Chapter Fourteen #2
I sigh. “I…” I cringe. “I was thinking about how it’s amazing to me that you clean, buy your own food, and cook. You made me banana bread that made me actually like banana bread, and you’re so down to earth for someone whose net worth has seven figures in it.”
His lips curl into a soft, amused smirk that makes his lust-filled expression seem a little less overwhelming. “Is that such a bad thing?”
Hopefully he doesn’t think it’s strange that I know his net worth.
It isn’t something I think about often. Or at all, really.
His money situation is none of my business.
But most people with money show it off. They act like they have it.
Bodhi doesn’t. He doesn’t have a Rolex, at least not one he wears, and the suits he wears for interviews and conferences are hardly Gucci.
The truck he drives is at least five years old, and I’m fairly certain his only vehicle.
I’ve heard the guys brag about their cars, homes, and lavish vacations enough to understand that Bodhi is very different than most of his teammates.
“No,” I admit, looking away from him. “It just makes it really hard not to like you.”
When I gather the courage to look back at him, there’s a twinkle in his eye that I can’t quite figure out. It fills my stomach with a warm and fuzzy feeling.
His voice is smooth when he asks, “Do you want to dislike me, Honor?”
My throat bobs with a thick swallow. “It would certainly make things easier,” I tell him in bold honesty. “Liking people means they can disappoint you. And I’ve had enough disappointment for one lifetime.”
That twinkle goes away, and his face morphs into one of sympathy. I regret saying that, because I hate it when people pity me. I don’t need nor do I want it. “The last thing I want to do is disappoint you, honey.”
The genuine tone in his voice is frustrating.
Can’t he have some part of him that is a turnoff? It’s bad enough the man barely has any body fat and not an acne scar in sight, but he’s kind, funny, and considerate too?
“You were written by a woman, weren’t you?” I mutter, not meaning to voice it aloud.
He chuckles. “I don’t know what that means, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”
My sigh is long and forlorn. “You should, because it is.”
“We can be friends, you know,” he tells me, regaining my attention. “Friends are less likely to disappoint each other. There’s less pressure in expectations.”
There is less pressure, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be any disappointment. As long as my brain and heart are at war with each other over what they want, something tells me I’ll always be on guard around him.
And Bodhi seems to know that. “Are you trying to find reasons to withhold our friendship?”
I scoff half-heartedly. “No.” I think about it, petting Puck for comfort. “Maybe.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on having me as a friend. I’m pretty awesome. It’s going to be a life changing experience.”
I don’t know if he moved or I did, but there’s not nearly as much room between us as when he first walked in. And based on the position we were in only five minutes ago, I don’t know if I can trust this close proximity.
“Life changing, huh?” I question.
His eyes flicker between my mouth and my gaze. “Yeah, it’ll definitely be life changing. The friendship, I mean.”
I somehow doubt that’s what he means.
When I see his eyes dip back down to my mouth as I wet my lips, I can’t help but say, “Friends don’t want to kiss each other.”
Like I want you to kiss me right now, I almost say. I hold it back by the grace of whatever God exists out there. Like I wanted you to kiss me in the hallway. Like I wanted you to after dinner.
His gaze darkens. “No,” he murmurs, his throat bobbing as he forces his attention to the wall. “No, they don’t.”
Bodhi steps back, picking up his water and drinking nearly the entire thing. “Do you mind if I go take a shower? I could use one. Then we can put something on TV.”
He wants me to stay? “I can show myself out. I’m sure you want some alone time—”
“I want you to stay,” he insists. But the main three words I hold onto for dear life are “I want you” as if those were the only ones he said.
That scares me. “What about Gemma?”
“What about her?”
“You don’t mind if she sees me here?”
He cocks his head. “I don’t keep my friends a secret, Honor. I don’t keep anyone that I care about a secret.”
Those are loaded words that do way too much to the beating organ in my chest. “Oh.” I wet my lips and stare down at Puck. I could say I need to take him for a walk or go home and feed him, but something tells me Bodhi would find solutions to anything I made up.
He’d want to walk Puck together in his neighborhood or order dog food for one-hour delivery. He seems that determined to have me here.
