Chapter 19
nineteen
JOHANNA
My body and mind float in that space between sleep and consciousness. The downy weight of my comforter and the cloud-like texture of the pillow hold me in that limbo, and I’m almost tempted to let myself be pulled under and sleep for the rest of the day.
Almost .
Because something about the texture of the comforter and the height of the pillow doesn’t feel right.
Cracking open one eye, I see the sun pouring through the gaps in my curtains.
But I don’t have curtains and suddenly I’m barraged with flashbacks. Losing my phone. The photograph. The panic. The darkness.
Patrick .
Carrying me to his house. Finding me in the shower. Holding me. Braiding my hair. Staying with me all night.
My heart aches at the memories.
Opening both eyes, they feel puffy and raw. I stroke the braid hanging over my shoulder, feeling grateful it isn’t a mess thanks to Patrick’s gentle braiding. As my morning fog clears, I stretch my arms out and arch my back. A moan almost slips free with the movement, but when my butt brushes against something hard, it gets cut short.
I forgot this isn’t my bed, and the owner of said bed currently has his arm slung over my waist and is now dragging me toward him. A small squeak escapes me once my back is flush to his chest, every curve of my body pressed against the hard planes of his.
And other hard things.
Thinking I can wiggle my way out of his hold is quickly disproven, because it only causes him to tug me in closer, and my ass is now nestled nicely into his lap. The layer of clothes between us does little to hide his erection.
He’s still asleep, but it doesn’t stop my body from heating up all over and my mind from thinking very indecent things. Mumbling something incoherent, he nuzzles his face into my hair, and his hand drifts under my borrowed T -shirt until it lies flat against my stomach, fingers splayed against my heated skin. I suck in a breath at the contact and look at where his strong forearm disappears underneath the gray bedding. I’ve always found the darker hairs on his arms oddly attractive. Throw in the sinewy muscles running down his arms and wrists—well, it does a lot.
My mind is wandering into dangerous territory. I lie as still as possible, hoping he loosens his grip. But he doesn’t, and before I’ve even finished that thought, the hand that was resting on my stomach ventures to my breasts, which have been heavy from the moment he pulled me into him. My nipples are painfully hard and sensitive, aching for a touch that I shouldn’t want to chase.
I squeeze my thighs together when his thumb brushes along the underside of my breast. Biting my lip to muffle my light whimper, I hungrily lean into his touch, delirious that he’s inches from my peaked nipples .
I’m desperate. It’s been so long since someone made me feel like this, and it’s almost laughable that he was the last one to do it.
I didn’t plan for it to be this long, but when depression and anxiety are your companions, those types of needs take the back burner.
Under Patrick’s caress? Those desires come roaring to life.
His rough fingertips run across the curve of my breast, trailing higher and higher. I should wake him and not let this get any further.
The wetness between my thighs can’t be ignored now, and I rub them together to ease the slightest bit of pressure. That only forces Patrick’s hand to travel farther north. My eyes close at the feel of his warm hand now cupping my breast. His fingers gently toy and squeeze, sending a zap of pleasure to where I crave him most.
It takes every modicum of self-control not to grind my hips into him. But when his thumb runs across my nipple, those quiet whimpers turn to a loud moan.
“ Shit ,” he curses, no longer asleep. His hand whips out from under the T -shirt.
Biting back my protest at the loss of his touch, I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s not guilty or outraged like I was expecting. His pupils are blown wide, hair messy and wild, and his eyes burn with desire, I worry a wildfire might take light in them.
I go to open my mouth, but what do I even say? Sorry for rubbing up against you like a bear needing a back scratch from a tree.
“ I , umm, Jesus , Jo . I’m so sorry. I think I forgot where I was for a second.” He lets out a deep breath. “ That wasn’t…staying here…that wasn’t my intention. I swear.”
My mood instantly shifts when I see the guilt morph his face. He’s worried he’s taken advantage of me, which is not the case.
“ Hey , it’s fine. It takes two to tango, right?” I wince as the words leave my mouth in that dumb British accent, hinting at my unease. It’s not that being close to him makes me uncomfortable, far from it, but we clearly have no clue how to navigate our way around each other. We’re constantly fumbling around in the dark and bouncing off one another.
He huffs out a little laugh and scratches the dark stubble on his jaw. It’s such a contrast to his usual clean-shaven look, and I can’t help but wonder how it would feel against my…
Nope ! Not going there.
“ How are you feeling?” he asks.
“ I’m pretty tired, but it looks like I slept for…” I squint at the clock hanging on the wall. “ Crap ! Ten hours! Patrick , you should be with Lottie or doing something better with your day. Oh my god, I’m due at the restaurant soon.” I shoot up in bed, untangling myself from the comforter when his fingers curl around my wrist, halting my escape.
