Chapter Fifteen #2
“Bears, too.” He points at another frame. “Though I can’t quite tell if this one was supposed to be a bear, or if the artists intended it to be another wolf but got the ears wrong.”
I mean to only put one knee on the bed to get a closer look, but the mattress is one of those all-enveloping cavernous ones that sucks me in and holds me there, forcing me to get on all fours with one hand braced against the upholstered headboard for balance.
I peer up at the painting.
“Definitely was meant to be a wolf,” I say. “Look at its muzzle. Totally different.”
The mattress dips as James climbs onto the bed beside me.
“I think you’re right,” he says, and he’s close enough to me now that our arms brush. “There is something about the nose that suggests canine rather than ursine.”
“ Ursine, ” I mock. “Of course you would know the bear equivalent of canine and use it that casually.”
He smiles. “Just trying to keep it scientific.”
Sometimes I wish life was like that old show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Dad used to watch it obsessively, and his favorite part was to tell me which friend he would call for which topics if he got stuck on a question.
I know which friend I would call now if I could press Pause and have James freeze exactly where he is on the bed, stuck in time, while I called Serena and begged her, begged her to make another list, to help me clean out my head.
Because I’m back exactly where I started, back to the same song and dance where we promise this is over and then I end up crying and then something always happens to bring us back to the start of the circle again.
That something right now is James Neely with no walls up, goofy and in green pajama pants and a white T-shirt that proves that while his voice might be playing the role of William, his arms most certainly still belong to a superhero.
I have no excuse for leaning forward to kiss him. None. But I do it anyway, my head emptying of thoughts like a chalkboard wiped clean when our lips meet and James lets out a delectable, startled gasp into my mouth, which pulls a moan from mine.
It’s like a wire has been tripped, one that triggers his hands in my hair and our knees colliding as he pulls me into him with such urgency, it’s just on the right side of feeling too rough.
My body is turning into compliant, liquid fire when James gently tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth and…
I’m surprised at how easily I roll out from beneath him. One second it seems like every part of me is touching every part of him, the next I’m scrambling off the bed, mumbling something about the bathroom.
What the actual fuck am I doing here?
I don’t give James time to say anything as I go into the massive master bath and grab my phone from the counter, but I catch a glimpse of his silhouette before I close the door to the toilet room and he is adorably rumpled.
Adorably confused.
Which makes sense, because I’m the one who initiated the kiss after insisting—repeatedly—that this little experiment remain platonic, and now here I am hiding out in the bathroom like a kid scared of eating lunch at a new school when all the man did was kiss me back.
And he did it so well.
I take my cellphone and stare at my messages to James.
I blame the pine-scented candle flickering just beyond the door for clouding my senses and breaking my internal filter, because when my thumb accidentally hits the eggplant emoji, I send it, all on its lonesome with no text attached.
I sit on the closed toilet seat waiting for a response, acknowledging to myself that I’m passing into surrealism territory, but what else is there to say, really?
James responds by tapping back with a question mark, followed shortly by, I take this to mean you would like me to text Luke and ask him for his ratatouille recipe, yes?
Which surely means that he was just taken in by the moment, right? Like maybe I took advantage of him and he didn’t want to kiss at all and it was just a…reaction, not actual attraction.
And now I’m doubly mortified because he was just being nice and this was supposed to be platonic and we both said that and then I muddled it by kissing him and—
Juniper. Come talk to me.
I groan and press the top of my phone into my forehead until it hurts.
No , I type. I live here now. Please forward my mail. Tell the landlord I’m booking this place for the next forever. This is home now.
There’s such a long pause without so much as an ellipses bubble from James that I double-check my phone signal to make sure it didn’t drop. It hasn’t.
When he finally does text, my butt has gone numb on the seat.
Would you rather text than talk?
No. Yes? I sigh, wondering if I used all my bravery up yesterday, and then I tell myself to stop being a coward and go out there. It’s just James.
But it’s just James that keeps getting me into this mess.
He’s leaning on the edge of the clawfoot tub when I open the door to the toilet room, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his hands curled along the rim like he was trying to hold himself back from coming after me.
