Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Hailey
The anticipation of Jason getting home makes me antsy.
I know he’ll be here any minute, and I can’t sit still.
I’ve tried practicing, reading, watching TV …
I can’t focus on any of it. So to distract myself, I end up making cookies.
Of course, he doesn’t have chocolate chips, so I can’t make chocolate chip cookies.
But he does have oatmeal and cinnamon … no raisins, but oatmeal cinnamon cookies should still be good, right?
And there’s sugar in the pantry because I like a little in my coffee, and we have plenty of that.
Flour, butter, eggs—always eggs here. That’s a staple.
When the key scrapes in the lock and Jason walks in, I’m frantically trying to clean up the mess I made on the counter when the flour went poof.
He looks a little perplexed when he walks in. “Hailey? What are you doing?”
I’m sure I have a guilty look on my face. I’ve never had a good poker face. “Uh … making cookies?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Are you asking me if that’s what you’re doing?”
Laughing nervously, I shake my head. “No. I’m making cookies. I was just hoping I’d have time to clean up the mess before you got home.”
His confusion melts away, replaced by a wide smile.
He drops his bags on the floor where he stands then crosses over to me, wrapping me in a hug and kissing me.
I’m caught off guard, just like I was the first few times he kissed me, but I manage to kiss him back before he pulls away.
Then he kisses me again, and this time I’m ready for it, meeting him with the same amount of enthusiasm he’s giving me.
We had the one night together, and then he was gone, and we didn’t really talk about it while he was away. So I wasn’t sure what to expect when he got home.
But this?
I can work with this. I can do this.
We’re married, after all. That’s what we decided, isn’t it? We might as well act like we’re married since we are?
And I … I like him. As more than just my brother’s friend, my white knight, the guy I’ve known my whole life but hadn’t seen in years before I showed up on his doorstep. It’s crazy how much my life has changed in less than two months.
“What kind of cookies are you making?” he asks, nuzzling my neck, making me gasp when he grazes my skin with his teeth.
“O-oatmeal.”
He lifts his head, his face wrinkled in confusion. “Why oatmeal?” He asks the question like I said I was making, I don’t know, spinach and Brussels sprout cookies or something.
“That’s what you had the ingredients for. Well, no raisins.”
“Oh, good,” he breathes in relief. “I hate raisins.”
“Ah. Noted.”
He kisses me again, but we’re interrupted by the timer on my phone going off.
He releases me reluctantly, and I laugh as I twirl away so I can check on the cookies.
“This is the first batch,” I tell him, “and since I haven’t made cookies here before, or this recipe, I don’t know exactly how long they’ll need. I have to check them.”
They still need another minute or two, so I close the oven and reset the timer, going willingly into Jason’s arms when he reaches for me again.
He growls when the timer goes off again. “Jesus. That was like thirty seconds.”
Shrugging, I pick up the oven mitts again.
“Closer to sixty, but yeah.” When I close the oven for another minute, I stay where I am and turn to face Jason.
“It’s going to go off in a minute again.
But then I’ll know how long to put the next batch in for.
” I gesture to the other cookie sheet on the counter next to me that’s ready to go in the oven once the current batch is out.
Narrowing his eyes, he crosses his arms. “How many batches do you have to make?”
Glancing at the bowl, I consider his question. “I dunno. Four, maybe?”
“Four after this? Or counting these?”
“Counting these.”
He hums. “And what happens if we just turn off the oven after this and come back to it later?”
My mouth opens to ask why, but then I catch the heat in his eyes and gulp instead. “Uh …”
The timer goes off.
Whirling around, I pull the cookies out.
They look fine. Good enough, anyway. Then I switch the oven off and set the mitts down.
When I turn around, Jason’s right there.
He swoops me into his arms, carrying me toward the bedroom like a bride—which feels extra fitting—where he deposits me on the bed.
He kisses me, gently and thoroughly. And with each touch, each caress, he sighs like he’s finally able to breathe after holding his breath for too long.
“I missed you,” he murmurs against my skin, nipping and sucking on my neck, my collarbone, then returning to my mouth.
“I missed you too,” I manage to gasp when he moves away from my lips for a moment.
But then words are lost as he strips me down, dispatching my clothes with haste, followed by his own until we’re both naked and lying in a tangle of limbs and skin, and then he’s inside me and, Oh. Yes. This.