“ She’s with my mom. Making sure you’re okay is my top priority right now. Jules has got your shift covered too.” His fingers begin stroking my wrist—just like that evening in his truck—as he looks at me, brows furrowed. “ You scared me last night, but please don’t tell me you’re okay because it’s easier.”
Jesus . How does he know exactly what to say?
I’m so used to putting up a fa?ade, worried about how my true feelings will impact others. No one has ever called me out on it before. “ I’m tired but embarrassed more than anything. Thank you for everything, and I’m so so?—”
“ Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” he interrupts. His tone isn’t angry, but I hear the warning, like the idea of me apologizing is absurd. “ You have nothing to apologize for or be embarrassed about. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.”
This man. He would take on the burden that he didn’t help me sooner, as if he knew where and what I’m doing at all times. Like I’m his responsibility. Then a thought enters my mind. “ How did you know I was there?”
He reaches behind him and waves his phone in the air. “ I have an app linked to the security system. A notification came through early this morning saying it’d been turned off. That reminds me, your phone is downstairs.”
My phone. The whole reason I got myself into this mess. Though , I hardly expected to have my first panic attack in two years when searching for my missing phone. Anxiety loves to be unpredictable and unforgiving like that. I made a rookie error. I should have known better than to go somewhere that tends to trigger me without my meds, especially when I was already in such a low mood.
Patrick looks at me intensely, but he isn’t staring at me like I’m a delicate piece of porcelain ready to crack at the slightest knock. He’s trying to peel me back, layer by layer; to work out what’s different about me. Dropping my head to avoid his gaze, I run my fingers across the faded lettering of the T -shirt, secretly soaking up how much I love being in his clothes.
He ducks his head, and there’s no avoiding him now. Patrick takes my hand in his, caressing his thumb across my knuckles as he holds my eyes captive. “ Don’t do that, love.” His voice is so tender, it makes my chest ache. “ We all have our days, and while I’m sorry you had to go through that last night, I’m glad I was the one to find you. We can talk about what happened, or we can move on to something else?”
This . This is exactly the conversation I spent years avoiding. That self-conscious girl I’ve grown from shows her face. She was so ashamed and embarrassed about how she was feeling. But I’m not that same girl, and I trust the person in front of me. I thought he’d changed since I moved back to town, and in a way he has. But he’s the same seven-year-old boy who kissed me at midnight just to make me smile. And the teenage boy who raced through town to save my junior prom.
“ Can I freshen up and have some coffee first, before I answer that?”
The corner of his mouth picks up and he nods, before leaning forward and placing a kiss to my forehead. “ Iced coffee?”
That small brush of his lips leaves me speechless, and all I can do is nod in response.
“ I’ll get right on that. We know how grumpy you get without your caffeine. There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink. Help yourself to anything else in there, I’ll use Lottie’s bathroom.”
He climbs off the bed and with the sweetest smile, saunters out of the room, while I sit there stunned from his words and actions.
A short while later, feeling less like a zombie after splashing some water on my face and brushing my teeth, I head to the bedroom to make the bed, but the sight of a Post -it note on the pillow I slept on last night catches my eye.
The last time he left me a note was also on a pillow in his bed. Specifically in the bed where we had slept together for the first time. Where I gave him my heart and he gave me his. The most memorable night of my life.
It was quickly followed by one of the worst few weeks of mine, and no doubt his.
The point of no return.
It’s not the same message, but the words are just as powerful.
It’s okay to not be okay.
I doubt he knows the power of those words, but it’s a mantra I think most people should carry with them. One I wish I’d followed sooner.
Tucking the note into the pocket of the sweats for safekeeping, knowing exactly where I’ll be putting it. I head downstairs and take in his house for the first time. It doesn’t scream single bachelor , but a family man. The walls are covered in family photos from over the years. Ones of Lottie as a newborn to more recently. His siblings. His parents. A blushing Patrick , next to…squinting, I rear back. Jesus , my mom actually let me go out with that much makeup on? Despite the orange glow from the foundation three shades too dark, there’s no hiding the smile splitting across my face. And it’s directed right at the boy standing next to me, his arm slung gingerly over my shoulder, like he wasn’t sure of the safest place to touch.
A kernel of hope drops in my stomach, because if he’d wanted to forget about our history, why would he hang this photo up in his home?
Following the noise of a radio, I wander to the kitchen and come up short when I spot Patrick in a pair of dark navy pajama pants hanging low on his hips, washing the dishes. Gray sweatpants, who? There’s something delicious about a man who can pull off a pair of loose, plaid pajama pants. The cherry on top? He’s topless, water splashing on his muscular stomach as he scrubs at something in the sink.
Oh , to be a plate.
