Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ELLIOT
“What do you mean you don’t have a favourite dinosaur?” I clutch the throw pillow to my chest and barely stifle a giggle. It bubbles up anyway, slipping past my lips because I feel… giddy. Downright giddy. And lighter than I have in years.
Arthur, however, is not giddy. But he’s not scowling either, which feels like a small miracle.
He looks impossibly solid sitting on my couch, larger than life as always, his broad shoulders taking up more space than my cushions were ever designed for.
His strong arms are folded across his chest, biceps straining against the fabric of his long sleeved T-shirt.
The faint glow from the TV flickers across his face, casting shadows over the sharp cut of his jaw.
He glances at me, just long enough for me to catch the spark of amusement hiding in those stormy eyes, before he looks away again.
“I mean that I don’t have a favourite dinosaur,” he says, voice even and unbothered.
“What about when you were a kid?” I press.
I try to imagine him small, carefree, grinning with sticky fingers and wide eyes—but it’s impossible to reconcile with what he just told me about his father.
How could anyone rob a child of simple joys like going to a friend’s birthday party? To put so much pressure on him?
Shawn had shoved hockey at Sam the moment he could toddle onto the ice, so sure that he’d love it like he did. At first, I thought it was sweet—that maybe it would bring them closer. And Sam was okay, sure, but not the best. Which was never good enough for Shawn.
“I don’t think I had a favourite dinosaur then, either,” Arthur admits quietly.
“Unacceptable,” I declare, leaning toward him, daring him to break. “Okay, fine. What were some of your other favourites, then?”
“Such as?” His brow arches, skeptical but humouring me.
“TV show?”
“Didn’t really watch any.”
“Sport? Oh wait.” I roll my eyes at myself. “Duh.”
That earns me a lip quirk. It’s gone almost immediately but I’ve already committed it to memory. My heart does a ridiculous little somersault.
I want to hoard those smiles, all of them. Build a trophy shelf and line it with every laugh, every grin, every softened look he lets slip when he forgets to guard himself. And I want them all to be mine.
“Oh! I know. Favourite hockey player?”
“Ray Bourque,” he answers immediately. “Great defenseman, great leader. Best of all, my dad fucking hated him.”
“Bonus.” I laugh.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Who was your favourite hockey player?”
I scrunch up my face in distaste. “I really didn’t have one.”
“Unacceptable.”
I giggle again. Good God, I’ve got to stop giggling. “It’s just I never really followed hockey. My parents weren’t fans.” I sneak a glance at him, debating on whether to tell him something. Oh, screw it. “I remember there were kids in my class with your jersey.”
“Christ, that makes me feel old.” He covers his eyes with a hand. His hands are so big. So masculine. “Was that in junior high?”
“Nope. Elementary.”
“So fucking old.”
“I mostly remember you from those body wash commercials.”
“Please stop talking.”
“I always wondered how long those took to shoot.”
“You’re still talking.”
“Like, did you have to do a bunch of takes? Or were you just standing around in the shower stream, all that steam billowing around you? And did they have you rinse off and start again? Or was it just one constant lather?”
The next thing I know, one of those big hands I was admiring moments ago comes up and gently covers my mouth. I stare at him and he stares back.
“If I remove my hand, will you stop talking?”
I should nod. But where’s the fun in that? Before I can talk myself out of it, I push my tongue out. His hand retreats instantly.
“Did you just lick me?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you? Twelve?”
“No.” I try to sound sheepish, which is difficult given how pleased I am with myself. “But I was twelve the first time I saw that commercial.”
“Brat,” he groans and covers his face again with the very hand I just tasted.
Ohhhh. I think I like that nickname more than Boss. My face feels hot, and I know it’s not from laughter. It’s something else. Something I haven’t let myself feel in a very long time.
There’s a current between us tonight that wasn’t there before. Playful. Charged. Flirty? I must be imagining it. Sam keeps planting the idea in my head that Arthur might be interested, but Sam’s twelve. I’m pretty sure relationships are an abstract concept to him, not a reality.
Still…it’s not like I haven’t caught the way Arthur looks at me sometimes. Those quick, appreciative glances during training. Even tonight, when I’m ridiculous in this onesie, I swear his eyes lingered. Why didn’t I wear something better? Why didn’t I at least change the second he showed up?
Arthur turns his focus back to the movie, but I can’t stop watching him.
