19. A Bad Idea
19
A BAD IDEA
Elodie
A few hours later, the shop is spick-and-span, and Eliza and Amanda are besties. The older girls took Eliza to a pottery-making studio and are making bowls with cats on them or cat bowls. Or bowls shaped like cats. It’s not entirely clear, but they’re busy for a little longer with all things feline.
The blinds are down, so Gage and I were free to clean without being caged animals on display. As we survey the little space with the minimalist counter, and the simple tables, and the sound system, ready to play our curated playlists, we’re almost ready for Friday.
“I have a good feeling,” I declare.
“Yeah, me too,” Gage replies as we stop behind the counter together.
I turn to meet his gaze, my eyes finally returning to his ink. “The lotus is for change?”
“Yes,” he says, and I expect him to say he got it after his wife died, but he adds, “I got it after I went to therapy.”
Is it weird that my heart’s skittering that he prioritized his mental health? Maybe. If so, I’ll take weird, thank you very much. “I’ve been pretty much in and out of therapy since college. I have a lot of parent issues,” I say with a shrug, then nod to the ink again, recentering the conversation on him. “I love the lotus. Does it help?”
“I think so.” He studies the ink again. Does it reconnect him with his past? Or his progress? “I got it after the doctor told me I wasn’t going to play baseball again.”
That surprises me too. I’d been so sure it was for Eliza’s mom.
“Well, not immediately. Once I heard my elbow was toast, I drowned my sorrows for a couple months, turned into a shitty dad, then my grandma and mom told me to get my ass to therapy. I did. And worked on how much I was hurting.” He taps the flower authoritatively, like he’s in charge of his past, not the other way around. “I got this a few months later. It was sort of like taking back myself, you know?”
“I’m glad it worked. The tattoo and the therapy.”
“I still go from time to time. As Grams and Eliza tell me, it’s the in thing these days.”
“And you started before it was in. That was ten years ago, right?”
“It was.” He leans against the counter, his back to the door, rubbing a hand over his scruff. For a few seconds, I figure he’s said all he wants to say. That he’s opened the door a sliver and is ready to close it.
“I wasn’t in a good place, Elodie,” he says, his tone stripped bare. “I was struggling with depression. It was after Hailey died too.”
My chest aches for him. “Was her passing part of it? The depression?”
He doesn’t answer right away, then finally gives a resigned, “yes.” He looks to the white blinds covering the glass, like the answer to what to say can be found there. Then, he turns back to me. “That was part of it, but we were struggling. Our marriage was…well. It wasn’t perfect.”
That has to have been so tough for him to reconcile with her death. I wait for him to say more.
“It started out imperfect,” he adds, maybe a little embarrassed as he scratches his jaw. “It was a surprise. The pregnancy. But a good surprise, of course.”
“Of course,” I second.
“And so I married her. In city hall, not the Conservatory of Flowers or Shakespeare Garden, or what have you,” he says, almost apologetic.
“Oh.” I pause. “Was that hard for you, when I was rattling off all those places?”
“No,” he says, at first, then stops himself, reconsiders. “Not hard. Just a reminder, that’s all. But I have no regrets. Not a single one.”
I can tell he doesn’t want me to compliment him for being an upstanding guy and marrying the woman he knocked up so I just give him a warm smile and nod, so he knows I’m listening.
“Anyway, she died unexpectedly. I lost the career of my dreams and the mother of my child at the same time.”
“That’s so hard, Gage,” I say, reaching out to run a hand down his strong arm, my loaned vintage ring gliding over his permanent art.
“It was. But hey, now I’m tattooed. This right here?” he says, pointing to a bird on his flesh. “It’s for new dreams.”
I run my finger along the finely drawn wings. The bird’s not macho like an eagle. It’s not feminine like a dove. It’s simple and a statement—a future, a dream, a new horizon. A slight tremble seems to move through him as I trace it. I should stop. But I don’t. I travel along the bird up to the crook of his elbow, then down as it flies into the moon and the stars, the lotus, and the sky. The guideposts on his body. “They’re beautiful,” I say.
