Chapter Twenty-Two Will
Chapter Twenty-Two
Will
It’s a midlife crisis.
That’s the best explanation for why I kissed Everleigh. I’m forty, single, and dealing with my father’s declining health. My job is stressful. I tweaked my back a few days ago.
There are so many reasons for my unusual behavior.
But scared? No. That’s absurd. What could I possibly be scared of?
“What did the poor mailbox do?” Everleigh asks, stepping out of her Subaru a little before eight at night.
I slide the head of the hammer into my jeans’ back pocket. “A snowplow clipped it last winter, and I’m tired of looking at the dent in the side. And the door doesn’t close properly.”
She lifts her brown leather tote onto her shoulder and cocks her head, inspecting the mailbox. “So you thought a second dent would solve the problem?”
I frown. “I had to hammer out that side so the door would close.”
She reaches for the door and gives it a hard tug before it opens. “Stiff.”
“It’s fine.” I head toward the garage. “Where have you been?” I cringe the second the words leave my mouth. It’s none of my business. More than that, I don’t care.
Keep telling yourself that, buddy.
“I had dinner with a friend.”
“You have a friend?” I grin with my back to her while I return the hammer to its hook above my tool bench.
“Jamie.”
I turn. “Jaymes?”
She casually nods.
“Why?”
“You’re awfully curious.”
I shrug, stepping past her. “Just making conversation.”
“Oh, I like conversation. Early this morning, I signed the papers for my land. How was the rest of your afternoon? Did you grab a nap after Alba finished cleaning? Did she do a marvelous job?”
Why did I speak to her?
I remove my boots and step into the house, setting them just inside the door.
“Looks clean to me,” she says, moseying into the kitchen and then depositing her bag on the table, where it doesn’t belong.
“That just proves you’re easy to please,” I say, washing my hands.
Everleigh flips her hair over her shoulder and laughs. “You’ve known that for a long time.”
I won’t take the bait. It’s a sex reference. We’re not talking about sex or kissing or anything like that.
“How’s Jamie? Are you moving out now that you’ve closed on your land?” I ask, grabbing a beer from the fridge, then twisting the top.
“Jamie’s good.” She sits on the sofa, tucking her legs under her while ignoring the moving out question.
“She’s feeling okay?” I ask, leaning against the counter before gulping the beer like a bottled water.
“Yes,” she says slowly. “Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “No reason. What did you two talk about?” My control evaporates. Did she tell Jamie about the kiss?
“Will, I think we should discuss what happened earlier, so it’s not weird.”
I take my time nursing the next sip of beer, and then I rub my lips for a few seconds while I ponder if there will ever be a day when my relationship with Everleigh Reichart is not weird.
“Your housekeeper woke me up. Then you kissed me. I’m not sure why.
Then my dad called. I ordered him cookies to be delivered. What’s there to discuss?”
“Since you don’t know why I kissed you, I think we should start there.”
“No.” I scoff, shaking my head. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you talk to your patients.”
“You’ve never observed me talking to my patients, so how would you know how I talk to them?”
“You sound clinical when you talk, saying things like we should start there.”
“Fine. I kissed you because you’re sexy. I kissed you for the same reason you kiss women you meet at a bar.”
“I kiss women I meet at a bar because I want to fuck them.” I drink more beer.
“Well, there you go.” She holds her hands out, palms up.
“There I go?”
“I kissed you because I want to have sex with you.”
I choke on the lager. “We’re”—I cough more—“not having sex.”
“I didn’t say we were. I said it’s why I kissed you. Had your dad not called, I think we would have had sex on the sofa in my office or on the desk.”
I can’t stop coughing. It’s no longer the beer; it’s the words that slide to the tip of my tongue, only to be shoved back down my throat every time she speaks. “We would not have,” I squeak, shaking my head.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I have self-control.”
“You had no self-control. How many times did your dad try calling before you answered?”
“Four. And that just proves my point. I could have answered on the first ring, but I had self-control, so I waited until the fourth time he called.”
Her hazel eyes light up.
“I’m kidding.” I toss her a cocky grin and drop my empty bottle into the bin. “You’re so gullible.”
She frowns. “I’m the opposite of gullible. Everything I do requires a healthy amount of skepticism.”
“Except for me,” I say, heading up the stairs. “You’d do me without hesitation.” I feel victorious, even though there is nothing I need upstairs other than an excuse to make a dramatic exit from the living room with the last word in my wake.
When I hear the back door shut, I change into sweats and a T-shirt to make my unnecessary trip upstairs worthwhile, and then I head downstairs to game.
Barely ten minutes into it, the door opens, and Everleigh shuffles her bare feet across the wood floor.
I make a lightning-fast glance in her direction before refocusing on the game.
She opens a kitchen cabinet. “What are you playing?”
“GTA.”
“Want to play with me?” she asks, opening a bag of popcorn.
“Would you stop saying that? Pervert. I can’t believe people trust you with their mental health.” I get sniped and then flop back onto the sofa, discarding the controller beside me.
