Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FOLDED PANTIES AND GLUTEN FREE brEAD
D avis Makenzie is a lather, rinse, and repeat type of snuggler.
After we got into bed last night, post-shower, he pulled me into his nook.
His hand slid under the T-shirt he’d lent me and he rubbed soothing strokes on my flesh while we talked until I fell asleep.
Later, I woke up to find him, face down in his pillow, beside me before I dozed off again.
Now, I lie on my side while Davis is pressed tight to my back, his arm slung over my middle.
Contentment sighs through me at another learned factoid about this man.
Since last night, I’ve collected facts like seashells, documenting my first visit to Davisland.
Like, how despite the beige walls and neutral brown furniture, he has an assortment of Star Trek novelty glasses in his kitchen.
Or how he organizes his bookshelves by genre, one shelf now dedicated to the romance books he’s bought.
I was also pleased to find that his shelves were not reserved for just books by white, heterosexual, non-disabled cis male authors.
His preferred genres appear to be nonfiction, fantasy, and Sci-Fi.
I also got a tour of his Star Trek Museum, which is what I dubbed his guest room last night.
Each item reveals more and more about this man as he pointed out his various treasures.
Stories about how or where he got them. How his moms took him to a Star Trek convention for his sixteenth birthday. The show’s importance to him.
“It’s not that Star Fleet was perfect, but the Enterprise welcomed almost everyone. Everyone had a place,” Davis said as he ran his fingers along the display case of miniature Enterprise models.
“Even androids,” I tease.
“I think Data was who I related to the most. He appeared human, but wasn’t. Still, he belonged to their…”
“Family,” I finish for him. I wrap my arms around his middle and squeeze tight.
“So much of my life, I felt like I didn’t fit.”
“I get it.” I tip my head up to look at him.
“I was always sick as a kid, which led to me missing a lot of school and fun things. While my celiac diagnosis helped, a lot of parents didn’t want to deal with the food allergy kid.
I was healthy, but still missed out… And even when I was invited, I still couldn’t fully participate. No cakes. No pizza. All the things.”
“You’ll always have cake with me.” He leans in, pressing a sweet kiss.
“And you fit with me,” I murmur, our gazes tethering.
The memory makes my insides all gooey. With each moment spent with this man, I like him even more.
Right now, the need to pee is stronger than the feeling raging inside me than my like of Davis.
Wiggling from beneath his arm, I slip out of bed without waking him.
As I take one last glance at him, the blanket bunched at his middle exposing his naked torso, a gentle snore buzzes from him.
A smile on my face, I tiptoe to the bathroom.
There, I take care of my business, use the spare toothbrush Davis gave me last night, and splash some cold water on my face.
My freshly laundered clothes sit in a neat, folded pile atop the counter.
Post last night’s rooftop romp, he’d offered to wash my clothes, so I had something clean for today after he’d asked me to sleep over.
“This man.” I chuckle, staring at my perfectly folded clothes.
Davis’s thoughtfulness is like an unexpected rainstorm on a hot day. It alleviates and nourishes all at the same time. Each time I think I know what to anticipate, he does something romantic, like folding my underwear. Even I don’t do that. I just toss it in my drawer.
Smiling, I pad to the living room. As much as my body craves to crawl back in beside Davis, I don’t want to risk waking him.
It’s only seven, and he may not be an early riser like me.
Most weekends, I wake early to walk Wentworth and then write, so my internal clock is preset.
Whether he is a morning person or not will just be one more factoid I learn about him.
At least the quiet will give me time to mull over a few ideas.
Last night, lying in bed, I shared some of the stories I’ve started and stopped over the last six months.
The current work in progress is a soccer romance about the team’s publicist and the star player.
I have this whole Never Been Kissed moment where he proclaims his love for her minutes before the game starts and just as it appears she won’t show, the publicist emerges onto the field.
The ending is so clear that I can almost touch it.
But I’m stuck. I just keep rewriting a scene with the team’s goofy mascot and the female main character, where he teases her about liking the star player.
Curled up on Davis’s couch, I pull up the manuscript’s backup file on my online drive through my mobile. The phone isn’t my preferred way to work on manuscripts, but from time to time, I’ll jot notes or draft things on it if I don’t have my laptop with me.