I’m treated with the view of his strong back, the muscles shifting with his movements. And he’s barefoot. This might not be the best way for me to recover from last night, because I’m now light-headed.
The whole visual is quite the morning treat and when he spots me over his shoulder, the sheepish grin he gives me as he dries his hands does all sorts of things to my insides.
“ I spilled some coffee on it,” he says and nods to the stained white T -shirt on the counter. “ I was trying to mix your coffee in the blender how you like it.” He walks to the fridge and pulls out a glass, holding it out to me. “ It only took me two tries. Coconut milk and one sugar, right?”
“ Yes . You remembered?”
“ I’ll never forget your weird obsession with iced drinks.” I then notice the two plates of eggs on the counter. He grabs them and walks toward the dining table in the open plan space, where the light from the early afternoon sun streams through the large glass doors leading out into the yard.
I follow Patrick and sit opposite him. He pushes a plate toward me and digs into his breakfast as I take my first sip of coffee, the zing of caffeine alleviating the dull headache. He grabs a sweatshirt from the back of the chair beside him and pulls it over his head—much to my disappointment.
We settle into a comfortable silence, drinking our coffee, eating our food, and sharing small smiles across the table. The domestication of it feels bizarrely familiar. We shared a lot of meals just like this over the years and would stay over at each other’s places on occasions.
When we’re finished, I sense his hesitancy to start the conversation.
So , for once, I’m the one to do it.
“ It’s not the first time it’s happened.” He seems surprised at first but then settles in his chair, so I continue. “ The panic attack, that is. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve had one. I have medication for when I feel one coming on, but I didn’t have it with me last night.”
Debating my next words, my fingers tap against my thigh under the table. Patrick’s eyes catch the movement, but he doesn’t comment on it. He sits there patiently, with an encouraging look on his face.
“ I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder . I got diagnosed in Tennessee , but, umm… I think I’d been dealing with it long before then. I had some pretty intense ups and downs with the diagnosis, but with the right support and meds, I’ve been good the last two years.” Holding his gaze, even though every cell in my body wants me to look away, I wait for the disapproving look or eye roll.
You just need to stop thinking so much.
Life can’t be that hard?
But Patrick’s gaze doesn’t waver. It doesn’t shift from the kind and thoughtful look he’s pinned me with since we sat at the table.
“ I’m sorry you had to go through that, I can’t imagine. But I really appreciate you trusting me enough to share.” His hand finds mine across the table. “ Do you know what triggered it?”
Now that’s a question I’m not prepared to answer today. Not because I don’t trust him, but because I’m so mentally exhausted from last night, I worry how I’ll hold myself together when telling that side of my story. So I keep my answer simple. “ Being tired, frustrated at myself, and the photograph.”
“ The photog— Oh .” From the knowing look in his eyes, he’s slowly piecing together what happened, and I’m grateful he doesn’t press me on it. “ I’d like to know how I can help, if you ever need it. And if you ever find yourself in a position like that again, you call me, okay?”
“ I’m sorry.” He shoots me a glare, reminding me I shouldn’t apologize for last night, but I also can’t imagine how finding me like that would be for him. “ I’m not your concern, Pat . You have enough on your plate already.”
“ You absolutely are my concern. You’re my friend, and we look out for one another.” Knife , meet heart. But it’s one step better than when I first arrived back in town.
“ Wow , you really have that daddy glare nailed down.”
“ Johanna ,” he warns me.
I resist the urge to tell him that his tone makes him sound even more daddy .
“ Honestly , waking up to breakfast and coffee really helps. I can’t wait for a bubble bath and cheesy rom-com later. The attacks usually wipe me out, so I really appreciate you getting my shift covered today.”
“ Was the color thing a way of coping?” he asks hesitantly. I shouldn’t be surprised at how observant he was, and from small snippets I remember of last night, I was very vocal in my search for that something green.
It doesn’t always work, but the second my panicked eyes found his, it did its job. Sometimes it’s less of a distraction and more a sense of accomplishment, like my brain is happy we found our way out.
“ Umm , yeah. It’s kinda like the five-four-three-two-one technique. I don’t know if you know it.” I shrug. “ Only I like to find five things of the same color. For some reason, I picked green.”
Understanding dawns in those same green eyes.“ Green’s a good color.”
“ I think it saved me last night.”
He goes to say something but stops himself and stands. Collecting the dishes from the table, he tilts his head toward the hallway behind us. “ I left your phone by the front door. Let me get these dishes done and I can drive you home.” He turns away but then pivots. “ Not that I’m saying you need to leave, you can stay. I need to get Lot? —”
Laughing , I hold up a hand. “ Patrick , it’s fine. I could really do with a soak in the tub and another ten hours of sleep.”