His eyes hold mine, and then he lifts a hand, reaching for my face before he drops his palm with regret in his green eyes. For touching me? Or not touching me? I don’t know.
Gage clears his throat. Checks his watch. “We should get the girls soon. We probably need to leave in ten minutes.”
I try to ignore the disappointment inside me as I hunt around for the broom I was using. He finds the rags and the spray cleaner for the counters. Then we make our way to the little supply closet down a nook at the back of the store.
I open it and set the broom down. He wedges past me and puts down his items. Then I reach for my purse on a shelf, since I left it here earlier, but Gage steps in, moving faster and snagging it for me.
As he hands it over, the bag buzzes. He cocks his head. “Is your purse purring?”
I should be embarrassed. But instead, I roll my eyes— at me . “That’s just my Plus One.”
He jerks his head. His tone is pure intrigue as he asks, “Plus One?”
“It’s the name for this tiny little pocket friend ,” I say, dipping my hand into my bag to find the tiny rose-gold vibe and silence it.
But his hand covers mine. In a heartbeat, he’s setting the purse back down then cupping my cheek, holding my face and studying me, like he’s weighing choices and consequences. Risks and rewards. The great and terrible appeal of a romance that we won’t let be.
We’re pretending to be in love while fighting to stay apart.
Yes, it’s hard.
But this? Tilting my chin. Parting my lips. Saying yes with my eyes. This is easy. Welcoming his kiss.
He takes my invite and raises it, crushing my lips to his. We kiss more, hungry and urgent. A kiss that’s a countdown. A kiss that knows it’s running on borrowed time. He bites my lower lip, tugs on it, groaning as he seals his mouth to mine.
He kisses me like a man in charge. Like he has zero regrets. Because this is what’s been keeping him up at night—the need to touch me again.
Same here . I feel it too. And I feel swept away by the insistence of his lips on mine as he grips my shoulders, holds me like he won’t let go, marks my mouth.
With a carnal groan, he breaks the kiss, his eyes glinting with desire. “This is a bad idea.” But his tone says it’s the only idea.
“It is.”
“We said we’d be hands off.”
I glance at his strong hands, gripping me tightly. “That’s true.”
He hauls in a breath. Blows it out. Stares at me, then says, “But what if I’m not really touching you?”
“You were really kissing me,” I point out since, well, you can’t fuck semantics.
He runs a finger over my lower lip possessively. “I was. It’s important that our affection seems real,” he says, and there’s a wink in his voice.
“Are you going to kiss me like that in front of our customers?”
“No. But no one will doubt I do.”
I flash back to Sebastian’s eyes on me the other day. To the jealousy I saw flame in them. “No one does.”
“But there’s a loophole in your purse, baby. I think we should use it,” he says, then nuzzles my neck, kissing me savagely, inhaling me, traveling to my earlobe. “Let me.”
It’s utter desperation in his tone.
And between my thighs.
Who am I to argue? I’m a little helpless to this man today. But then, it’s not only today. It’s been this way the last few weeks. “Do it now,” I urge.
In no time, I’m fishing around in my purse, swiping past makeup and tampons, sunglasses and energy bars, hair clips and hand sanitizer, then finding the little faux lipstick tube.
He’s all determination, the man in the movie tasked with breaking into the vault in less than five minutes. With a feral sort of focus, he tugs up my skirt, turns on the vibe to its lowest setting, then rubs it on the outside of my panties.
“I hate that you were so wet, so turned on, so needy,” he says, stroking me with the toy.
I suck in a breath. My thighs tighten. “I was.”
“Makes me so fucking sad when you’re so wet and I’m not fixing that problem for you.” His voice is gritty, needy too.
The toy buzzes, a low hum as he coasts it across my soaked panties, teasing me from the outside.
I’m so aroused already that I barely have any flirt left in me. I just lean my head back against the shelves. “Please,” I pant out.