“Patrick,” I mutter the mascot’s name and tap a finger against my chin.
This is supposed to be just a comedic relief scene after Elsie, the female main character, has a negative interaction with a sexist sports reporter. But it keeps turning into more. Too much banter. Too much bonding.
“Too much chemistry.” My eyes grow wide.
Is this why I can’t move forward? Eyes closed, I play the scene in my head. Their tease-filled exchange leading Patrick to help the romantically challenged Elsie woo her soccer player. That’s where I stop every time, because this isn’t supposed to be a Cyrano de Bergerac retelling.
“But what if it is?” Mischief lifts the corners of my mouth into a large grin.
That’s exactly what I’m doing, being mischievous. The ending could still work, but what if it’s not Logan, the team’s star, but Patrick, the goofy but adorable mascot?
My eyes snap open. As if they have a mind of their own, my fingers fly over the little keyboard on my phone.
The stream of consciousness flows out of me.
Later, once I have time to sit on my laptop, I’ll fix the many, many grammar, spelling, and word flow issues.
Right now, I’m just listening to the story.
For the first time in months, giddy excitement pulses through me as I write.
Though I know I’ll regret this tiny screen when a migraine comes, but this is too good to let go.
“God, you’re beautiful.” Davis’s hoarse voice pulls my attention.
He leans against the entry to the living room. His hair is sleep-mussed, and a lazy smile flexes at the corners of his mouth.
“Thank you.” I bite my lower lip.
His brow dips. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Yup… And I’m not complaining.”
“Good.” He saunters over to me. “I plan to say it a lot.” He nestles beside me and tucks me into his chest.
“Excellent plan.” I relax into him. “As long as you’re okay with me telling you how dreamy you are.”
“Not dreamy enough to keep you in bed with me.” Nuzzling his nose in my hair, he loops his arms around my middle.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nah. I usually get up at eight on the weekends to work out.”
“Eight?” I blink. “I didn’t realize I’ve been working that long.”
“Are you writing on your phone?”
“Yeah. I pulled up the soccer romance idea I told you about last night and have been allowing the story to speak to me. I must have lost track of time.”
“That’s great, Peach.” He squeezes me. “I’m sorry I interrupted your flow.”
“This is the best interruption.” I tip my head up and offer a sweet smile.
He smiles back. “Proposal.”
I arch one eyebrow. “Last night was fantastic sex, but not ‘run off to Vegas after our second date’ good.”
“Snarky comments like that remind me that you and Jackson are related.” He chuckles with an eye roll.
“Since I know you write most weekend mornings and it’s been a while since you’ve had the flow, why don’t you borrow my computer.
I’ll hit the gym downstairs for an hour, and then after, we can do breakfast before I take you home. ”
“I wouldn’t want to?—”
“Let me work out, keeping my weekend regimen, while you write and keep yours? If these sleepovers become a regular thing, which, frankly, I hope they do, we need to integrate each other into our lives. Might as well start now.”
Yet another factoid about Davis for my collection. Not the part about waking up by eight on the weekends to work out, but that he wants more of this. More of me.
Sitting up, I shift to face him. “Show me your computer.”
An hour later, I lean back in his desk chair, my arms high overhead in a long stretch, and soak in the happiness washing over me with the thousand words added to my manuscript this morning.
With a pleased, self-satisfied smile, I save my work on my online drive and send a backup to my email.
Too many horror stories of authors losing ninety-thousand-word manuscripts reinforce the need to back up my backups of my writing.
Pushing away from his desk, I shuffle down from the little alcove between the bedrooms toward the kitchen.
Both the grumble in my stomach and the knowledge that Davis will be back soon, has me in search of food.
He’d said we’d have breakfast after our morning routines were wrapped up. Not sure if he meant to go out or eat here. No doubt, he’ll be hungry after his workout, so it would be nice to surprise him with food.
Opening the fridge, I peruse the contents, locating veggies, cheese, and eggs for omelets and some raspberries and blueberries for a side.
My mouth drags down with his already unsealed butter container, indicating it’s been used.
Since I can’t verify that it hasn’t come into contact with gluten, I may just make Davis an omelet and snack on some of the chopped veggies and the berries.