Chapter 14 #2
She's sent me a photo of herself. In it, she's in the bathroom facing away from the mirror, taking a selfie with her top pulled up and her leggings pushed down, so I can see her plump, tight ass and her firm little boobs.
I save the photo to my hidden folder and then delete it from the thread so there's no chance of it being accidentally seen by anyone.
I'm not sure how that would happen, but I respect her privacy too much to let it even be a risk.
I was one of the last guys out of the locker room earlier, and took a quick full-length selfie of myself after rinsing off…
facing away from the mirror as well, ironically enough, so my front is only in frame from the waist up; I wasn't about to get myself hard for a selfie in a locker room when anyone could pop back in for a forgotten item.
I send it back to her using the "invisible ink" thing so she can reveal it or not, in case Mallory is around when the message comes in.
It still feels a little weird, text-flirting and sending explicit photos.
That kind of thing was never part of my relationship with Taylor—we were plenty sexual, but since we were married before the advent of cell phones, we never got in the habit of that kind of thing.
We saved the spiciness for the bedroom. It worked for us.
I'd come home from a 24-on and Taylor would be waiting for me, naked and in bed.
Often asleep, too, but with long-standing open-ended instructions to wake her up for sexy time, no matter what.
Everything is different with Morgan. We flirt over text—silly and funny, sweet and romantic, sexy and spicy and explicit.
She sends me nudes, and I send them back.
God, I felt so awkward and ridiculous, the first time she asked me to send one to her.
And for the record, I didn't ask her for the first one—I found it on my phone, taken from the lock screen at some point when I wasn't looking.
The make-out session after the skate earlier this week had left me hard as a rock.
We had stopped ourselves before we got too carried away, and Morgan realized she'd forgotten her purse in the locker room in her haste to get her mouth on mine and ran in to get it, leaving her phone in the car with me.
So I snapped a quick shot of myself with my jeans undone and pulled down and my shirt lifted, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I almost deleted it, but didn't. I was certain she was going to send me a disgusted message when she found it. She did text me about it, but it was a drooling emoji and a heart-eyes emoji, which I took to mean she didn’t mind it.
I park in the driveway and ring the doorbell; Mallory answers, wearing a pair of flannel pants, a Skyhawks jersey with Noel's name and number on the back and a blue TFPD beanie, which clashes magnificently with the Skyhawks' black-and-gold color theme and the red-green-and-gray of her pants.
I eye her with an arched eyebrow. "Hey, Mallory. You're looking…comfortable."
She rolls her eyes as she lets me in. "What, you want me to wear jeans around the house like a savage?"
I shrug. "Heaven forbid." I nudge her with my elbow as I follow her to the kitchen. "How's the hockey debate coming with your mom?"
She shakes her head. "On ice for the minute."
I snicker. "Good one, Mal."
She frowns, then splutters a laugh. "Ohmigod, that was so not an intentional pun, but I wish it had been. I just know Mom, and she needs time to think." She glances at me with a sly smirk. "Plus, she's been otherwise…preoccupied…lately."
"Mallory, I—"
She pulls me to a stop next to the stairs. "It's okay, Coach. Mom and I talked about this. I like you, and I like you for her. God knows she deserves happiness, and it seems like you give her that, so I approve. Just…please, please don't hurt her, okay?"
"I'd rather cut off my own hand."
"Well, don't do that."
"I just mean—"
"I know what you meant, Coach. My only request is that I don't ever see anything I shouldn't, yeah?" She pats my shoulder with a condescension that makes me laugh before she even speaks. "And for god's sake, wrap it up."
"MALLORY MORGAN WHEELER!" Morgan yells from the kitchen. "GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!"
I widen my eyes at her. "Busted."
"Fuck." She claps her hand over her mouth. "Don't tell her I said that. She still says 'language' when I swear like she's Captain America."
I wait a minute or so, trying not to overhear Morgan chewing out Mallory in an intense and louder-than-she-realizes whisper.
I enter the kitchen, rummaging through the bags with unnecessary noise, disrupting the chewing-out.
"OKAY!" I say, again louder-than-necessary.
"We’ve got a double bacon cheeseburger with lettuce and tomatoes, no onions, for Mal.
We've got a sunrise burger with eggs and hash browns for me, and a turkey burger with Gouda and avocado for Morgan. "
Mal frowns at her mother. "Turkey, Mother? Really? Can't you live a little?"