“Sorry,” I say, dropping my eyes. “I…I don’t know what I was thinking. I know we agreed, and—”
“One night,” he says. “What if we…” He pauses and clears his throat. “We could have one night.”
I laugh, but it has no mirth in it.
“Just like our one day?” I ask. “Because we see how well that went.”
“I still think it’s the same day,” James says, “but even if it’s not…It makes sense to have a night, too. One where we’re not taking pictures or thinking about posts and that brain of yours isn’t so hyperfocused on scheduling.”
“But that’s all?” I ask, and I’m not sure what I want his answer to be. “Just the one night?”
James nods once, and when he offers his hand to lead me back to the bedroom, I take it.
—
It doesn’t feel like the books.
Which it never did with that guy from work, but I always wondered if it could feel different with someone else, someone I liked.
And against all promises and lists and fail-safes, I like-like James.
I like how when he says, “We can stop at any time,” I know he means it, but I don’t doubt for one second that he wants to be here.
I like how when he puts his bare knee on the bed and begins to move toward me still in his boxers, he catches me pink and watching and misreads my burning cheeks as something other than molten curiosity.
“There are lots of things we can do,” he says.
“We can keep our clothes on, if you would like.”
He’s careful, James. And I used to think it was to protect himself, to put up walls of contracts and obligations between him and everyone else, but now I wonder if at least some of it isn’t meant to protect those around him.
From himself. From the fast-approaching train of fame that threatens to squash him on the tracks.
From the darkness in his eyes when he takes phone calls or thinks about the future.
From the intensity I can see burning behind his eyes when he looks at me.
Despite the ferocity he keeps just below the surface, there is such gentleness in his touch when he cups my face in his hand, it makes my heart ache.
I tell myself I’m brave as I lean back against the pillows, dragging James along so that he’s braced above me.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he says, and I know he’s breathless from more than the movement.
“I’m…I’m not asking for a specific number or anything, but I’ve only ever…
” The bravery leaves me in one fell swoop, and I turn my head on the pillow so that I don’t have to look at him when I ask.
“I’ve done this with one other guy and I think I may be bad at it?
Or maybe he was. I don’t know, but I’ve never…
I’ve never wanted to do it like I do… God.
” I close my eyes. “I’ve never wanted to do it like I do now,” I finish. “With you.”
I startle when James runs a finger down the curve of my neck.
“If you’re asking how many sexual partners I’ve had,” he says, “I’m happy to give you the number.” His lips follow his finger along my neck, and when I gasp, I can feel his smile against my skin. “But you should know that I’m the same as you. It’s never felt like this until now. Not once.”
My sorry quip could be mistaken as bravery instead of burning nerves, but James recognizes it for what it is when I say, “Okay, so the answer is like over fifty then. Got it.”
He braces himself up on both arms again, and it’s disconcerting how much I already wish he would lower back down.
“Two, Juniper. I’ve slept with two other women.”
“That’s all ?” I ask. “I thought theater kids were supposed to be like rabbits backstage,” I add, filter nowhere in sight.
James laughs, and he does lower himself back to me and the low hum of anxiety vanishes the moment our skin touches again.
“Maybe some,” he says, “but not me.”
“Why—” I stop to draw a deep breath as James does something behind my ear. A kiss? A lick ? Whatever it was, I wish he’d do it again.
“Why do you think that is?” I ask, and my voice belongs to someone else. Someone with matching, lacy lingerie instead of green pajamas.
He does it again. Definitely a lick.
“Didn’t want to,” he says. “Simple as that.”
My stomach turns over.
“But you’re interested in me ?”
I’ve read enough books to know the move after this question would be for James to bring my hand to the bulge I see when I look down at his boxers, for him to growl and say, Let me show you how interested.
But James is not a fae lord. James is not a bajillionaire in Regency England. He’s not fictional.
He’s just James.
My James, my traitorous brain whispers.
“We don’t have to do this,” James says again, and I hear his words and feel them as he’s still obsessively focused on my ear and neck. “But you should know that I want this. That I’ve…” He hesitates. “I’ve wanted to do this.
“I’ve got condoms,” he adds. “If you want to…”