12. Twelve
“Put on a pretty dress, do up your hair, and get yourself ready. I’m taking you out to the best restaurant in town. I know the chef. Her food is incredible.”
I smile as I let Knox into the house, his deep voice ringing through the open living room. Before he rang the bell, I was chopping vegetables for the dinner I invited him to. He likes to joke that eating in my kitchen is better than any restaurant he could take me to. I head back to the kitchen to finish my preparations.
“Knox!” Hendricks yells, jumping up from the Legos he was assembling on the floor. He runs and launches himself at Knox, who catches him under the arms and swings him up into the air.
“Hey, little man! Are you being good for your mama?” Knox walks to the couch and plops down with Hendricks in his arms and I watch as he interacts with my beautiful son. It turns out he’s great with kids. He comes from a big family and has twelve nieces and nephews.
Knox continues to surprise me the more I get to know him. I never expected to date an athlete, always assuming they were too focused on their sport, one-dimensional, or at worst, major players flaunting big-time contract money. Knox hasn’t been like that. He’s humble, focused but still present, and he’s been incredibly attentive. We haven’t been dating long, but I felt comfortable enough bringing him into Hendricks’s life after we went on a handful of perfectly fine dates and I felt safe enough with him, and my kid has preened under the attention of a strong male figure.
I bite my lip, feeling a little guilt for my role as a single parent, raising a little boy without a father around. I let my lip slide out of my teeth and scowl at the cutting board under my hands. It wasn’t my choice to do this alone. I never would have chosen to do this on my own. But I wasn”t given the option from the very beginning, and there was no way in hell I would have begged for it from the man who cut off all contact with me immediately after unknowingly knocking me up. Well, for my son, I would have begged, if I had the chance, but I wasn’t even given one.
I knew without a doubt that Zander Olsen did not want to be a father. He was very good at preventing the outcome. Except once. And that was all it took to change my entire life and create a new one. So, why is he trying to find out more about Hendricks now? What would have changed for him to come around, not remotely interested in fatherhood, just needing the confirmation of his progeny? Would he stop trying to worm his way into my life if I told him the truth, or would he want more? It”s the more that has me worried.
“Harley, get your cute butt over here and see what the little man has built. I swear, he is the most inventive kid I know, and that’s saying somethin’ because I have lots of nieces and nephews.”
I cringe, my fingers flexing against the cutting board, and release the knife and poor sweet potato I had been absently slicing into ever smaller pieces. I’ve had many nicknames over the years, and Knox has latched on to one of my least favorites. It doesn’t suit me, but it also isn’t worth fighting over, since it’s just a nickname. I make my way over to the couch, where I lean against the arm and gaze over Knox’s big body, making my deep couch cushions look tiny, and Hendricks kneeling next to him, little boy face animated as he tells Knox about his Lego creation.
“It has a rocket back here and these wheels help it roll real fast. This propeller makes it fly, and these wings steady it in the air,” Hendricks explains, pointing at the multi-colored bricks and plastic pieces patchworked together into the semblance of a vehicle.
“He built a—” Knox pauses and consults Hendricks, “hey, little man, what did you say this was called? I want to make sure I tell your mom the correct name.”
Hendricks looks up with a smile, his eyes shining under the attention. “It’s a quadmantulator,” he says, making up a term I’ve never heard before. “Quad, because it does four things. It flies, it drives, it hovers, and it rolls, see,” he says, tossing his creation along the couch with a burst of noise he’s decided should accompany it. The wings break off as it hits the arm of the couch and he huffs. “I’m still testing it out. I gotta fix what keeps breaking.” He picks up the pieces and returns to the floor where his Lego pieces are carefully grouped together, not by color or shape, but by some other sorting method he favors. He is meticulous, though it just appears messy. My little mad scientist in the making.
“I’m impressed that he knew quad means four, and he listed four different actions his machine can do,” Knox says, looping a big arm around my hips and scooping me from the edge of the couch to his lap.
I’m tall at five feet nine inches and sporting mama cushioning, so I’m not the thin model I once was, but in Knox’s lap, I feel small. I blink rapidly as I think of another man who made me feel light and graceful and fit against me so perfectly that we became extensions of the other instead of two distinct people. I tilt my head against Knox’s shoulder to avoid him seeing any distress that may be evident on my face. I can”t be thinking of Zander now, when Knox is holding me, showing me what true attentiveness can look like after years of going through life alone, raising a son whose father had no clue he existed, and wanted to stay that way.
“I’m making turkey burgers and sweet potato wedges,” I say, lifting my head to look at Knox’s profile.
While he’s become a part of my life, I’ve hesitated to really let him in. True, we have something warm, but it’s not an all-out burning fire of lust that propels us to keep seeing each other. It’s warm like a friendship, a camaraderie, and while I find him attractive, and I enjoy his company, I haven’t felt that spark I know is possible between two people.
A spark I felt with Zander that turned into a roaring wildfire only to have it smothered out immediately. Knowing how easy it is to crush hopes, I feel I’m holding back even now, when he’s been nothing but amazing. I haven”t been able to open up about Hendricks’s father, or most of my life before him.
Knox knows me as the foodie girl with a YouTube channel and a new cookbook, not the model who flew around the world for high-profile shoots, eating only carrot sticks and subsisting on iced coffee. He knows me for sharing thirst traps and body positivity on social media, but not the hard-won truce I’ve made with my body after years of eating disorders and low self-esteem. There are dark places and skeletons in my closet that I haven”t been able to share with him, no matter how dependable he’s been, because, deep down, I know he could crush me, too.
