7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Emily
W hen Trent saunters into the living room with his glass of wine, I have to school my outside so it doesn’t show my insides.
He is, probably hands down, the sexiest guy I’ve ever met in my life.
From his short light-brown hair, tattoos, and tall, muscled stature to the natural swagger he seems to possess, he commands attention wherever he goes.
Everything about him oozes charm and sex appeal, and normally I can handle that.
We’ve flirted many, many times before. Trent is a world-class flirt who sometimes lightly crosses boundaries in a teasing way.
Which I’ve always been okay with before—he is who he is, and you can’t take any of it seriously.
Lila is proof of what happens when you don’t understand that Trent doesn’t mean any of it.
Feelings get hurt, and they really don’t need to.
But there’s something about having him in my house, without the barrier of Amir or other people, that’s doing wild things to my insides.
Heat is pooling where it doesn’t belong.
Thighs are tingling in ways they shouldn’t.
Even his cologne is hitting in a way it normally doesn’t—the dark, spicy scent with a hint of vanilla makes me want to lick it off his skin.
Maybe I need to go back to my original plan of looking for a partner to be my baby daddy, because although I was starting to believe otherwise, it doesn’t appear my lady parts are completely dead yet.
“You okay?” Trent asks when he sits on the other end of the couch from me, which I’m grateful for. Far away seems like a good idea.
“Fine,” I say. “Why?”
“I thought we were going to watch terrible TV and count down until the ball drops.” He nods at the television. “You didn’t turn it on.”
“Oh, well,” I say, trying to cover up the fact that I’ve been in here contemplating all the levels of his hotness. “I thought maybe we could play a game instead.”
He raises his eyebrows and takes a suggestive sip of his drink.
“ Not strip poker,” I say.
“That’s a shame. I am very good at poker.”
“I don’t know what that means in this context—that you’re actually good at cards or you’re good at stripping.”
He grins but doesn’t say anything, just takes another pull from his drink. My heart rate accelerates, which makes me feel ridiculous. No matter how much we’ve flirted before, he’s never made me as discombobulated as he has tonight.
“Maybe Ticket to Ride ?” I suggest, getting off the couch to pluck it from the little cabinet where I keep all the games Amir and I have played.
“Amir has forced that one on me before, so at least I know it,” he says, scooching closer on the couch so he can reach the coffee table. “Competitive, but not in the ‘I’ll never speak to you again’ way.”
“Which is why I like it,” I say. “Board games in the Sullivan family were a bloodbath.”
“Castillo family too,” he says. “Until my dad died, and my mom had to take on another job. Then we didn’t have much family time.”
I grab his hand and squeeze it, and he squeezes back. When I lost my dad a little over a year ago, I was in my thirties. I can’t imagine losing that connection as a kid, or in my son’s case, never having it at all.
Trent draws my hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, before letting my hand go. He’s typically very affectionate, but the action still makes my breath catch, and I hope it’s not noticeable.
Whatever is wrong with me tonight, it has to be gone by the morning.
While we set up the game, each brush of our hands, touch of our knees, sends a jolt of electricity through me, as though he’s a live wire.
I’ve never been so hyperaware of him before, but I’m also beginning to realize we’ve rarely been around each other without another person as a buffer.
We spend time in public or in bigger groups or with Amir, but alone in this house after a glass of wine is a whole different vibe.
“Did you want another glass of wine?” I ask once the game is set up and my nervous energy is threatening to make our friendship weird.
And the last thing I want is a weird vibe to spring up between us.
Trent has rapidly become one of my favorite people to spend time with, and if I ruined that because I haven’t had sex in years, that would be a massive disappointment.
“No,” Trent says. “Responsible, aren’t I?” His lips tilt into the hint of a smile, as though he still finds the notion funny.
I scurry out of the living room and into the kitchen to press my hands into the counter, taking deep breaths. No matter what, I’m not going down Lila’s path—assuming something that’s not really there.
Maybe I should go on one of those apps that’s just about sex. Hook up with a couple guys, get this current flushed out of my system.