His smile is too pleased. His hand is too skilled. “Please what, baby?”
“Please make me come,” I whimper.
“I’m working on it,” he says, his grin deepening. This man loves to play. He’s sliding the toy slowly in a maddening circle over the outline of my aching clit.
I moan in agony. “Work harder,” I demand.
A sensual laugh. Another tantalizing circle. A lingering glide.
I grab his shirt. “Gage!”
He glances down at me, tsking. “I thought we said no touching?”
“Fuck that loophole. You kissed me senseless. That was touching,” I say.
He dips his face to my neck again. “You’re fucking sexy when you’re horny, Elodie. You know that? You’re so fucking sexy when you need to get off,” he says, stroking me a little faster now, then turning up the vibration a level.
I gasp. Then shudder. “Yes. Please. God.”
“Mmm. That’s what I want to hear,” he says. Then he pulls back from my neck, tugs down my panties, and slides his hand inside. His fingers don’t touch me. He’s really sticking to his rules as he gives me the relief I seek.
He presses the buzzing vibrator to my aching bundle of nerves.
I grip his shirt harder, my legs like jelly, my stomach flipping. I’m moaning, sighing, melting into him.
Soon, it’s only the pulse of pleasure, the heat of my skin, the gravel of his words—words like yes, so fucking sexy, so hot, love it when you lose control .
Then I’m squeezing my eyes, my whole body shaking as pleasure blooms exquisitely, then shatters. I cry out. Maybe a yes, maybe his name, I don’t even know. It’s all just so, so good.
I’m floating on this orgasm high for a minute, or two, maybe more. Till finally, I come down.
He’s watching me, looking more pleased than any man has ever looked. But he also looks…hungry.
As he turns off the vibrator, I dart out a hand, cup the hard ridge of his cock over his jeans.
“Fuuuuck,” he mutters, slamming his free hand over mine, pressing it roughly against his straining erection.
“Let me,” I say plaintively, using his words against him.
He groans apologetically. A rumble that seems to come from deep within his dirty soul. Setting his hand over mine, he pushes, grips, strokes. Then, like it pains him, removes my hand and his. “We should go.”
I shake my head, frustrated but getting it. “It’s Elodie two, Gage zero though.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “I’d argue it’s Gage two, Elodie zero.”
I pull back. “Math isn’t that hard.”
“I like making you come. That’s what gets me off. That’s what I think about at night. That’s what I picture in the shower. Making you lose control.”
And I want to answer that with a kiss so badly—even though we really shouldn’t.
Quickly, we straighten up, pop into the restroom, then leave to head to the art studio. As we walk, his phone buzzes. He glances down, then clicks on an email with uncommon speed. His lips twitch while reading it, as if he likes the contents.
When he closes the email, he says, “Celeste will come to our opening night.”
“The landlord? For the place you want in the Marina?”
“Yup.”
I smile. “Told you so. I had a good feeling.”
“Well, nothing has happened yet,” he says, hedging against happiness.
“But it will.”
“Don’t count your chickens and all.”
I roll my eyes. “I know. I won’t. I’m just saying.”
He stops at the corner, eyes intense, maybe even a little hard. “I shouldn’t have done that back there.”
I blink, unsure what he means at first. Then, I’m far too sure. Already? He’s already regretting getting me off? It was his fucking idea.
I straighten my spine. Raise my chin. “It wasn’t you. It was the Plus One.”
His jaw ticks. He pauses, maybe absorbing the punch. “Right. Yup. That’s what I meant.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. Good,” he repeats, hollow.
We stop at the crosswalk, and I turn to him. My tone isn’t icy. It’s easy-breezy as I say, “It was just a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
He nods crisply. “I know. It won’t.”
“So there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Definitely. It’s all fine.”
“Everything is totally fine,” I say, even though I feel dirty.
* * *
That night there’s no text from him. I don’t text him either.
Sex complicates everything.