Chapter Thirteen
Zadie
“It’s bad enough you refusin’ to come back home where you belong, Zadiebug. I don’t understand why you can’t at least come for a visit. It’s Thanksgiving, for goodness’ sake.”
My hair was wet and hanging in a giant tangle after a shower, and I had no energy to deal with it. It needed my usual leave-in conditioner, but where I’d left the bottle was anyone’s guess.
Instead of looking for it, I was stuck in a one-sided conversation with the woman who’d given me life and an ever-growing migraine.
My mother, Jenni Tillman-Overly, was a whiner, and it annoyed the shit out of me. Almost as much as her hyphenated name.
Tillman, I understood. It was her maiden name. But Overly? It belonged to a man she’d never married. She claimed he was the love of her life—she’d cheated on my father with him, after all—but she’d also left him over a decade ago.
“You stayin’ away so long makes me think I did somethin’ wrong. Like you don’t wanna see me.” Her sickeningly sweet, over-the-top fake Southern drawl was pushing the limits of my patience.
At least, that’s what I was blaming my mood on. The real reason I was so on edge was that I’d tossed and turned all night, replaying every moment with Caleb that I should’ve been trying to forget.
Longer hair on a man is super sexy.
What the hell had I been thinking? Maybe the pregnancy hormones were killing off my brain cells. The thought worried me, especially since I was still fixating on him even with my mother droning in my ear.
Was it normal to fantasize about a foot rub?
It wasn’t just the pressure of his hands on my feet, or the way he’d paid such careful attention, finding every spot that made me melt. It was what came after.
The hallway. His hand holding mine. The way I’d pressed my palm to his chest and felt his heart pounding beneath it, hard and sure, through the thin cotton of his shirt.
God, he’d felt good.
I kept replaying the way his body had gone taut under my hand. How badly I’d wanted to let my fingers wander instead of pulling away. And the patient determination in his voice when he’d said we were friends for now.
It wasn't the first time he'd said it, but somehow the words held more promise than they had before.
And that scared the shit out of me. Because the worst part wasn't wanting him. The worst part was the voice in my head telling me I didn't deserve him. And the sickening realization that the voice sounded exactly like my mother's.
“Are you even listening to me, Zadiebug?” Jenni’s shrill voice cut through my thoughts. “I swear, you’d think I was the wicked witch, the way you avoid me.”
“I’m not avoiding you, Mom. But I’m not driving all the way to Calgary just for Thanksgiving dinner, and you know I can’t afford a flight.” And there was no way in hell she was offering to pay. “Besides, I’d be lousy company. I’d probably spend the entire time in your bathroom, throwing up.”
Not to mention, I didn’t want to buy the groceries, cook the meal, and clean up afterward. My mother’s version of cooking usually involved a drive-thru window.
Jenni wasn’t maternal or anything close to a homemaker.
She was easier with me now that I was an adult who could fend for herself, but when I was a kid, she never missed a chance to make me feel like a burden.
I was the price she paid for falling in love with a no-good loser like my father—another man she’d never married.
“But Andy’s been looking forward to meeting you. And we were hoping to finally meet your boyfriend.”
“Mom,” I snapped, my voice growing louder, “I told you. Sean isn’t my boyfriend anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure if you give him a chance, he’d be more than happy to make it up to you.
” Like that was an option I’d ever be interested in.
“I bet he feels bad for running off. You can’t fault a man like that.
He’s got all that talent, all that fame. His life is so much bigger than yours.”
Pain sparked behind my eyes. “And yet, he’s still so small in so many ways.” I’d fully abandoned quiet and polite.
“Don’t be mad, Bug. You know I love you.”
A knock on my bedroom door saved me from a verbal wrestling match.
“I love you too.” I meant it, mostly. “Maybe I’ll come for a visit at Christmas, but I’ve got to go now.”
“Okay, just take care of yourself. And don’t let your fancy French friend keep you away from me too long.”
I hung up before the guilt could settle in.
Despite our differences and my lingering bitterness, she loved me in her own limited way.
But going back to Calgary meant getting pulled back into the orbit of supporting her, emotionally and financially.
It meant giving up everything I’d started building here.
I dragged myself across the room and opened the door.
Caleb stood in the hallway, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that fit a little too well. His hair was pushed back, glasses on, his blue eyes fixed on me with unmistakable concern.
The man I’d been fantasizing about all night was standing in front of me, looking hot as sin, and I was a mess again.
My hair was a wet pile of knots. My yoga pants were a size too small. And my shirt did absolutely nothing to hide my braless nipples, which hardened at the sight of him like they were greeting him and ruining my life at the same time.
“Hey.” His voice was low, his presence taking up the entire hallway. “I heard your voice through the wall. You all right?”
“Fine. Just my mom being my mom.” I crossed my arms over my chest, which did nothing except make it look like I was groping myself.
His gaze dropped to my chest. And he didn’t even try to hide it.
Heat flooded my face—half arousal, half mortification—and before I could figure out which one was winning, my stomach made its own decision.
I clamped a hand over my mouth and shoved past him, barely making it to the toilet before everything came up. I retched, and retched again, falling to my knees as vomit splashed the sides of the bowl.
What a fucking disaster.
“It’s okay.” Caleb’s voice was calm and steady behind me. He flushed the toilet and pressed a cool washcloth to the back of my neck. “I’ve got you.”
I let him guide me against the side of the tub, where he’d already draped a towel for me to lean on.
Without a word of complaint, he cleaned up the mess I’d made.
Wiped down the toilet, rinsed the cloth, washed his hands.
All with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d spent time around sick people and wasn’t fazed by any of it.
“Be right back,” he said. “Don’t move.”
