Never Let You Go: A Small Town Single Dad Romance, page 19
“No. I have to do this.”
“Not really, you don’t,” she grunts. Then changes the topic. “How about the non-apprenticeship part? You doing anything fun?”
I look around the room, wondering when and how to tell her about the bedroom makeover. I close the door to the hidden staircase and store the key away.
“Yeah, I started working on some of the businesses’ social media.” I mention Grace and her spa and other businesses I’m beginning to help.
Sarah laughs. “I’m talking about real fun.”
“Oh, yeah. Wellll. Something crazy happened today. Actually, lots of crazy things.” And that’s when I tell her most of what’s happened between Christopher and me since the middle of the night. My cheeks are burning just giving her the gist of it, so I leave out most of the graphic details.
When I’m done, she says, “Jesus Fucking Christ, that is hot. Like really, really hot. Man. When are you gonna do it?”
“I don’t know! It’s not like this was planned or anything.”
“Hmm. But wasn’t it? Deep down?”
I ignore her mind games. “He has a kid. We can’t just jump on each other once the bakery is closed. We’ll have to wait for Skye to be at a sleepover.” Well, looks like I’ve already given this some thought.
“Where d’you think you’ll do it? Your bedroom? His bedroom?”
“Who cares?” It’s always been that way. Sarah needs a plan while I need to go with the flow so I don’t counteract what’s bound to happen and create more mess in the process.
“I do! It’s important. His bedroom would carry meaning, you know? Like he wants you in his bed. Now, your bedroom is cute, and then you’d have his smell on your pillow. That’s a plus. But wait. Isn’t your bed twin-size? I wonder if that’s a pro or a con.”
“It’s not anymore.” I try to hide the excitement in my voice.
“What do you mean? Did you get a new bed? When did this happen? God I hate that you’re so far.” The last part of her words are mumbled, and then my phone beeps. Sarah is asking to switch to video. “Spill it,” she says, her face filling the whole screen.
I turn on the video on my phone. “Here’s what I walked into earlier today.” I have to lower the sound on my phone when she shrieks, “Ohmygod” non-stop for the first fifteen seconds of the tour I give her.
Once I zoom in on the details—the books on the shelves, the pottery vase on the dresser, the candles on the mantel, the watercolor of a barn in the snow over my bed—she gets sort of quiet, like she might be hyperventilating. She’s squinting and mumbling.
“Oh, my god, Lexie. That’s. So. Hot.”
“What do you mean? What’s hot?” It’s nice, it’s over the top caring. But hot? Okay, maybe a little.
Maybe more than a little.
“He’s got feelings for you. I can tell. And you have feelings for him.”
I huff. “Sarah, we don’t have feelings for each other. We’re just fooling around.”
“Why can’t you have feelings? Don’t be so cynical.”
“It’s just—You know how it is. I’ll get attached, and then, I’ll have to leave.”
“You don’t have to leave Vermont. You’ll be a gazillionaire. You can run Red Barn from anywhere. And, if you fail that exam you seem to think is freaking hard, you’ll marry him, he’ll put a bun in your oven, and you’ll live happily ever after selling his delicious croissants instead of Red Barn’s industrial shit.”
I chuckle at her preposterous ideas. “You’re such an idealist.”
“Realist! I’m a realist, Lexie. And you’re a closet romantic. This is what your life should be! Aww, I’m gonna miss you,” she says, pretending to whine. “Will you have a guest room for me? Oh, wait! That bedroom will be the guest room.”
“That’s not the plan for me.”
“Whose plan? Your grandmother’s?”
“Yes. And I know what you’re going to say. That she’s gone, and I’m free to live my life, now. But it’s not that easy, you know? It’s my family legacy, and maybe she wanted me to go back to the roots of baking and bring it back to the family business. That was her way of getting me on board, of continuing the mission.”
“First off, it was her mission. Not yours—”
“You know how family’s important to me. And Red Barn is the only thing that connects me to my family now.”
“Lexie. This is your life to live, not anyone else’s. Just go with the flow, seize the opportunities.”
I wish I could, but there are layers of my life that even Sarah can’t understand. “I am. The opportunity is to have fun while I’m here, possibly amazing sex, and that’s it. I’m seizing it.”
“All I’m saying is, don’t deny your feelings.”