“I know. Every day I deal with impostor syndrome.” She sits next to me, tilting the bag of popcorn toward me.
I fish out a handful and throw it into my mouth. “You never told me why Jamie had dinner with you,” I mumble before swallowing.
“Because I’m a charming person, and being in my company is a privilege. Wouldn’t you agree?” She steals my controller and brings up Fortnite.
“I would not. You’re annoying, like the little sister I already have.” I pluck the controller from her hand, and she dives for it while I hold it above my head just out of her reach.
“Why do you have to be such a child?” She jumps for the controller, sending the popcorn bag onto the floor and her tits into my face.
I shove it behind me, so she lowers to her knees on the sofa beside me and stabs her hand behind my back, which puts her face in front of mine.
“Give it to me,” she says, nose inches from mine.
“Are we still talking about the controller?” I make the mistake of staring at her mouth, and now all I want to do is kiss it.
“Dirty old man,” she says with a big grin.
“You have to knock off this ‘old man’ shit,” I say.
God, she smells good. Whatever she uses that makes her smell like flowers, she must have reapplied it before returning minutes ago. She’s baiting me again.
“I’m not having sex with you,” I say.
“I know.”
If she knows, why doesn’t she move? Why don’t I?
“But there’s a lot we can do that’s not sex.” She brushes her nose against mine. “Remember?”
Of course, I remember all the things we did that weren’t sex.
“It’s against house rules,” I whisper, moving my head a fraction so our lips brush like our noses.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” She pecks at my bottom lip.
“Everleigh,” I warn, but not without lifting my chin so she either has to back away or kiss me.
She chooses the latter. And fuck my pathetic lack of control for kissing her for the second time in one day. Her hand disappears from my back and moves to my face, framing it while she opens her mouth to let my tongue sweep inside it.
I grip her waist as she throws her leg over my lap to straddle me. What are we doing? This won’t end well, and that’s our destiny.
I know it.
She should know it.
Still, I kiss her and snake my hand up the back of her shirt to unhook her bra. We’re not having sex, but as long as she’s this close, I might as well check out her new boobs. Only she’s not wearing a bra, and as I make that discovery, an unrecognizable groan vibrates my chest.
Is it just this easy? All I have to do is move my hands under her arms, and I can have her fantastic new tits in my palms?
Don’t do it!
My common sense pleads with the jumbled mess of thoughts swirling around in my head. Can I stop at second base?
I’m about to find out as I palm her designer breasts. She pulls back just enough to take a hard inhale when I pinch her nipples. On a heavy blink, she drags the pad of her thumb across my lower lip before sucking it into her mouth and teasing it with her teeth.
We’re breaking the rules. My rules.
We should stop. I should stop.
“Good night,” she whispers over my lips before crawling off my lap.
My hands attempt to stop her by squeezing her breasts. That makes her grin bloom into something victorious, like this is a game, and she just scored points.
I adjust my erection with one hand while my other rakes through my hair. “Jesus, we have to stop doing this,” I say more to myself than to her.
“Why?” Everleigh asks, righting her shirt. “Are you not a fan of my new breasts?”
“Don’t play stupid,” I say, reaching for the controller.
“Just to be clear.” She folds her hands behind her. “You don’t like it when I shrink you. But you also don’t like it when I play stupid. William, I’m trying my best to find middle ground with you, but I think you might be stuck in a cycle of self-sabotage.” Her lips twist.
I find a new game to focus on until she gives up and leaves me alone.
“If I recall correctly (and full disclosure, I have an excellent memory), you told me to make some fucking mistakes. Get a speeding ticket. Stop worrying about what other people think. Drop my panties for a stranger in the bathroom of a bar. And stop trying to live up to anyone else’s expectations. What if you took your own advice?”
“As you have so kindly pointed out, Everleigh,” I grit through my teeth, “I’m older than you, so while you were popping your zits, I was making all the fucking mistakes. Speaking of recalling things, my excellent memory hasn’t forgotten the time I fucked a seventeen-year-old.”
When she doesn’t respond, I risk a quick glance at her. She swallows. Did I go too far?
“Are you going to cry?” I refocus on the game.
“No. Are you?”
I scoff. “Why would I cry?”
“Because you’re a sensitive man, William Landry. Maren told me you like chick flicks.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“She said you’ve watched Titanic at least a dozen times.”
“I have not watched any movie a dozen times. And Titanic is not a chick flick. It’s about a ship hitting an iceberg and sinking. It’s . . . historical.”
“Jerry Maguire?”
“Football movie,” I mumble, thumbs tapping the controller’s buttons. “This is ridiculous. If two people fuck in a movie, it’s suddenly a chick flick?”
“I don’t know. I was an infant or a mere twinkle in my mother’s eye when those movies were made.”
“Stop calling me old.”
She chuckles. “I’m not.”
“You’re implying it.”
Everleigh saunters toward the back door. “William, you’re the sexiest old man I’ve ever met.”
Her words make my dick twitch despite the “old man” part, and my avatar dies.
“Fuck.” I fling the controller across the room after the door closes behind her.