I didn’t know where the hell I’d go, but I really wished it could be into a giant hole that magically opened in the floor.
Before I could contemplate it any further, he came back with a glass of ice water and crouched beside me.
“Thank you.” I took a long sip, letting the cold settle my stomach. “I need to brush my teeth. Do you mind?”
He loaded my toothbrush with paste and handed it to me without hesitation.
“Would you like to pull your hair up?” His eyes moved over me with an expression that was more assessment than pity. “What do you need for it?”
“Conditioner and a comb,” I mumbled around the toothbrush. “But don’t worry about it.”
He turned and started going through the bathroom cabinet. I spat my mouthful of foam into the toilet while his back was to me.
“This?” He held up the exact bottle I’d been too lazy to find for myself.
“Perfect.” I reached for it.
He ignored my outstretched hand. Instead, he sat on the edge of the tub behind me, scooting me forward so that his legs were on either side of me. Then he went to work on my tangles himself.
The comb was set aside. He worked the conditioner through with his fingers, patient and thorough. His hands moved from the ends to the roots, untangling gently, and then the detangling became something else.
His fingertips pressed in circles behind my ears, along my hairline, up to the crown of my head. Every stroke sent heat spreading down my neck and across my shoulders.
It was better than the foot rub. Significantly, devastatingly better.
A needy ache bloomed between my thighs—the toilet bowl incident already a distant memory. All I could feel were his hands and the solid weight of his body behind mine.
“Feeling better?” His breath grazed the side of my face.
If I lied and said no, would he stay this close forever? “Yes. Much better. Thank you.”
He combed through my hair one final time, his fingers trailing down the length of it before pulling away. “Good. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable than the bathroom floor.”
I took his offered hand and let him pull me to my feet. He kept hold of it as he walked me down the hall to the living room, and I let him because I didn’t have the strength to pretend I didn’t want him touching me.
I sank into the couch and tried not to show how much his proximity was affecting every nerve in my body.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” I said.
“Don’t be.” He sat on the edge of the coffee table, giving me space I wasn’t sure I wanted. “You want to talk about the phone call?”
“God, no. It was just my mom pushing for Thanksgiving. And pushing me to get back together with Sean. Her usual greatest hits.”
His fingers curled into a fist. “She thinks you should go back to him?”
“She thinks I should be grateful he’d even consider me.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “My mother has a lot of opinions about men and relationships, and very few of them are healthy.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think Sean can go fuck himself. But I don’t really want to talk about him.” I pulled the blanket from the back of the couch over my lap. “Want to watch a movie?”
“Are you up for more horror after all that?” He tilted his head toward the bathroom.
“Maybe a rom-com instead.”
“Strange choice for a woman who doesn’t believe in love.” A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth, and it made my stomach flip for reasons that had nothing to do with morning sickness.
“Just because I don’t believe in love doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good love story. They still make great movies.”
“You can pick whatever you want.” His hands relaxed, and his eyes didn’t leave mine. “But if I stay, I probably won’t be watching it.”
My heart raced. “What will you be watching?”
“I think you already know.”
He leaned forward on the coffee table, his fingers brushing my knee, then kept coming. One hand found the armrest beside me, the other braced against the back of the couch, his body filling every inch of space between us without touching me.
His face was so close I could count the silver flecks in his eyes. And the way he looked at me made both the blanket and my clothes feel irrelevant.
“If I stay, we’re calling it a date,” he murmured.
“Caleb.”
“I like it when you call me Cal.”
“Cal.”
Whatever I’d been about to say dissolved when his mouth found mine.
It was barely a kiss. More like a brush or a graze. His lips skated over mine so lightly, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it.
But my whole body ignited.
I wanted to grab him. Pull him down against me. Run my hands through his hair and find out if the rest of him felt as good as his chest had last night.
I didn’t move. God, I couldn’t. I was riveted, every sense overloaded.
His woodsy scent filled my lungs. His body encompassed mine without touching. And his mouth—his devastating, unhurried mouth—held me captive with a caress so achingly tender it made my eyes sting.
When he pulled back, I wanted to protest. To demand he come back and give me more.
But he hovered above me, looking down at me like I was something precious he’d unearthed, and I couldn’t bring myself to demand a thing.
“So, what’s it going to be?”
A lump formed in my throat and I shook my head.
I needed to find my footing. Needed to stop walking this razor’s edge toward something that would hurt us both. More importantly, I needed to stop leading Caleb Alexander into the disaster of my life without giving him the full picture.
“Friends don’t date.” The words were like acid on my tongue. “They don’t kiss. And if they’re really good friends, they can pretend they don’t want those things. Even when they do.”
“Okay.” He kissed my forehead—soft, warm, and so unbearably tender that my composure nearly cracked. Then he straightened, removing himself as my cocoon. “I think I’ll pass on the movie this time, friend.”
He took a step back, and the air between us went cold. “But call me if you’re ever in the mood for a superhero flick. They’re my favorite.”
“Of course they are.” I forced lightness into my voice even though my chest felt hollow. “All the action, fighting, and stuff blowing up. Isn’t that every guy’s favorite?”
“What are you talking about?” The playful edge in his expression didn’t hide the heat in his eyes.
“It’s not all conflict and warfare. There’s intricate storytelling.
Superheroes have tragic backstories, identities they can never reveal, and love interests they deny themselves.
All for the sake of the greater good. They do it to save people who can’t save themselves. And they do it with flair.”
“That sounds heartbreaking.”
“No, Zadie. It’s fucking romantic. The ultimate sacrifice for love.”
But when does the sacrifice end? And how do you know when it’s worth it?
“Well, if I ever need a recommendation, I’ll keep you in mind.”
He nodded and turned to leave. “I’ll keep you in mind too, Zadie.”