Somehow, in the short time he’s been away, I’d forgotten how exquisite this feeling is. With him. Only with him.
And even though it seemed like he was in a hurry to get to the main event—no drawn out foreplay like last time—he takes his time, pausing when I know he’s getting close, pulling out and kissing me, sucking my nipples, strumming my clit, driving me higher and higher until, when he enters me again, I launch into the stratosphere.
He holds me close, chasing his own release as he keeps mine going, and I cling to him like he’s my only anchor in the world.
We stay glued together for long moments after we’ve both finished, and he slowly relaxes to the side, pulling me with him. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out again in a sigh of deep contentment.
“Welcome home,” I murmur against his shoulder.
He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to my head. “Thank you.”
Neither of us feels much need to speak for a while, though, happy to remain in this state of blissful satisfaction where time seems to be suspended. At least for a little while.
Eventually, Jason gets up and cleans himself up before returning to bed, pulling a blanket over us as I settle against him once more.
I’m not sure what it is about him, but he’s easy to just be with like this.
Not once have I felt an ounce of awkwardness, even though by rights, I really should.
Given, well, everything about how we got here.
“How’d the meeting with the event planner go?” he asks after a moment.
“Good. We made a lot of progress. Didn’t you see the pics I sent? That’s what I chose.”
He nods. “Yeah, I got them. I just wanted to make sure you felt okay about everything, though.”
“You said I could go with what I thought was best,” I say slowly.
“And I meant it.” He leans in for a quick kiss. “No second-guessing yourself.”
Chuckling, I nod. “Got it. It was pretty easy, though. She had a few choices for each of the decisions that I needed to make, so it wasn’t too overwhelming.
She went out and found her top three options for napkins and cake and menus, and I just had to look at what she offered, sample the food, and pick the one I preferred.
” I grin up at him. “Hopefully your taste is similar enough to mine that you won’t hate any of it. ”
“If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Sitting up, I arch an eyebrow. “That’s the most non-answer I’ve ever heard.”
With a laugh, he pulls me back against his side. “I think the reverse is the more likely scenario—you’re the one who hates seafood, after all. And I don’t know of anything that you like that I don’t. So I’m really not worried. If I were, I wouldn’t have left it entirely in your hands.”
“I appreciate your faith in me.” I say it as a quip, but he takes it seriously.
He tilts up my chin and kisses me—one of those long, lingering kisses, but no tongue—then pulls back and says, “Of course I have faith in you. You’re amazing and talented and driven. Why wouldn’t I have faith in you?”
I have to blink a few times because my eyes suddenly get suspiciously moist. Sitting up, I clear my throat and give him the best smile I can muster in the moment—which is admittedly not much of one.
I don’t know that anyone’s ever so unequivocally believed in me.
Because that statement is about so much more than picking appetizers or napkin colors for our upcoming reception.
He has faith in me. As a person, as a musician, as … everything. And it lands with a thunk in a hollow place I hadn’t realized was so echoing. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper.
Concern stamped on his face, he reaches for me. “What’d I say? Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I mean, yeah. Nothing. It’s …”
“Hailey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”
“No, no. Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re … well, you’re perfect.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I practically flee to the bathroom. I need a minute to get ahold of myself.
He is perfect. He does and says all the right things.
It seems ridiculous that it’s so painful, but it is.
And I don’t know how to explain that it’s hard for me to hear him tell me all the good things he sees in me.
That it’s hard to believe him. Or that it’s hard to believe he sees me that way, I guess, because then it sounds like I’m calling him a liar, which isn’t what I mean at all.
And then I feel even worse because I’m internally flailing, and all he’s doing is being his normal, wonderful self.
God, I’m a mess.
When I come out of the bathroom, he’s not in the bedroom. I grab my pants and shirt and pull them on, heading out to the living room to find him in the kitchen, scooping cookie dough onto a baking sheet.
“You really are too perfect, aren’t you?” I murmur at the sight of him shirtless in his low-slung plaid lounge pants.
“I hope not too perfect,” he says, licking his finger and sliding the cookie sheet into the oven. “That sounds boring.”
I lean against the counter. “Boring is the last thing I’d call you.”
Closing the distance between us, he wraps his arms loosely around my waist. “Good.” Then he drops a kiss on my lips. “I’d hate to bore you.”