Chapter Twelve
Graham
I wake up way too early- not abnormal- and way too hard. Also not abnormal just inconvenient considering the sleeping arrangements.
I dreamed about her again. I almost always dream about her, but this one was vivid because it was a memory risen from the place where I meticulously buried all of my desires for her this past year.
Somehow we’d managed not to run into each other at all yesterday.
After the girls had left, the rest of us had gone for a run and showers we’d ended up going to lunch one town over and then getting drinks at a local sports bar.
We were forced to sit in a booth in the back since Cristian was almost immediately recognized by the hostess- which meant other fans were likely around- but none of us minded.
We shared some wings, a few beers, and when we came back to the cabins Nelly and Clara were incredibly drunk and demanding Rowan light a bonfire.
Naomi was already in bed.
I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t because of me.
That the only reason she wasn’t out there enjoying s’mores and ghost stories and acoustic karaoke was because she was still tired from her flight.
But she’d had the chance to sleep that off already.
And I’ve never known Naomi to be in bed earlier than one in the morning.
Scrubbing my hand down my face, I rise from the couch, shuffling to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and take a warm shower. Mornings in Vermont, even in June, are fucking freezing.
As the steam fills the bathroom, I have to groan, because it amplifies and expands the lingering scent of her perfume.
Of course, this is also her bathroom. Her toiletries are hanging on the back of the door.
Her shampoo is resting on the shower shelf.
No thought goes into me reaching out, popping the top, leaning in to smell the coconut scent she uses on her luscious curls.
Fuck, I’ve missed that smell. The cocoa butter of her lotion on her skin, the sweet vanilla of her perfume.
Squeeing a dollop into my hand, I put the bottle back, my left hand pressed against the wall and my right wrapping tight around my painfully erect cock.
I’m not what one would call gentle with myself, my furious pumping fueled by the memories I dreamed and everything that happened after.
The taste of her is still too real on my tongue, the vibration of her quivering thighs alive in my cheeks.
She had looked at me with such indifference, for a time, but after that night her eyes had sparked with something new.
I had done what she considered the impossible- making her writhe and squirm as she came all over my tongue- and the look she gave me after was no longer apathy.
It was pure, errant lust, a desire for me to repeat my success again, and again, and again.
And I was so frantic to live and die between her thighs that I agreed.
I would crawl to the ends of the Earth for this woman if it meant I got to taste her sweet cunt just one more time.
If it meant I could take her clit between my lips and suck until her fingers ripped the hair from scalp—
“Cono—” I grit out through clenched teeth, coming in violent spurts across the shower tiles. I keep stroking through the trembling, squeezing out ever last drop into the spray, remembering how it looked painted across her dark skin.
Fuck, this woman has me fucked up again, and I’ve only been in her orbit for a fucking day.
As I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater, I idly wonder just how deep the lake is only for my subconscious Rowan to smack my brain, shouting, “No! We don’t think like that anymore, amigo.
” So, instead of plotting my own death, I grab a mug and a k-cup- add cream and sugar to cover the shitty taste of pod coffee- and step out onto the porch.
Taking in a deep lungful of air, I settle myself on the top step, staring out into the brush surrounding the cabin.
It really is beautiful here. It’s cold as fuck this morning, but beautiful.
The lake is glistening in the morning sun, the birds are chirping merrily, and the landscape is quiet save the rustles of the trees in the breeze.
Everyone is still asleep, so the cabin is restfully quiet.
Every aspect of the morning feels like something out of a fairytale or an old Walt Whitman poem.
Something out of Leaves of Grass would probably be pretty fitting, but I never paid too much attention to poetry when I was forced to read it.
Peaceful country scenes and I don’t exactly add up.
I’m glad for the wind and the rushing of squirrels breaking up the stillness—
“You can sit in a chair, you know.”
I spit out my coffee, gripping my chest as I sputter out, “Cono, Dios mío,” turning to find Naomi in a rocking chair, her legs crossed too primly for the periwinkle blue leggings and sweatshirt she’s wearing. ”Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!”
For a second I think I see the corner of her lip twitch, but no. Her mouth is a straight line as she nods to the rocking chair next to her. “You’ll live.”