I sink deeper into the cushions, hyperaware of his presence beside me, of the space between us that suddenly feels too small.
His shirt sleeves are pushed up, forearms exposed, veins and muscle shifting every time he moves.
Have I ever been attracted to forearms before? Because I am now.
God. I am beyond attracted to him. Dizzyingly. Disastrously. Until now, it was easy enough to ignore.
But now? He’s here. In my home. On my couch. The lights are low, shadows softening the edges of the room. The movie might be about dinosaurs tearing people apart, but the mood is warm, intimate. Cozy enough to feel dangerous.
Arthur chuckles quietly when Samuel L. Jackson delivers the iconic “hold onto your butts” line, and dammit it just makes me even more attracted to him.
I squirm with restless energy, pulling my legs up onto the couch to sit cross-legged. The shift brings my knee against his thigh, the unexpected contact startling us both.
“Sorry,” I murmur, jerking my leg away.
“It’s fine. I can move over—”
“No, don’t.” The words come out too quickly.
My hand follows them before I can stop myself, landing on his leg in reassurance.
It should be nothing. A fleeting touch to let him know I don’t want him to move away.
But my palm lands higher than I intended, warm against the solid muscle of his thigh. And it lingers.
My breath catches. My eyes lock on my own hand, traitorous and unmoving, and suddenly the room feels too quiet, despite the mayhem on my television.
When I force myself to look up, Arthur is already watching me. His eyes hold mine, steady, unflinching, and I know—I haven’t been imagining it. He wants this. Wants me. Maybe as much as I want him. Maybe more.
His gaze flicks down to my mouth. His throat works as he swallows. “Elliot…”
I don’t know what I’m doing. Slowly, deliberately, I lean toward him. He doesn’t move away. Inch by inch, I close the gap, until his breath grazes my lips and my eyes flutter half-shut in anticipation.
But Arthur moves quicker than I’ve ever seen before. He stands and steps away, out of reach. By the time my eyes refocus, he’s retreating, his chest rising and falling like he’s just finished a round of difficult exercises.
“This isn’t right.” His hand scrubs over his face, rough, frustrated. “This—” He gestures sharply between us. “This can’t happen. Not like this.”
I go from hot to ice cold in seconds as humiliation steals the air from my lungs. I freeze, too embarrassed to move or speak.
“I should go,” he says, voice rough.
Say something. Say you didn’t mean to. That you weren’t about to kiss him. You just leaned in to whisper something and miscalculated. Lie. Anything.
But my throat locks and all I manage is, “Of course.”
“Good night, Elliot.”
“Good night.”
And then he’s gone. The front door clicks shut. The silence that follows presses down on me, leaving me with nothing but the echo of what almost happened.
“What have I done?” My words are barely audible over the T-Rex roars coming from my screen. “What am I going to do?”
Okay, I tell myself. I can fix this. This is fixable. I’ll apologize to Arthur. Profusely. I’ll blame it on too much wine and not nearly enough pizza. He’ll understand. He has to…right?
Not even the calm, steady presence of Dr. Alan Grant can soothe me now. I shut the movie off mid-roar and drag myself to bed.
By the time I’m brushing my teeth, my brain is in full spin cycle. God, the way he bolted. Like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
Maybe Sam was wrong. Maybe Arthur doesn’t like me like that. Not that I can blame him. I’m a mess. A single mom with a failed marriage, a short attention span, and enough debt to bury me. Why would someone like Arthur want someone like me?
This can’t happen. Not like this.
Not like this? What does that even mean? Not like what?
I plug in my phone, crawl under the covers. It’s not even eight, but I want this night to be over. Maybe in the morning it won’t feel so catastrophic. Oh, who am I kidding? I may be an optimist, but I’m not delusional.
I switch off the lamp and sink into my pillow, head heavy, heart heavier.
The phone lights up immediately with an incoming text.
Arthur: I’m sorry.
I jolt upright, thumbs flying across the screen. I’m ready to tell him it was all me, that he has nothing to apologize for—
Arthur: We’ll discuss this when I’m back.
My fingers freeze mid-word. My stomach knots as I think about my job. The ink has barely dried on my performance review and suddenly my permanent position feels less permanent.
I backspace everything I’ve typed, gnawing at my lip until I taste metal.
Elliot: Of course.
I set the phone down and collapse flat on my back, yanking the covers up tight around my throat until they feel like a noose.
What have I done?