Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Drake
“Did you find all of your clothes?” Gianna asks, pulling a tank over her head. The tight top mixed with her baggy sweatpants is quite possibly hotter than her miniskirts and heels.
“I thought one sock was a goner, but it was under a cookie tin.”
“For the buttons,” she nods as if this makes sense.
“Yup. For the buttons.”
After our two-hour bath and a blow job, I searched for the clothes we’d discarded in the foyer. Gianna stayed behind, finding clean clothes of her own, and it gave me a moment to take in her personal space. It was both exactly as I envisioned and utterly different from what I expected.
There are pieces of projects lying everywhere. A massive canvas in the living room. Buttons all over the floor. Scrapbooks piled so high in one corner that I’m shocked they didn’t fall over during our rendezvous in the foyer. I expected as much. What surprised me was how much it felt like a home.
There are personal touches everywhere—pictures, trinkets, little succulents lining the windowsill in the kitchen. Throw blankets on every chair. It feels lived-in and comfortable, and if the walls could talk, I’m sure they’d tell stories for days.
“So what happens now? Do you leave?” She pauses. “Do you stay?” Her tone shifts higher, as if this option is her favorite. But quickly her brows tug together. “Hey, where is my phone?”
I laugh. “I have no fucking idea.”
“Did you bring it in?”
I plant a wet, loud kiss on her lips. “All I remember is that you opened the door wearing basically nothing.” I shrug. “Where’s your phone? Is my car still running? Did we shut the front door? Hell if I know.”
Would anyone blame me for blacking out? Gianna Bardot is a siren on a bad day, but dressed—barely—in a red silk kimono? No words were available. My brain shut down of all thoughts except for making her mine.
“Okay, but give me some credit,” she says, smiling proudly. “My plan was brilliant.”
“Did you have someone call it so it would ring? Or was that a coincidence?”
She snorts. “Of course, I did. Astrid called you repeatedly, so you’d come right back. In the meantime, I was rushing around here trying to look cute, smell cute, and be as irresistible as I could.”
“Your irresistibility score wasn’t what kept this from happening before. You know that, right?”
Her shoulders rise and fall as if it doesn’t matter anymore. But it does to me.
“Do you want a snack?” she asks. “I always need a snack after sex.”
“Does this mean you want me to stick around?”
She looks at me over her shoulder, leading me out of her bedroom. “You’re not going anywhere until we have at least one more round.”
How is this real?
She flips a light on in the hallway, something I did not do earlier, and it illuminates the space. The walls on the left are dotted with gold frames of all sizes. Inside them are pictures of people whom I don’t know, but who look happy.
“Those are my friends, mostly,” she says. “There are some of Lucia.” Her gaze sweeps across the images until it lands on one in the top left corner. “That’s my mom and dad.”
I step closer to get a good look at the couple who raised my girl. They’re attractive and very well put together. Her mother’s smile is bright but practiced, and her father reminds me of the kind of guy who everyone loves but never quite gets to know.
“How do you feel when you look at that picture?” I ask, wrapping my arm around her waist.
She studies it for a while. “Honestly? Sad.”
I pull her closer to me.
“I’m sad they’re gone,” she says. “I’m sad we didn’t have more chances to really understand each other.
I’m sorry for the life they could’ve lived but chose not to, you know?
I wonder a lot if they regretted anything in their last moments.
If they could’ve been saved, would they have changed anything?
” She looks up at me with doe eyes. “I’ll never know. ”
“You’re right,” I say carefully, trying to find words that don’t try to fix her pain, nor steal her grief. “You won’t know. But that doesn’t mean the questions aren’t worth asking.”
She nuzzles into my side.
“Want to know what I know?” I ask softly, remembering the things she’s told me about her parents.
She nods against my chest.
“I know that you’re a brilliant, strong, motivated, creative, thoughtful, beautiful woman,” I say, before kissing the top of her head. “A little stubborn and a little chaotic, but that’s what makes you special.”
She laughs quietly, squeezing me tighter.