“ Only if you’re sure, but I’m driving you. Your clothes are in the washer, but I’ll drop them by tomorrow.”
Lifting the hem of the worn, maroon T -shirt I’m still wearing, I shrug a shoulder. “ I think this suits me better. Don’t you think?”
Something flares in his eyes, similar to the look he was giving me this morning, but rather than overthinking it, I go in search of my phone.
I find it sitting on a wooden sideboard by the front door, but when I spot the open door to what looks like a study, my curiosity is piqued. Dumbbells and a treadmill sit in one corner, while a large desk sits in the other. The desk isn’t covered in papers and menus like I’d expect, but something that makes me question if fate likes to fuck with me.
On top of the dark, oak desk sits a half-completed jigsaw puzzle.
As far as coincidences go, this one is pretty unbelievable. Because this is the exact same jigsaw puzzle I started the other week. You can make out the bottom of the Eiffel Tower in this one, and I’m a little envious that he’s made more progress than me.
“ Hey , there you are— Oh ,” Patrick says from the doorway, but I don’t turn to look at him. I’m too busy picking up a stray piece and slotting it in place.
“ Do you still like doing them?” he murmurs.
“ Yeah . I never stopped.” I run my fingers along the cardboard landscape. “ It’s one of the earliest memories I have with my mom. It’s a good distraction when things get a little…tough.”
This puzzle reminds me a lot of the one framed at my parents’ house, forever missing its thousandth piece. I moaned about it for months to Patrick , who thought it was hilarious. He even convinced my dad to frame it in the hallway downstairs, so it was the first thing I’d see when I stepped through the front door.
“ I started this one the other week.” I turn to face him, only to find he’s standing much closer now. Inches away, in fact. His finger traces the piece I just placed, and I can feel the heat from his body as he leans in close.
We know how close we’re standing, but I don’t think either of us holds the willpower to pull away. Or the want.
“ What are the odds.” I think he’s still talking about the puzzle, but being this close to him jumbles my brain. “ It reminded me of you. That’s why I bought it.” His hands move to my shoulders with a soft touch, and even through the material of the T -shirt, the heat of it is dizzying.
“ So did the one before that. But everything reminds me of you. Wherever I look, there you are. How did you do it?” He must see the question in my eyes. “ How have you kept such a tight hold of my heart, my mind, after so many years?”
He swallows hard with the admission, and I watch in fascination as his throat bobs. Slowly dragging my gaze up his neck, past his chin with the tiny scar on the cleft, and up to lips so full they don’t belong on a man. When I meet his eyes, I find them glowing with longing.
“ Patrick ,” I whisper.
“ It was useless, wasn’t it?”
“ What was?”
“ Trying to not be pulled into your orbit again. I was always going to end up back in it.”
“ I never wanted to leave yours,” I murmur.
“ We’ve made a mess of this, but you must know, Jo .” His hands slip up to frame my face, long fingers clasping the back of my head while his thumbs stroke across my cheeks.
“ Know what?” I ask breathlessly.
“ That I never stopped…” He trails off, but before I can ask What , his lips are on me.
I cling to his sweatshirt, trying to keep my balance as his lips mold over mine, the ferociousness of his kiss feeds the roaring need in me. My knuckles must be white from how hard I’m clutching his sweatshirt, and it only tightens when his tongue run against the seam of my lips. I open willingly, and his tongue spears into my mouth. The taste of him sends me wild, because god, have I missed this. One night wasn’t enough to soak up everything that he is.
This kiss is eager, hungry, and unforgiving.
What he gives, I give right back.
Our hands don’t know what to do, roaming all over one another. His tangle in my hair one second and grip my face the next. Mine lock behind his neck and then fall to his pounding chest. We’re everywhere at once. He walks us backward until I hit the edge of the desk, my grip on him never loosening. His hands glide down my sides, then he grabs the backs of my thighs and hoists me up on the desk. The jigsaw puzzle and my brain in disarray.
Our tongues continue their dance as his fingers slip underneath the T -shirt, but pause above the tops of the sweats. He lazily runs the backs of his fingers along the exposed skin of my belly, such a contradiction to the punishing pace of his kiss.
Teeth . Lips . Tongues . We give it everything, because this kiss isn’t hello.
It’s a homecoming.
He grinds the hardness growing in his pants against the inside of my thigh, but I need more. Crave more. I widen my legs until my hips cradle his, and I can feel all of him. Long , hard, and thick.
I’m so lost in the moment, I’m not sure what causes it, but suddenly Patrick rips himself away and stumbles back. Our chests are heaving, and his lips are swollen and glistening from our kiss. The few feet between us and the guilty, torn look on his face create a chasm in my heart.
He’s the first one to speak, and boy, do I hate his words.
“ I can’t do this with you again, Jo .”