Morgan takes the clamshell from me while sticking her tongue out at her daughter. "I happen to like turkey burgers, Mallory. Besides, not all of us have the metabolism of an eighteen-year-old. If I eat a bacon double cheeseburger, I'll gain five pounds right to the ass."
"Not seeing the downside to that, personally," I mutter to her as I pass behind her.
"Oh god, damn this bat-like hearing," Mallory grumbles. "Do I need to put in my earbuds?"
I hold up a hand, palm out. "No, no, I'll behave. I'm sorry."
Morgan gives me a long sideways look, and I can't quite read her expression. Equal parts flattered, confused, and amused, maybe.
Mallory eyes my burger as I take the first bite. "I just can't get behind eggs on a burger. It's weird. Something about the texture of the egg. I dunno."
I groan in delight—I must've burned more than a thousand calories during that practice and I'm ravenous. "It's freaking delicious. Plus, extra protein."
She shakes her head. "Are the hash browns on the burger?"
"Yes ma'am, they are."
Mal grimaces. "Ew. No. Give me the classics every time."
"The hash browns absorb the yolk," I tell her. "It's a culinary masterpiece of artery-clogging goodness."
"Pretty sure you have the healthiest arteries of any man over forty in all of Tomlin Falls, Noah," Morgan says.
I lift the burger. "Maybe…until I eat this bad boy."
Mal snickers. "Oh god, you went full Midwest Dad."
I frown at her. "Huh?"
She snickers as she squirts ketchup into a corner of the clamshell in which to dip her fries, followed by a dunk into the cheese sauce.
"Y'know, the classics of a stereotypical Midwestern dad.
Clicking the tongs a few times before you flip a burger on the grill.
Tying a knot and saying 'this bad boy ain't goin' nowhere,’” she adopts an attempt at a masculine growl, but her soft, high, feminine voice just makes it funnier than I think she intended.
She eyes me. "Do you have grass-stained white New Balances for mowing the lawn? "
I think about that. "No? I wear an old pair of Crocs, and I have a riding mower. Why?"
"Cargo shorts?"
"Taylor threw them all away years ago. We actually got into a fight about it. I loved my cargo shorts."
Mal nods. "Good score so far." She takes a bite. "Do you own a bucket hat, and if so, have you ever worn it anywhere but fishing?"
"I do own a bucket hat, but it was a gag gift from Jim and it's on a shelf in my office at home. I don't understand the questions, Mallory."
Morgan answers without looking away from her burger. "She's assessing your cliche dad-ness. Each time you answer yes to any of the questions, you get deducted a cool factor point."
"Oh," I say. "How'm I doing so far?"
Mal tips her head to one side. "Pretty good. I'll only deduct half a point for the 'bad boy' comment since it seemed to be in the vein of humor rather than uttered unironically."
"So am I still cool?"
"So far." She narrows her eyes at me. "But I'll be watching, Wazowski. Allllllways waaaaaatching." the last two lines, she says in a raspy, nasally voice; a reference I don't understand, most likely.
It feels good, this domestic little scene. A quiet dinner at home around the table was a rarity when Noel was growing up, my schedule being what it is. I can tell Morgan thinks so, too—she keeps stealing glances at me, suppressing a smile.
Mal's phone dings with an incoming message; she reads it, and then turns her attention to her mother. "Mom, Nicola and Gemma want to go see a movie."
"Which movie?"
"I dunno. Some rom-com that just came out."
"Are you meeting them or are they coming to get you?"
She shrugs. "Dunno yet, still in the planning stages." She eyes Morgan and then me speculatively. "The next showing isn't until after nine, so I wouldn't be home until after midnight, probably."
Morgan suppresses a knowing smirk. "Home at one, latest. Right to someone's house after the movie." A pause. "It's just you girls?"
She blushes. "Grayson and a couple of his friends may be coming, too."
Morgan sighs. "So what you meant to say was…?" She prompts.
"I don't know for sure if they're coming, Mom."
Morgan closes the clamshell. "Curfew is one. Best behavior in the theater. Check in after the movie."
Mallory sends a text, her thumbs moving with blurring speed. "Thanks, Mom! Love you. Gotta go get ready."
Morgan's eyebrows shoot up. "Wait, you're putting on real clothes?"
Mal flips her off. "Yes, Mother."
"You must really like this Grayson kid."
Mallory doesn't answer, but Morgan is laughing anyway. "She hates it when I tease her about the pajamas business."
"The what?"
She indicates the stairs, meaning Mallory. "She wore that to school."
My eyes fly wide. "She did?"