Chapter Eleven
Belle
It takes two days to get back to normal, and Jesse spends both with me despite knowing he has a million other responsibilities. I’m sure he has better things to do on his days off than lay around like a couch potato with me.
We rewatch episodes of Heated Rivalry, then binge the entire season of Off Campus where Jesse realizes how popular hockey romance is.
I make him take the Buzzfeed tests to see which main characters from the shows he is (he got Kip Grady and John Tucker), and he cooks breakfast and dinner for us with a little help from me.
And by help, I mean my supervision from the kitchen counter while I snack on chips.
By day three, I wake up earlier than Jesse does which is a miracle since he’s an early bird.
I decide to do something nice for him since he’s been taking care of me so much, and I make his favorite breakfast—veggie omelets.
I also make him a protein shake using the last of the fresh fruits and coconut milk in the fridge and have it all ready by the time he comes downstairs.
He’s surprised when he sees me setting the plate of steaming food on the island in front of the stool. I’m almost done plating my food—the same omelet but with hashbrowns because I’m not a heathen—and smile at him.
“Morning.”
He blinks, studying the food. “Morning,” he greets, grogginess thick in his words.
He slept in today. Only by twenty minutes, but still. He needs it since he goes nonstop whenever he can. He’s only got a few days left of his week off before he goes back to practice, so he deserves to catch up on sleep.
Stepping up to the island, he smiles down at his plate and shake. “You made breakfast.”
I lift a shoulder casually. “You’ve been so busy making sure I’m okay, I wanted to return the favor. I even added mushrooms.”
His smile turns into a frown. “You’re allergic, you shouldn’t have touched—”
“I wore gloves,” I cut him off with an amused laugh. “And I cooked mine in a separate pan. It’s fine. You should have things you like. It isn’t fair if you don’t just because I’m here.”
He watches me for a moment longer before pulling the stool out and sitting. “Thank you,” he says softly, pulling the chair next to him out for me.
I wonder if he thinks about what’s fair and not fair. If he’s going back to the night we shared but haven’t talked about. Is he afraid to bring it up too? Or am I the only coward?
I sit with a smile, grabbing my fork and poking at the food that’s made my stomach growl since I started. I go for the hashbrowns first, moaning at the salty goodness until I feel his eyes on the profile of my face.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I tell him playfully, pointing at the hashbrowns with my fork. When I stab another forkful, I have no idea he’s going to divert it to his mouth until he’s grabbing my wrist and feeding himself using my utensil.
I watch his mouth a little too carefully as he steals the bite of food. There’s a small smirk on his face as his tongue drags across his lip to catch a piece that tried falling out. Who knew watching him eat could be so hot?
He hums thoughtfully. “You’re right. It’s good,” is all he says, before going back to his own plate.
We eat in silence for a few minutes with nothing but our silverware scraping against the ceramic plates sounding between us. I refuse to think about is mouth being on my fork as I work on my omelet, and I definitely don’t think about what it would look like wrapped around my nipple.
Nope.
When we finish, I turn and try racking my brain for something to say. But before I can, he dips his head in and drags the tip of his tongue along my bottom lip. Inhaling sharply, I try not having a heart attack as his hot breath radiates off of me. I feel everything. And I feel it everywhere.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t say a word in fear of what noise will come out. It feels like a lifetime when he finally moves away, that smirk even bigger as his hooded eyes remain on my mouth.
“You had ketchup,” he says, sliding off his tool and collecting his plate. “I got it off for you.”
With that, he grabs my plate and sets them both in the sink to rinse off. Then he loads the dishwasher nonchalantly, like he didn’t just lick me. That did happen, right? I’m positive it did.
I touch my lip, feeling it tingle under my fingertips. Jesse turns and catches me, grinning as I quickly drop my hands to my lap. I fight the flush of being caught, swallowing down the garbled words that want to rise past my throat like ‘why did you lick me’ and ‘can you please do it again?’
I scrape back my stool and stand, flattening my hands down my red plaid pajama pants.
Jesse has a matching pair from Christmas a couple years ago.
Our parents also had pairs for family photos that are hung up at their house in the small town we lived in New York.
It’s a tradition, which is why we all have a ridiculous number of pajamas that most of us won’t ever wear more than once or twice.