Standing, I brush off the seat of my jeans, taking the offered chair with a sip of coffee—
“Ugh,” I groan, spitting it back in the cup. “That’s fucking awful.”
She holds out a to-go cup in my direction, her eyes still on the lake. When I don’t immediately reach, she shakes it little. “Go on.”
I take it, muttering out, “Gracias,” before I take a long sip. When I try to hand it back, she holds up a hand. “Keep it.” She lifts a second cup from the ground next to her. “I got two. Well, I got three, but Nelly and Clara don’t really do coffee when hungover.”
Fighting the urge to ask what’s in her cup this morning to stave off the hangover, I ask, “Should I start the bacon and French toast now?” Poppy’s hangover breakfast of choice makes even my stomach roll, but Naomi shakes her head.
“No, they’ll sleep a few hours more at least.” She glances my way briefly. “You look well.”
I blink, turning to face the lake again. “You do too… I mean, you always look great, but you look better than—”
“Stop,” she mutters and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
I sigh heavily, bringing the coffee to my lips. Was it always this hard just to exist around her? It’s not like I’m trying to flirt with her anymore, I’ve moved on from shooting my shot. She saw to that thoroughly. But our friends are getting married in four days, can we not just… Get along?
Swallowing, I pull at my collar, suddenly a little too hot. “It’s beautiful here. Quite the venue for a pre-nuptial getaway—”
“For fuck’s sake,” Naomi huffs, rolling her eyes toward me. “What are you doing?”
“What—”
“I said you could sit,” she bites out. “I didn’t say we had to make small talk.”
My jaw clicks. “So, what, we just sit here in silence?”
“Yes.”
The quiet beats on like a drum, off rhythm thanks to the rustle of leaves and the chitter of wildlife. My knee starts to bounce, my fingers fidget. My skin itches like my soul will burst out of it.
“Yeah, I can’t fucking do that.” I turn to face her. She doesn’t look at me, but maybe that’s for the better. “We have days stuck in this cabin together, Naomi. We have to be able to talk at the very least. Are you really going to ruin Poppy’s week to keep up this petty shit between us—”
“Excuse me—”
“Get the fuck over yourself,” I snap, setting down my finished coffee. She stares up at me with wide eyes when I stand. “Our bullshit isn’t worth their happiness. Have you even thought of me once in the last two years?”
“I—”
“I’m over whatever the fuck this was.” The lie is bitter on my tongue. I gesture between us. “Can you cross over the bridge and join me? Por favor, for Poppy?”
She’s still just staring at me, and I turn away, dragging my hands through my hair to lace my fingers behind my head.
“Fuck, why are we so bad at just being friends?”
Silence falls heavy between us again and I brace my hands on the porch banister, staring out at the landscape, trying not to bite straight through my tongue.
There’s a creak of wood when she rises from the chair and for a second, I think she’s going to leave. But then her periwinkle sweater appears in my periphery, her curls pulled up into a messy bun atop her head.
She doesn’t look at me when she admits, “You’re right. I’ve always been awful at just being your friend…”
I glance her way, pretty sure Hell just froze over.
Naomi admitting she was wrong? This woman, never once in all the years I’ve known her, has ever taken credit for anything that could be considered a shot against her character.
She lives in denial. She is the queen of ignoring her own red flags.
Now she’s standing here admitting that she was the problem? What dimension did I wake up in?
Naomi closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. Then she turns to me, holding out her hand. “Friends. For this week, anyway. Then we can go back to not to not thinking about each other. Deal?”
Goddammit, I want to tell her that a week is not enough.
I want to take her into my arms and kiss her fucking senseless, kiss her the way I used to when she allowed herself to be mine even for a few hours.
I don’t want to be Naomi’s friend, but if being her friend- even for a short while- is all she’s willing to give me… .
I take firm hold of Naomi’s hand. The softness of her hand is familiar, the strength of her grip enticing.
I take the moment to assess her more closely, checking for clarity in her ice blue eyes, noting the way her hand remains steady in mine, firm.
Resisting the urge to glance at her coffee cup, I force a smile, nodding once.
“Friends.”
???