Chapter Eighteen #2
“That’s what men are made of—boys. Or so my father always said. How about you? Where did the needle anxiety start?”
She shook her head and then rested it back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t speak for a long moment and I thought she wasn’t going to share her phobia origin story, but then she said, “Ninety shots.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t imagine what would require ninety shots—rabies?—but it was clear that whatever it was had changed her relationship with needles forever.
“My ex-husband and I tried for five years to get pregnant. In the end, IVF was our last chance. I had to give myself shots, lots and lots of shots. It became psychologically impossible. I know it seems like I should have gotten used to it and been able to jab myself no problem, but it just got worse and worse until it was my ex doing the jabbing and he wasn’t happy about it. I should have known then.”
Ex-husband. Hannah had been married. I tried that information on for size and realized I didn’t like it, which was ludicrous.
It wasn’t my business if she’d been married multiple times before I’d met her.
I just felt bad that she’d had love go wrong on her.
She deserved better than that. I regrouped and refocused back on the conversation.
“You should have known what?” I asked, although I suspected I knew exactly where this story was going, given that he was her ex and all.
“When I didn’t get pregnant, my husband left me. I hear he’s remarried and has three kids, the first of which was conceived while we were still trying.”
“What an asshole,” I hissed through gritted teeth.
“Oh, it gets better,” she said. “He blamed me and my inability to conceive for the divorce. He said he never would have cheated if I’d just gotten knocked up.”
“Correction,” I said. “What a fucking asshole.”
“Oh, there’s more. I got stuck with the outrageous IVF medical bills because the judge in our divorce case felt bad for my ex because my ex now had a ‘real family’ to support whereas I was single and clearly defective.
Then there was a reduction in staff at the newspaper where I worked, so I was abruptly unemployed as well,” she said. “It was not my favorite year.”
“This makes working a job I loathe seem not so bad,” I said. “I can see why you hit the open road. You probably couldn’t put enough miles between you and the wandering wanker.”
She laughed, which was what I’d been hoping for. From what I’d observed over the past few days, Hannah Spencer was kind, compassionate, funny, smart, and beautiful. She deserved so much more than the man who had done her so dirty.
“I debated buying a plane ticket to Europe but then I saw Buttercup and knew that the open road and the four hundred thirty-three national park sites of the United States beckoned. I’ve only managed to see about half of them.
” She rolled her head toward me. “By the way, thanks for distracting me so I could get the vaccine. It would have been ridiculous not to. I mean, lockjaw? It’s so pre–Civil War. ”
“Right?” I mimicked her posture, slouching down and resting my head on the back of the couch. I turned to face her and reached up and gently tapped her lips with my index finger. “How would you eat?”
“Or kiss?” Her voice was breathy and messed with my brain chemistry, making me want to lean in and kiss her, but that would be taking advantage of her vulnerable state, wouldn’t it?
“That would be tragic.” I leaned in anyway, hoping she’d close the gap just so that we both knew the choice was hers. She did.
I didn’t move, letting her take the lead.
She pressed her mouth against mine and I clenched my fingers to keep from grabbing her and pulling her close.
I wanted to. I wanted to feel her in my arms, pressed up against me.
If I were being honest, I’d thought about it ever since she’d jumped off the dock to save me and even more so after our first kiss.
I’d never met anyone like Hannah Spencer before and I knew she had the potential to wreck me, but I didn’t pull away.
Her mouth was soft and warm. She shifted, fitting her lips to mine, knowing from our first kiss that we’d match up perfectly.
We did. She opened her mouth and deepened the kiss and I lost the self-control battle.
I simply had to touch her. I slid my hand up her arm, across her shoulder, and speared my fingers into the thick hair at the nape of her neck.
I pulled her in closer and she responded by twining her arms around my neck.
The feel of her was everything. She was soft and sweet and warm and furry. Furry? I pulled back and a startled laugh burst out of me.
Hannah’s brow creased in confusion and she blinked at me. “That’s not the reaction I usually get when I kiss someone.”
I put my fist to my mouth, trying to stop the laughter, before I said, “Well, do you usually have audience participation?” I pointed over her shoulder and she turned to find Dude hovering over her with his ears up.
“Dude!” she cried. “We have talked about this.” She pointed to the recliners and the big beast turned his head as if he didn’t see her then he didn’t have to go. “Now, Dude.”
Dude put his front feet on the floor and eased forward. Dragging his back feet, he stretched his full length as he slowly made his way to the chair, casting Hannah a reproving glance over his shoulder as if he’d been sent to the dungeon.
“Well, that was mortifying,” Hannah said. “Sorry about the one hundred and fifty pounds of mood killer.”
I glanced at the chair; Dude was obviously sulking as he’d turned his back to us. I glanced at Hannah, who looked as on edge as I felt. I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and she leaned into my touch. “It would take a lot more than a pouting dog to kill the mood for me.”