“They created their lives,” I say, stroking her back. “And you’re creating yours. Look at your home. Look at your job—second-highest-rated show at Canoodle behind a very popular sports show.” I chuckle as she pretends to squirm away. “You have friends who will call your phone sixteen times.”
And you have me.
This was inevitable. There was no way I wasn’t going to fall for Gianna Bardot. I knew it when I dared her to date me, pretending like six weeks would get her out of my system. It was a farce, a joke—and now I’m in far too deep to save myself.
She’s going to crush me.
And I’m going to let her, so at least I’ll know what it was like to have her in my arms.
Gianna pulls away, taking my hand and locking our fingers together.
I try not to read too much into it. I try not to acknowledge the lump in my throat as she leads me through the house.
But whether it was purposeful or instinctual, she still did it.
She opened up to me and allowed me to comfort her.
She trusted me.
“What are you painting over there?” I ask as we go through the living room.
“I’m not sure. I was going to do this mixed-media thing, but it didn’t work out. Now it just sits there and mocks me.”
I chuckle. “Is painting your favorite thing to do? Or do prefer … collecting buttons?”
“Those aren’t just any buttons. They were Mom’s and Grandma’s.
And I was trying to find a way to do something with them, so they didn’t get lost.” She giggles as we enter the kitchen.
“Mom would hate the mess, but I have to think that Grandma would’ve appreciated them getting kicked over while being carried to my room by a tall, dark, and handsome kind—just her type. ”
“There are the tetanus cans.” I snort. “These are interesting. They do look like butterflies.”
“Did you doubt my artistic abilities?”
“No.” I watch her rummage in the cabinets out of the corner of my eye. “It was more your sanity that I was concerned about.”
She groans. “I have no food except for Matilda. And we can’t eat Matilda in her current form.”
What is this woman talking about?
“Want to order something?” she asks.
I have so many questions, but I don’t know where to start. So I avoid them all and deal with the snack issue. “Do you have crackers?”
“Yeah.”
“Butter?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I motion for her to give them to me. “Have you ever eaten butter and crackers?”
“I have not. I’m not sure why you would.” She sets a box and a butter bell on the table. Then she grabs a knife. “Figured you’d need this.”
“When I was growing up, we’d have this sometimes with our dinner,” I say, opening a package of crackers.
Memories flood my mind of big bowls of chili and a stack of buttered saltines beside it.
“These crackers are a little fancy, but they’ll work.
You need the thin square ones for this to be exactly right. ”
She hops on the counter, letting her legs swing while she watches me.
I’ve never spent time here before. This is my first time in this kitchen—in this house, no less—yet I feel so comfortable. It would be nothing to open a cabinet in search of a glass or open the fridge for a drink. How surreal.
“We’d have this with soup a lot in the fall and winter.” I smear a glob of butter on a cracker. “Sometimes with roast beef. My dad would crush crackers up and drop them in milk for a snack.”
“Ew.”
I laugh, offering her the cracker. “I’m with you on this one. Now, open.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that to me today, and I prefer it in the first context.” She parts her lips, and I place the snack on her tongue. The first bite crunches as she susses out the flavors and textures. She chews for a moment and then swallows. “Okay. That’s actually … kinda good.”
“See?” I make myself one. “You’ll never starve as long as you have crackers and butter.”
She opens her mouth again, and I give her the one I made for me. I’d give her almost anything she wants at this point. I’m a sucker for a strong, funny, beautiful woman. Or, maybe, just this one.
“How did you become a pro athlete eating this?” She makes a face like the idea is bizarre. “Aren’t you supposed to be eating steak and spaghetti or something?”
“I said I ate it growing up, not when I was training.”
“Do you miss it? Playing football, I mean.”
Slathering butter on another cracker, I consider this. “No. Not really. I miss the team aspect of it. The camaraderie. But I don’t miss practice. I don’t miss the travel. The pain. I definitely don’t miss that.”
“Does it really hurt when you get smashed by another guy on the football field, or do the pads protect you?”
I hand her the cracker. “It hurts like a motherfucker. You usually have some adrenaline in your system, so you don’t necessarily feel it right then—although sometimes you do. But the next day? It hurts to breathe.”