I tell myself that’s the only reason I say, “Okay” in a quiet, resigned tone. I also tell myself that I can be friends with someone like Bodhi Hoffman even if I’m attracted to him. Even if I wouldn’t hate the idea of kissing more than his cheek.
It almost makes me sad. Because telling myself those things makes me just like my mother.
A liar.
*
Two days later, I’m listening to my travel playlist that has no real organization to it.
A minute and a half ago, I was jamming to Katy Perry and all about how she wants to kiss a girl, and now Elvis’s smooth voice is serenading me about loving me tender.
When I downloaded music last night, I’d been too in my head to pay much attention to what I was doing because of Max.
Stupid, stupid Max Decker.
I swear it’s like he sensed I was spending quality time with another man and wanted to interject after all this time of no contact.
I’d been enjoying myself with Bodhi way more than I thought I would.
We watched The Terminal until Gemma came downstairs rubbing her eyes and asked us why Forest Gump sounded so different and then changed it to a kid’s movie with animals singing in some sort of talent competition headed by a koala with gambling debts.
Gemma sang every single song, and her dad watched her with a light in his eyes that I had the audacity to be a little jealous of.
But then my phone went off, and I saw a text message from the very man I hadn’t thought about for one second since Bodhi had come downstairs from the shower with wet hair and a new pair of sweatpants that fit his long legs, and other parts of him, a little too well.
The message only said one word, but it was enough to sour the good mood I’d been buzzing with as I listened to a six-year-old’s rendition of “Still Standing” by Elton John. It completely obliterated any feeling I felt for the almost kiss that happened between me and her father.
Douchebag: Hey
Mila is the one who changed his name in my phone when I refused to let her delete and block his contact. “What if there’s an emergency? What if something goes wrong with the divorce papers and he needs to tell me? What if—”
“He can call the chick he’s seeing if there’s one, and your lawyer can get in touch with you if there’s an issue with the paperwork. What ifs are no longer allowed to be in your vocab, Honor.”
I knew she was right, but every time I entertained the idea of blocking his number I couldn’t go through with it. Anxiety would bubble in my chest whenever my finger lingered on the button that would take him out of my digital life.
Three letters.
One simply word, and my night was ruined.
Hey.
I didn’t answer, of course. But I didn’t stop thinking about it the second that message popped up on my screen.
I debated on deleting it—out of sight out of mind and all that jazz.
I didn’t, and I don’t know why. And I’m mad at myself for hesitating when I want nothing to do with the boy who I gave so much of myself to.
I’d told Bodhi I had to leave soon after, realizing that I wasn’t going to be fun company anymore. I ordered another Uber before he could so much as offer to drive me home and gathered my things.
When Bodhi texted me later that night asking if I was all right, I didn’t respond.
Maybe it was a bitchy thing to do, but I wasn’t in the mood to converse with anyone.
Not him. Not Max. Not Sylvia or my father.
I wanted to be alone. To sulk and feel my feels.
More than that, I wanted to figure out what the hell my feelings were other than anger.
I meant what I said to Bodhi. Getting close with someone, liking them enough to let my barriers down, means risking getting hurt by them. Max is a prime example of why that’s a bad idea.
I’m startled out of the thought when a saran-wrapped tray of something gets dropped into my lap.
My eyes move from the brownies and up, up, up to meet Bodhi’s smiling face as he peels his carry-on off his shoulder and puts it in the overhead bin above our row of seats.
Karina handed me my ticket this morning and told me everyone had random assigned seats, so I didn’t think twice about who I’d be sitting next to.
I had my noise canceling headphones, so I was going to listen to my playlist, take a much-needed nap, and probably play a ridiculous amount of Bejeweled Blitz on my phone.
My focus goes back on the brownies that must have an entire box of saran wrap around it. “You made me brownies?”
He settles into the seat beside me and buckles himself in, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Made them from scratch. And by scratch I mean the box.”
“But…” I blink. “Why?”
His smile is amused. “Because I didn’t have the regular ingredients to do it by hand.”
I gape at him. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
His dimple appears. “You seemed sad when you left last night. Figured you could use a pick me up.”
I looked sad so he made me brownies? Now I feel even worse for ignoring his text. He must have been up for way longer than he should have been considering how early he needed to meet the team for this trip. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to you. I—”