She tipped her head and studied me as if trying to determine if I was sincere.
I held her gaze as I moved in, only closing my eyes when she closed hers right before my mouth landed on hers.
There was a quick gasp of what sounded like relief in her throat and it lured me in.
Knowing what I did about the past few years of her life, I was stunned by how sunny-side up she was, taking each adventure as it came—just her, Dude, and her T-shirt cannon.
Hannah pulled me close and I reveled in the feel of her pressed against me.
She was all lush curves and soft skin. That coconut-lime shampoo of hers filled my senses and I knew I would never smell that combination again without thinking of her.
The thought yanked me out of the moment like a car stopping short.
What was I doing? There was no future here for me or her or us.
What if feelings got involved? The end of summer was our expiration date.
Period. Full stop. Hannah had no interest in selling, and I had to sell to secure Charlie’s future care.
Crossing the line from housemate to hookup was a bad, bad, bad idea.
I eased my way out of the kiss. I pressed my forehead to Hannah’s and said, “Hey, Spencer.”
She leaned back and I noted her breathing was as erratic as mine. Damn it, this would be so much easier if she felt lukewarm about me. It’d be a blow to the ego, but I could take it.
“O’Malley?” She must have sensed the change in my tone.
“It occurs to me that getting involved might not be a great idea.”
She blinked and then made a face as if she smelled something bad. “Getting involved? Is that what you think we’re doing?”
“Well, we were headed in that direction.” My voice came out more defensive than I liked.
“No, we weren’t,” she protested. “I enjoy short-term flings here and there, but I don’t ‘get involved.’ I can’t.”
“Why not?” I was perplexed. “Are you still hung up on the diddling dick?”
“God no!”
“Then why can’t you ‘get involved’?”
“Do I need to remind you that you just said ‘getting involved might not be a great idea’?”
“No, here’s the thing. I don’t do short-term flings.” My voice sounded growly. I tried to soften it, but I suspected she had some horseshit reason for not getting involved, and I wanted to hear her say it so I could clear it up for her. “Why don’t you ever ‘get involved’?”
“O’Malley, I can’t have children.” She spoke slowly as if I hadn’t heard her before.
“I’m broken, defective, a plowed field where seed can find no purchase, pick your descriptor.
I have nothing to offer for the long term so I don’t get involved.
Not for more than a week or two at most. After that, feelings get involved and it gets messy. ”
“Who called you defective?” I zeroed in on the important bit and called it out. “Was it the fuckwit philanderer?”
She slumped back on the couch and blew out a breath. “Does it matter? It’s the truth.”
“I call bullshit on that.” I picked her up under the arms. She let out a surprised yelp but didn’t fight me when I moved her so she was straddling my lap.
I skimmed my hands from her knees, up her thighs, along her sides, cupping her breasts ever so gently before I slid my hands up her arms to her shoulders, trailing my fingers along the sensitive skin of her neck.
She shivered at my touch and I felt invincible. To have this woman respond to my caress was some pretty heady stuff. I cupped her face and pulled her forward until she was almost lying on top of me.
“There.” I softly kissed the center of her mouth.
“Is.” I kissed the left corner. “Nothing.” I kissed the right.
“Defective.” I pulled her in and kissed her deeply, almost losing myself and forgetting to pull back.
“About.” This time I did go deep, parting her lips and sliding my tongue into her mouth.
She let out a breathy sigh and again I had to drag myself back.
I pulled away, leaving just a breath between our mouths and said, “You.”
“Oh, Simon.” It was the second time she’d said my name, and I loved the way her voice wrapped around it, making the syllables resonate with affection as if my name belonged to her and her alone.
She cupped my face and put her mouth on mine. The kiss was sweet and tender and I felt it plucking my heartstrings even while it made my groin throb with wanting her, all of her.
“You’re very kind,” she said. “But I am broken and there’s nothing that can be done to fix it.
It’s taken me five years to put myself back together and accept that my dream of having a family of my own is never going to happen.
I simply don’t have the emotional fortitude to go through that again.
Temporary is all I can offer and if you can’t accept that then this”—she gestured between us—“can’t happen. ”
She slipped off my lap then and with a sad smile she disappeared up the stairs to her room. Dude rolled over and stared at me as if to say he’d tried to warn me.
Well, hell. Now what was I going to do? Having Hannah believe such utter horseshit about herself was completely unacceptable.
And the contrary part of me who thought he’d been noble about slamming on the brakes and not getting involved when we had two very different agendas about what to do with the house suddenly felt the need to prove to her that she was worth so much more than she believed.
And if a fling was the only opportunity I’d have to show her the kind of love and support she truly deserved from a partner, how could I not take it?