After Hendricks is in bed and the dishes from dinner are cleaned up, Knox pulls my feet into his lap on the couch and rubs my instep. “You okay, Harley?” he asks softly, his eyes on the muted TV screen streaming The Office, giving me some space to answer without being too direct.
I sink down into the couch cushion with the tingle of pleasure that rolls its way up my leg from his hands. “Everything’s fine,” I answer automatically. “Just feeling the nonstop press schedule, I guess.”
“I was getting a little worried that you hadn’t called me to come over in weeks, not since before your car accident. You sure it’s just your schedule? Nothing else?”
This is one thing I both adore and hate about Knox. He asks the questions that others would politely ignore. He checks in. His perception and persistence are some of the reasons I finally agreed to go out with him a couple of months ago, after we ran into each other at the stadium where I was treated to a VIP experience, thanks to Callie’s husband. We had met previously at a gala, so we were familiar. When he saw me outside of the locker room after the game, he’d insisted he should take me out, saying he’d been watching my channel and wanted someone else to cook for me, for once, but since he couldn’t, he’d pick a restaurant and really go all out. Callie had prodded me in the back, nodding with big eyes when I turned to look at her for help, so I reluctantly agreed. True to his word, Knox had picked a delicious restaurant in a trendy neighborhood and had talked my ear off and had me going in turn. So I agreed to see him again, and that turned into what we have now, a very casual, comfortable relationship of sorts where I don’t call him my boyfriend, but he’s everything that could be.
Except… well, he’s never once made a move on me. We make out a little, but he’s never even felt me up, or gotten so carried away by passion that he’s tried to take it further. At first I thought he was being a gentleman. Or maybe he wasn’t that interested in me. And yet, he keeps calling, wanting to see me, showing his interest. It’s a little confusing and definitely not something I have any experience with, as I was either pawed relentlessly by a handsy date, or I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when I let a relationship progress physically.
So, what’s Knox’s deal? Am I not attractive, or have I lost that spark now that I’m a mom?
“Do you want to stay the night?” I ask, rather than answering his own question that got my head spinning needlessly.
His fingers still on my foot and a brief look of discomfort flits across his brow before it’s smoothed out, and he turns to look at me with his trademark wide smile.
“I think me staying over would upset your routine with Hendricks in the morning. This is new, and making sure I don’t mess anything up with the little man is my highest priority. Let’s take it slow.” He pulls me by the knees so I’m stretched out flat on my back and he turns to hover over me. My heart rate quickens as his eyes stray to my mouth, then lower. “I’d love to spend the night with you, but I can wait.”
My stomach dips with the rejection. He may have just given me the nicest rejection I could have hoped for, but he still told me no while saying all the right words. I tilt my head to the side and study him. His shoulders are set with a tension his easy smile masks, and his touch is warm, but almost clinical where he holds the backs of my knees. There is no soft brush of a thumb along my bare skin, no tentative slide up my thigh like I would expect. His body language doesn’t seem to match his words.
No. I have to stop analyzing his every move and word. I’m just looking for reasons to not trust his ability to be patient and take it slow like he said.
He’s different from the guys I’ve been with before, and that’s good. He’s dependable. That’s new for me. So, if he wants to wait, to not get physical or take our relationship to that next obvious level, I can accept it. It’s the least I can do for someone so nice and caring, for someone who actually wants to be with me. It’s the bare minimum I should expect and accept.
I nod at him and smile softly. “Thank you.”
He chuckles. “What are you thanking me for?”
“Being a gentleman, I guess, and for prioritizing my son over sleeping with me,” I admit. It feels far too vulnerable to say it out loud, to really bring sex into the conversation for the first time without just hinting at the prospect. Real mature of me to not even be able to talk about sex with the man I just asked to stay the night.
Knox grabs my hands and pulls me into a sitting position. His thumbs gently rub across my knuckles. “Your relationship with Hendricks will always be a priority. Don’t settle for any man who doesn”t respect that.” His sincerity just about breaks me down completely.
Before I can start ugly crying in front of him, I pull my hands away and swiftly swipe under my eyes for any excess moisture, and stand. “Okay, you’ve officially made me a total mom mess, so I should say goodnight and take my sappy self to bed.”
“Get some rest and kill that talk show tomorrow,” he says, following me off the couch, again showing me how much attention he pays to my schedule and life. “You can call me whenever you want. You know I’ll always make time for you. My schedule is just practice, training sessions, and games. Nothing too important,” he jokes, kissing my forehead.
I walk him out and wave goodbye from the porch when he drives away in his entirely too practical SUV. The man doesn”t even have an ostentatious car.
And so my unfortunate celibacy continues.
As usual, when I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, I take control the only way I know how. I pull out my phone and open Instagram, posting a photo of me, head tipped to the side, taking a bite of a Korean Bulgogi taco as it falls apart on my face. It’s another recipe from At Home with Harlowe and a super fucking hot titty shot that I look way too good in. It’s another obvious thirst trap, but I write a caption that says it’s okay if we fall apart, tacos fall apart and we still love them—even if our bulgogi tacos wanna recreate a bukake video, we’ll slurp that shit up to the last drop, we ain’t wasting the good stuff. I hit post and close the app before I can even see the engagement numbers. I didn’t do it for anyone but me. I like the way I look in the photo, I enjoy writing a bit indecently for the audience I’ve built, and those are good enough reasons to post it, even if it helps with other things in the process.