Now would be a good time to discuss what happened. Not the licking. Although maybe we should bring that up too. But the other thing needs to be addressed at some point.
Any second now.
I try. I really try to gather the courage and ask him about the other night. But I chicken out.
“I should take a shower and get ready,” I tell him, hating how pitchy my voice sounds. “I’m meeting Rae to go over a few things before my meeting with the city board.”
His smile softens. “Did they give you a date to speak?”
I nod, some of the nervousness sliding off my shoulders. “I speak to the planning board in two weeks. They want me to have all the forms signed and submitted, and tentative plans and blueprints to make sure it wouldn’t go against any codes.”
He dried his hands off with a dish towel before draping it back over the oven handle. “Let me know what date and I’ll go with you.”
My heart picks up at his thoughtfulness. I already looked, and it’s a night he doesn’t have a game. He could be done with practice or footage and come with me with hours to spare. The fact he offered makes my chest warm and fuzzy. “You don’t have to do that.”
He leans his back against the counter behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “I know, but I want to be there for you.”
Heart = gone.
I groan. I meant to do it internally, but it comes out of me before I can stop it. “You were written by women for women, and that’s so annoying.”
He blinks at me. “I…what?”
I wave at him, gesturing toward the entire length of him. “Everything about you belongs in a romance novel, Jesse. You’re the hero in the hockey romances we’ve been watching. You’re Garrett or Shane or Illya. Well, them minus the hot gay sex.”
Although, I don’t know what happens in the locker rooms. Probably not that though. A shame.
Jesse chuckles and shakes his head. “You need more fresh air. You read too much and watch too many of those shows.”
He knows damn well I’m right. “Whatever you say, hot stuff. You can only live in denial for so long.”
His eyes roll at my mischief, making me giggle.
I jab my finger behind me. “Seriously, though. I need a shower. My hair is disgusting and I’m desperate to feel human again.”
His eyes roam over the front of me, tilting his head. “You’re the furthest thing from disgusting, Bells. Trust me.”
I don’t let myself soak in that compliment, or the way his eyes lock on my lips again. This man licked me not even five minutes ago, and I don’t want to blush any harder than I probably already am.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Thanks.”
It’s a lame response, but I don’t trust myself to say more without giving too much away.
We haven’t talked about…it. The kiss. And the other stuff.
He hasn’t brought up what he said before he left my room that night.
Was this morning him initiating more? Am I misreading the signs? Should I do something?
I’m staring, and he’s staring back. His eyes look darker. More hooded than earlier. Can he hear my heart? I can feel it thumping so loud is vibrates in my ears. Suddenly, the air in the room feels thicker. Hotter. Anticipation rises between us, but so does nerves.
I swallow hard. “I should go,” I tell him hoarsely, shifting from one foot to another. “Take a shower, I mean.”
He dips his head but stays quiet. I see the way his Adam’s apple bobs though. He wants to say something. He wants to do something. And I want him to too. So bad. But I’m scared of a million different things.
And that fear is palpable. So much so that tears burn the backs of my eyes from how much I feel. It builds in my chest and settles there, aching and desperate to be released.
Jesse must feel it too because he pushes off the counter with pinched brows.
“Bells,” he says gently, pulling me into his chest. He doesn’t make a move—not the one I want him to.
Instead, he hugs me, tight and warm and comforting.
He hugs me like his life depends on it, like he needs me to understand he gets it.
“I know, baby girl,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around my waist. “I know.”
I know.
Meaning he feels this too.
The tension.
The what-ifs.
The love.
I sniffle back tears, hoping to contain them before he thinks I’m having a mental breakdown. And I whisper the most honest thing I can. “I wish things were different.”
His body tenses, but only for a microsecond. And I swear I can hear his heartbeat drumming hard even from where I stand with my head pressed inches below its cage.
Then, after what feels like forever, he repeats, “I know.” Except this time, it feels pained.
Because he really does get it.
What he’s really saying is, I wish that too.
I breathe him in, feeling only slightly comforted by the familiar scents that make me think of him even when he’s gone. They soak into me and wrap around my heart, patting it gently until I find the strength to let go.
I back up, biting the inside of my cheek. This time when I say I’m going to shower, I actually walk away. Because there’s nothing else left to be said that hasn’t already.