only take so many feminine supplies in his bathroom before it’s time to cut and run.”
“I have my own bathroom, you tool,” I say.
“Yes. And you give me food. Now I’m wondering why I moved out.” Quick as a flash, George leans forward and lands a smacking kiss on my cheek. He’s fucking with Drew, seeing if he’ll care.
And it’s working. Drew’s expression goes completely neutral. He picks at his frittata before setting his fork down. “So...you guys...?”
He looks from George to me. Iris makes a horrified face, and George laughs. He’s a stinker, but he isn’t a jerk, and he puts Drew out of his misery.
“This might be hard to believe, cuz you’re obviously into our girl, but the thought of doing anything with Anna kind of turns my stomach.”
“Ditto,” I snap back dryly, noticing that Drew looks way too pleased.
George grins at me. “She’s like the sister I never had.”
“Hey!” Iris gives his arm a punch. “I’m your sister!”
“No, you’re my twin. Totally different, ’Ris.”
“Whatever.”
As George and Iris debate whether there is a distinction between “twin” and “sister,” I lean in close to Drew. “Their constant bickering may have factored into George moving out.”
He chuckles and takes another bite. “This is good, by the way.” He glances at my plate. “You sure you have enough?”
I stop his move to offer me some of his with a touch to his hand. He’s warm, and I want entirely too much to twine my fingers with his and tug him out of here. I pull back.
“That’s sweet, but this is fine. I cooked this more for you.”
His expression goes soft. “Thank you, Anna.”
The space between us grows close, quiet, as if Iris and George aren’t squabbling, as if we’re alone. His large thigh presses against my smaller one and heat blooms along the connection.
When he speaks, it’s low and just for me. “So, ‘Banana,’ huh?”
I give him a look. “If you call me that, you’ll lose a finger.”
A little dimple forms along his left cheek. “Why a finger?”
“Isn’t that where the bad guys always start? Lose a finger, then an eye, maybe an ear...” I shrug. “Seemed appropriately threatening.”
“Oh, very. Don’t worry, Jones. I’ve learned my lesson. No cutsey nicknames for you.” His index finger taps the tip of my nose. “Our relationship is special that way.”
There it is again. That R-word. I take a bite of frittata. The eggs have gone cold.
“Well, I’m out of here,” announces George.
Iris’s face scrunches up. “You said you were going with Henry and me to the movies.”
“You don’t need me being a third wheel, ’Ris.” George wears the same expression I’m sure I do when talking about Henry: valiantly trying to hide disgust. “And I’m not in the mood to be one.”
Iris plunks her fist on her hip. “Hasn’t stopped you from going out with us before. Besides, it was your idea to go to the movies.”
George simply shrugs. “Changed my mind. It happens.” He turns to Drew. “Good to meet you, Baylor. I gotta say, you do some impressive work on the field, man.”
Et tu, George?
Drew takes the praise in stride and simply smiles. It’s a polite smile, not like the ones he gives me when his eyes light up and a dimple graces his cheek.
“Thanks. I try my best. Good to meet you too.”
George isn’t gone for more than a few minutes when the lock to the apartment door turns and Henry walks in, key in hand.
“You gave him a key,” I hiss at Iris. There is no way I’m letting Henry have open access to our house.
She has the grace to wince. “Not permanently. I’ll get it back.”
“Now,” I insist in a low voice. Beside me, Drew is frowning, having heard the exchange.
Henry saunters up to the breakfast bar. “Sweetness.” He gives Iris a messy kiss, but his eyes are on the rest of us. Mainly Drew. He does a double take as recognition sets in.
“Battle Baylor.” He sets a hand on Iris’s hip. “I thought I was seeing things.”
“Nope.” Drew’s tone is bland, but his eyes are watchful.
Henry laughs, as if they know each other. I’m not sure that they do. I’ve never seen them exchange any words. Henry ends my suspicion by saying, “Henry Ross. I play midfield on the lacrosse team.”
His gaze shifts from Drew to me. “And here I was, beginning to think you didn’t like guys, Anna.”
“No,” I say lightly, “you got that wrong. I don’t like assholes.”
Henry leans his forearms on the bar and gives me a nasty smile. “I figured you were too uptight to put out.”
Before I can say a word, Drew’s warm hand lands on my nape. It engulfs me, a comforting weight and a support. “Careful.”
He’s not speaking to me. His eyes are on Henry. There’s nothing overtly threatening about his pose, with his other hand resting casually on the counter and his shoulders relaxed. And yet the message is clear. Should Henry make a wrong move, Drew would take him down in an instant.
I don’t need to be protected. But it feels nice knowing that he’s willing.
Henry’s frown is as contrived as his tone. “Careful?”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Drew doesn’t raise his voice. The authority of his presence is enough for Henry to look away first.
“You all need to relax. I’m just messing around.”
Aware that Iris is embarrassed, I refrain from calling him on that lie. Drew does as well, but he doesn’t drop his hard gaze from Henry.
“We going out?” Henry snaps at Iris.
“Yes.” She gives us an apologetic look as she takes Henry’s arm and all but tugs him to the door.
“Leave the key,” I say before they get there.
Henry stops, his shoulders stiffening, and turns his head to glare at me. But his gaze clashes with Drew’s, and he simply shrugs before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the spare set of keys. Henry tosses them onto the counter where they land with a loud clang.
As soon as they leave, I lean against the counter with a sigh. “He’s such an asshole.”
“I’m guessing Iris doesn’t see that.” There’s a knowing tone in Drew’s voice.
“I’d like to believe that she’s living in ignorant bliss rather than choosing to be with him with eyes wide open.”
I move to take Drew’s plate, but he reacts first, picking up both his and mine and taking them to the sink.
“Whatever the case,” I say as he rinses off the dishes and I open the dishwasher to tuck them away. “She hasn’t kicked him to the curb.”
Drew leans a hip against the counter. “It happens sometimes to guys on the team. They’ll go out with a girl who is bad news, manipulative, caring only about the fame. Every now and then someone will try to warn the poor sap.”
“It’s sweet that you guys watch out for each other.”
His teeth flash in a quick but tight smile. “Well, it isn’t entirely altruistic. A team is only as strong as its weakest link. None of us like to see a guy laid low by head games.”
Drew’s broad shoulders lift on a shrug. “Not that it matters. Warning a guy about a girl only pisses him off and drives him closer to her.”
“Which is why I grit my teeth and try to steer clear of Henry.”
“I saw him at the party. Is that why you didn’t want to go?”
“I didn’t want to go, because I don’t like parties.” I toss the hand towel into the sink. “Henry being there merely made it that much worse.”
“I’m still glad you were there.” His eyes are liquid caramel, and all thought of Henry melts away in a rush of heat and longing. As if feeling the same rush, Drew’s chest lifts on a breath, and his voice lowers to a rumble. “Show me your room, Jones.”