But I’ve always been terrible at casual sex. The few times I tried it in college before I met Omar, I always felt shitty afterwards, no matter how good the guy was.
“Em, are you coming back or did you go to bed on me?” Trent calls from the living room. “We have to at least make it to midnight.”
“Be right there,” I say. I open the fridge, grab the wine, and tip more of the pinot grigio into my glass.
Thankfully, the second glass of wine seems to loosen me up enough that the casual touches and teasing glances Trent sends my way don’t get misinterpreted as anything more than flirty friendship while we play board games, watch the ball drop, and then get ready for bed.
Once we’re upstairs, I show Trent the guest bedroom, and then I make a beeline for my own room to avoid any temptation. I’ve just gotten into my nightgown when there’s a light knock on my bedroom door.
“Em? Have you got a spare toothbrush?” Trent says through the wooden door. “I hate going to bed with gross teeth.”
“Just a second,” I say, and then I search my ensuite bathroom until I find a new one.
When I swing the door open, Trent is there in his boxer briefs and no shirt.
Muscles ripple across tattoos. His left arm has ink, but I was never conscious of how much lived under his clothes too.
He takes the toothbrush from my outstretched hand, and then I realize that, while he looks absolutely delicious, I’m wearing the equivalent of a paper bag.
My nightgown is shapeless and more Mom-efficient than sexy.
“Thanks,” he says, but he drags his gaze across me, and I swear heat rises between us.
He’s so good at switching on the chemistry, it should be criminal. When he walks into a bar, I bet women are sucked into his field—a magnet at full strength.
“Sleep well,” I say, shutting the door as fast as I can without being rude.
I collapse into bed and stare at the ceiling.
I will not ruin my friendship. I will not ruin my friendship. I will not ruin my friendship.
“Roads are still closed,” Trent says when I come into the kitchen the next morning, lured by the smell of bacon.
“I know. Maggie texted me too. Online, it looks like the storm is stuck spinning its wheels here.” I glance out the window, appalled by the amount of snow that’s already accumulated. My snowblower is broken too.
“I made breakfast from odds and ends I found. It’s in the oven. Should be ready in about ten minutes,” he says, glancing at his watch.
I turn on the oven light and peer inside. “You made a breakfast casserole?”
“Easy enough,” he says, pouring a coffee and adding cream and sugar to it before passing it to me.
“And you made coffee? I’m never going to let you leave.” I raise my eyes to the ceiling and say, “Snow gods, keep it coming.”
“Snow aliens, clearly.”
“The amount of snow out there already is otherworldly. And they’re calling for several more inches.”
“Wind’s supposed to pick up too.”
“You’re never going home.”
“Where’s your snowblower? I can battle some of it back.”
“About that,” I say. “When I went to use it yesterday, I discovered it wasn’t working.”
“I’ll take a look after breakfast, see if I can get it running,” he says, raising his coffee to his lips.
“I guess it’s good that today is a holiday,” I say sitting at the kitchen table.
My laptop and all my notes are still haphazardly gathered together.
It doesn’t look like Trent would have looked through anything, but I’m not sure my curiosity would have survived having it here and not looking if I was him.
I flip them over and tuck them more under the laptop.
“If I’m stuck here again tomorrow, I’ll have to call in,” Trent says.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly remembering what we talked about a couple weeks ago. “Did you go see Bruce? Are you taking over his shop in the spring?”
He sets his coffee cup on the counter and turns away, opening the oven to check the food. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Oh,” I say, deflated. “I thought for sure you’d do it. It’s a great opportunity. And I’m not going to lie—I’d love to have you in town instead of half an hour away.”
“Couldn’t get the financing,” he says, poking around the casserole with a fork.
“You said you had some money saved…”
“It’s the loan,” he says, finally turning to look at me. “Ex-con.” He points to himself. “High interest. Shitty terms.”
“At what point do they stop holding that against you?”
“Next year. The Clean Slate Act means my record gets sealed,” he says. “The opportunity is a year too early.”
“Let me help,” I say. “I have life insurance money from my dad. I can give you the loan…” My brain is ticking through options. “Or I can buy the business, and you can do a rent-to-own sort of situation. Whatever you pay me goes to paying down the loan or paying off the business.”
