Chapter 33
a wall of memories
Rowan
“God, that feels good.” Hannah groans.
Smooth, tanned legs slot between mine from the opposite end of the sofa as I massage the arch of her foot.
“Why do you wear heels if they hurt so much?”
She lifts her head from the arm rest and levels me with a look. “Because beauty is pain, Rowan. Pain is beauty. I don’t make the rules.”
I apply a deep pressure with the heel of my hand and her head falls back on another moan that has my body responding in ways I don’t need to contend with right now.
On this couch, while our limbs are pretzel-tangled together, it doesn’t matter her head is all the way over there and mine is all the way over here—I want her.
And those sounds coming out of her mouth aren’t doing me any favors.
Last night she wanted to sleep. And I meant what I said—I’ll just sleep next to her every night until I have to leave if that’s what she needs. I won’t take anything Hannah doesn’t offer up herself, no matter how badly I want it.
She hums again and my jaw clenches. I take in a slow, discreet breath, distracting myself with whatever umpteenth episode of Friends is playing on the television.
It only takes a minute to settle back into the comfortable silence, for my traitorous libido to fall in line.
I imagine this to be exactly what a life with Hannah James would look like day in and day out.
Her on the other end of the sofa being all her while I try not to shoot too fast off the trigger at the mere sight of it.
A coffee table littered with half-eaten Chinese take-out containers, mindless sitcoms on the screen, her fingers grazing long strokes up and down the calf I have wedged between her ribs and the cushion while I work out the tension from her tired feet after a long day at the office.
It’s all so blissfully domestic, my bones throb with the knowledge I don’t get to keep it.
Hannah’s voice cuts softly through the fray, pulling me back to reality. “I got a job offer today.”
I wiggle my toes under her arm. “Oh yeah?”
She nods sheepishly and meets my eyes. “Chief Philanthropy Officer for Boulder Children’s Hospital.”
Hannah blinks several times, lost in thought.
After a few quiet moments her gaze drifts to a collection of framed photos hanging on the wall.
The pictures span many years and locations, but the common thread in each of them are the two figures at their center.
Hannah in all stages of her youth alongside another girl—this one with brown hair, even browner eyes, and a few inches shorter.
Years worth of snapshots displayed as a memoriam to someone who meant the world to her.
I’ve walked past the portraits several times in recent days. Though I was able to infer for myself the other young person was Maddy, I haven’t asked for fear of opening up a painful conversation Hannah might not want to have.
For long seconds, she stares at the wall, speechless, as though the images are speaking to her. I continue to massage her ankle, my eyes tracking her expression carefully. I’m about to ask her more about the job when she speaks up first.
“A couple years after she died,” she starts, “I was taking a human relations course and one of our assignments was to volunteer time in some sort of humanitarian effort. The first place I thought of was the hospital. And maybe it’s the overachiever in me, I don’t know, but…
I ended up offering to plan an entire fundraiser.
” She meets my gaze then with a tired smile.
“Turns out I don’t know how to take my foot off the gas because it became an annual thing, and we’re coming up on year eight. ”
A small laugh bubbles up. “Yeah, I’d call that overachieving.” She rolls her eyes and I jostle her foot. “You love it though, don’t you?”
“I do. It feels…important, you know?”
I nod. “You’re gonna take it then?”
Her heavy-lidded stare lands back on the collage of pictures. “I think I am.” She turns back to me. “But mum’s the word. The position’s not available until January, so I haven’t told anyone yet.”
Sealing her confession with a lock and key over my lips, I promise, “Secret’s safe with me.”
Hannah’s attention returns to the television, but my eyes are drawn to the photos on the wall.
Her servant’s heart is such a natural part of who she is.
Birthed from a place of hurt she managed to turn around for incredible good.
Learning of everything she’s done for my grandfather over the years, getting a front-row seat at the VFW yesterday—something’s been settling hard against the jagged edges of my grief ever since.
“Since we’re sharing...” Her gaze flicks to mine.
“I was thinking about doing a service for Pops after all. Next week maybe, at the lake house.” She pushes to a seated position, but the nervous grip I have on her foot won’t relent.
“Just something small. I thought his chess buddies might like to come too.”
Hannah breaks free and messily rearranges herself on the sofa until she’s straddling my hips. Two arms curl around my neck, her mouth against my ear as she breathes, “Thank you.”
I hug her tight, crush her chest to mine. “I should be thanking you.”
“I told you to stop doing that.”
I’d said before that Pops wouldn’t want a memorial and that’s probably true.
But what Hannah’s made me realize is it’s not necessarily about honoring or dishonoring his wishes.
It can just be about creating a space where the people who loved him can grieve their shared loss and celebrate his life…
together. Nana would tell me joy could be found somewhere in the mess of it all. I think she’s right.
And I’d like to find it.
The low murmur of the television fades into the background as we cling to one another. Arms still wrapped tight, the scratchy overgrowth along my jaw brushes over the smoothness of her own as we pull back, like neither of us can bear a moment of lost contact.
Our lips collide and her satisfied sigh wraps itself around my windpipe.
My fantasies are filled with a thousand ways I could pull that exact sound out of her time and time again.
Sweet, soft, and sinful. I clutch the back of my hoodie she’s wearing with both hands, all of my self-restraint harnessed within my fists.
I want to explore the skin of her legs with my palms the way I did on the back of my truck last night. But now she’s on top, thighs open above me. All the power to find out how hard I am for her lies right there in one small buck of her hips if she so chooses.
And that’s just it. She has to choose. I can’t push this. I won’t let myself.
Her hands cradle my face as our mouths move and our tongues tangle.
I feel her heat through my pajama pants, the thud of her pulse vibrating against my sternum.
Electricity courses straight to the base of my spine when she rakes her fingers through my hair, angles her head to kiss me deeper, more thoroughly.
Hannah’s steady hips remain in a hover above mine. With every sweep of her strawberry lips, my iron will to not chase the friction my body craves is pushed to the limit.
She whimpers and I groan, pressing against her mouth for another taste. And then another. Richer, more desperate, a man in darkness chasing the light. Chasing his sun.
I’m lost to the pursuit when I notice a half second too late. Too goddamn late. In the blink of an eye everything changes. Hannah shifts on her knees, the adjustment bringing her in direct contact with my raging hard-on.
She sucks in a sharp breath as she rips her lips away. “Stop!”
Panic crashes in like a bucket of ice water and I yank my hands off her. “Stopping. I heard you, okay?”
A gravelly moan of pleasure escapes her mouth when she unintentionally does it again in an effort to create distance between our lower halves.
She’s at war with herself, I realize, her body and her head battling for control.
Hell, I’m in the same fight. The feel of her, the raspy little sound she makes—my head falls back, eyes pinched shut. Stop. She said stop.
Her forehead falls to my shoulder, chest heaving. Propped on her knees, her lower body sways in a holding pattern above me. I don’t know if I should hold her or keep my hands where she can see them.
“Hannah. Baby, I’m so sorry. I let that go too far.”
“No,” she whispers, a little broken. “It’s my fault.” She eases back slowly, carefully enough this time not to touch or look at me. It’s agony. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute.”
My eyes are wild, hands desperate to reach for her as she peels herself away. “Are you okay?” Please, God, let her be okay.
But she doesn’t answer. Hannah disappears down the hall to her room. A door slams. The shower kicks on. I bury my head in my hands.
I’m the one who told her to wear the tiny sleep shorts. I’m the one who should have slowed things down when I knew—I knew, goddammit—she may not be ready for anything physical yet.
I’m the one she ran away from.
None of this is her fault. It’s all mine.