She starts to eat, but rests her hand on her lap instead. A cloud covers her face, and she stares off into the distance. I’m curious about what she’s thinking, but instead of asking her, I choose to give her some space to work through it.
Finally, she turns her attention to me. “Can I say something without it being awkward?”
“Probably not.” I grin at her. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t know if I’m any good at this,” she says slowly.
“What do you mean? Good at what?”
She sighs, fidgeting with the edge of her shirt. “You were right when you said you’d give me a different experience in dating because I’ve never dated like this before.”
“Like what?” I set the knife down and move to her, placing one palm on either side of her. “What are you getting at?”
“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that you’ve put so much effort into this thing between us.
You’ve chosen restaurants that you think I’ll like for reasons other than I might like the burgers.
And glassblowing? That was really, really sweet.
You even managed to get me a flower that doesn’t smell. ”
I chuckle, pressing a soft kiss to the center of her lips.
“It’s been great, Drake.” Her eyes sparkle. “It’s been a lot of fun. And I don’t know if I’ve said thank you. But … thank you.”
Her words nail me in the chest. She should never have to thank someone for treating her right. Has she dated complete chumps? Good for me, but damn.
“It’s not over, you know,” I say, resting my forehead against hers. “There are more surprises up my sleeve.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump. I forgot it was in there. I push away from Gianna and pull the device out. That’s weird.
“Hey,” I say, my finger hovering over the button. “This is my mom, and it’s really late for her to be calling and—”
“Get it.”
I flash her a smile and then answer. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“I’m sorry for calling you so late, sweetheart. I’m just …”
A cold chill races down my spine. “Is everything okay?”
“There’s no emergency.” I exhale in relief. “But it’s been a night with your father, and I just …”
She cries quietly into the phone, and my heart shatters with each sob. My mind races, trying to put together pieces of a puzzle that I don’t have. All I know is that if my mom is calling me at this hour and crying, for fuck’s sake, something is wrong.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He wanted to go to work. Couldn’t find his keys. Couldn’t find his boots. He kept yelling for you, thinking you’d taken them or hidden them or something. I don’t know. And I just … I’m tired, Drake. I’m drained.”
I pull the screen back and look at the time. Then I glance up at Gianna. She’s watching me, a worried look on her pretty face.
The last thing I want to do is leave—especially tonight. But I can hear the exhaustion in my mom’s voice and … I don’t know what to do.
“I’m not bothering you, am I?” Mom asks.
“No. I’m at my girlfriend’s house. Just got back from a date.”
Gianna grins.
“Mom? Can you hang on?” I ask.
“Sure, honey.”
I mute her. “I know we had plans, but—”
“Go.” She nods her head. “You gotta go. If I had a mom like yours, I’d go.”
A wild idea pops into my head, and I probably shouldn’t even bring it up, but the thought of leaving Gianna behind tonight isn’t one that I can stomach. I must try, at least.
“Would you be interested in going with me?” I ask.
Her eyes fly open.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say. “It’s about a forty-five-minute drive out of the city.
We can grab a terrible drive-thru sandwich, and you can control the radio.
I know it might be a little uncomfortable, so if you don’t want to, I understand.
But Mom just needs someone to hang out with her for a while and I think we’d be a good distraction. ”
She shifts on the counter. “If she’s sad, would it be a good idea to bring me? I mean, I don’t like to be sad in front of anyone, least of all someone I’m meeting for the first time.”
“I get that. But when it comes to my mom, if she sees her kids happy, she’s happy. And you, my little pyromaniac, are making me very happy lately.”
Her eyes twinkle as she looks into my eyes. The shield that used to be there, at least partially, is almost gone. That alone—even if she doesn’t accompany me tonight—makes me so damn happy.
“You really want me to go?” she asks curiously.
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t.”
She takes a deep breath, then smiles from ear to ear. “Then yes. I will go with you. But I control the radio. No takebacks.”
I pull Gianna into a hug as I unmute my mother. “Mom, I’ll be there in a bit … with my girlfriend.”
Who I think I just fell in love with.