“No,” Trent says with a sharp shake of his head.
“It’s not a big deal. I can totally help you. I have the money, and I understand the real estate market. I can even just buy it and then sell it to you a year from now at the same cost.”
“Em, I said no.”
“But why not? You’d be amazing, and this town needs an honest, knowledgeable mechanic.”
“Not everyone’s going to see it that way,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“Besides, I’m not mixing our friendship with a business loan.
If the business goes tits up because I run it into the ground, I’m not having your money at risk.
You don’t get anything out of any of the deals you proposed—just me. ”
“I’d get to see you succeed.”
“It’s a no, Em,” he says, and this time his tone is sharper than I’ve ever heard.
“Okay,” I say, running my hands through my hair and turning away a little.
“I appreciate the gesture,” he says, his voice gentler, “but my problems aren’t yours, and I don’t intend to make them yours.”
“That’s what friends do, Trent. They help each other.” My eyes land on the papers I’ve shoved under my laptop, on the problem I’m having that I’m keeping from him, and I suddenly feel like a huge hypocrite. “Do you want to know what I was doing last night?”
“You said it was private,” he says, leaning against the counter.
“It’s private because I’m struggling, and when I’m having a hard time, it’s difficult for me to admit it.”
“Struggling financially?” he asks, a frown creasing his brow. “Is the real estate business not doing well? I see your signs all over town.”
“No, I’m...Real estate is fine.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve been going on all these dates because my mom convinced me I should try to get back out there. As you know, my heart hasn’t been in it.”
“No shit,” he says with a slight grin. “Your liver probably thanks you for deciding to put an end to that.”
“I think I’ve decided to maybe do something else instead?” I say, my tone less than confident.
“What do you mean?” Another frown.
A beat sits between us, and I’m not sure if I can get the words out.
Despite all the research I’ve done since Maggie mentioned it, all the databases I’ve combed through, all the fertility clinics I’ve contacted, all the insurance calls I’ve made, I’m still not one hundred percent sure this path is the one for me.
“Maggie mentioned to me a while ago that if what I really wanted was a baby, that I could do that without having a partner.”
“Adoption?” Trent asks, his expression still troubled.
“Donor sperm?” I remove the papers from under my laptop. “I’ve been weighing all the options. Donors. Clinics. Insurance. My finances if I were to bring a second child into the mix on my own.”
Trent stares at me for a beat, and I can almost see the wheels turning. “How does that even work? Is it really a turkey baster full of sperm that you just inject up there?”
That makes me laugh, and Trent actually flushes a light pink.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to control my laughter.
“The visual.” I spin my index finger at the side of my head.
“Not quite. It’s a syringe and a long tube, and they basically deliver the sperm as close to the egg as they can.
Or at least, that’s what the internet tells me. I haven’t met with anyone yet.”
His brow is furrowed, and I can tell there’s something else he wants to say, but he’s holding it back.
“Do you want me to show you?” I ask.
The timer goes off for breakfast, and Trent pulls out the casserole, dishing up plates for both of us and bringing mine over.
He takes the seat beside me, and our knees graze. He nods at the computer as he takes a forkful of hashbrowns, egg, bacon, cheese, and whatever else he found in my fridge to mix with it. “Show me.”
For the next hour, I take Trent through the databases, search functions, and fertility treatment options.
“Seemed weird to me at first,” Trent says as he cleans up the dishes, “but I can see how you’d like the idea.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, taking the dishes from him and putting them in the dishwasher.
“With the genetic testing, you wouldn’t have to worry about ending up in a situation like you’ve got with Amir—where you’re not sure of the outcome.” He glances at me after he scoops the leftover casserole into a container for the fridge. “You like certainty, and this would give you that.”
“Yeah,” I say, somewhat surprised that he caught all of that without me having to say any of it. “It would.”
“You deserve that,” he says with finality.
And I don’t know why, but his comment makes me a little sad instead of happy.
“Thanks,” I whisper, wishing for something I can’t even name.