I shut my eyes. “I can’t allow myself to have feelings. Christopher doesn’t want a relationship. He’s got his daughter, and he doesn’t want her to know about us. He wants to protect her.” Easier to blame it on him than to argue again with Sarah about why I won’t allow myself a normal life.
I carry a burden of guilt that no therapist has been able to shake off, and I deal with it by no longer wanting things I can’t have.
Like a real family.
“Hmm,” she says. “Okay, I get it. He just wants to fuck you in a decent place. Good for him for having taste.”
“Oh, wow. Classy, Sarah.”
“You don’t want to hear about feelings, girl. Deal with it.” She has a point, even if I don’t like it that much. “Oh and, let me know how your first full-on sex goes. And since there are no feelings, I’ll want all the juicy details. I’m in a sexual desert, right now, so I’m going to live my sex life by proxy.”
twenty-four
Christopher
Ican’t do this.
I know I said it’d be great to have some kind of relationship for the time Alexandra is here, but I’m freaking out.
Last time I opened up, laid it all out, set to buy a ring at the same time as a crib, the woman walked out on me.
It shattered me, and I didn’t even care about her as a person. I only cared because she was carrying my child. I was doing the right thing. The fucking right thing to do.
The day after I kissed Alexandra, I could not look her in the eye, knowing how she’d felt in my arms. How I wanted to help her out with whatever shit was going down with her boss. Just like I’d wanted to help Skye’s mother.
She’s been the only thing on my mind. I burned the inn’s special order of muffins and forgot Justin’s dinner rolls because… well, because.
Alexandra.
She’s been the only thing on my mind, and the only thing not on my body, and why the hell do you think that is?
Because she’s too much. She affects me like no other woman ever has. Like I didn’t even know was possible.
My thinking is, if one kiss and a make out session made me this way, what will a night with her do to me?
I won’t be able to let her go.
Now, I may have the instincts of a caveman. I may want to tie her to her bedposts, brand her with my cock, fuck her so good and so hard and so often she’ll forget there are other males in the human species.
But I’m civilized. I have a twenty-first-century veneer that will prevent me from doing anything—anything—when she leaves. She’s a free, independent woman, and her choices are hers.
This, her presence here, in my bakery, in my life, has a shelf life. There’s no child to link us together. She has a job to go back to.
She’s definitely leaving.
Me? There’s just so much I can take. And I know I can’t take this any further.
So for three nights, although I know she leaves her door open, I don’t go up to her room.
But she comes to the kitchen. Every. Single. Morning.
I should say night, because it’s still dark out.
She shows up around four every morning, makes me coffee, brings me a glass of water.
She doesn’t say a thing. She pulls out her phone and takes pictures and videos and shit.
I try to ignore her because I’m supposed to be focusing on preparing for the competition.
And then I notice, something funny happens.
I’m more creative when she’s around.
My senses are heightened. I’m attuned to her sight, her smell, the memory of her taste, and that inspires me. It gives me a kick in the balls, an incentive to perform even better. And she’s watching every move I make.
“Tell me if I’m bothering you,” she says the first morning after our kiss, after she’s been there an hour and we haven’t talked.
I don’t answer, and she makes to leave.
“Stay right here.”
She freezes.
“Please.”
“You sure?”
“I said please.”
“Alright then,” she sighs and sits on a prep table.
I pop my head up. I’m being such a dick. Why is she even here? Why does she put up with my shit? “I’m sorry,” I say. “It like it better when you’re here,” I finally admit to her. “It helps me focus.”
Her cheeks get a deep pink, and my god, just for that, I’m going to learn to apologize more often to her. “Okay then,” she whispers, a small smile on her face.
And it’s true. I’m in the zone, and she’s right there in it with me. She just doesn’t know it.
I still don’t go to her room that night. Because like I said, there’s just so much I can take.
Three straight nights of not going up there, imagining what I could be doing to her, and having the strength not to, just to protect myself. Hearing her come and go, and not joining her.
Not taking advantage of that door that I know she leaves open for me.
That takes a lot of courage.
Enough that I don’t have any left to face her in the morning, answer her silent questions, make it right.
There’s just so much I can do.
I’m starting on my fourth night of this ordeal, and I don’t hear her ordinary noises. The water rushing down the pipes. Her footsteps. The bed creaking.
I turn my lights off, and there’s no streak of light coming from her room through the disjointed floor.
I hop into the secret staircase and find her door locked.
Using the main staircase, I go upstairs. Her room is dark. And empty.
It’s past ten at night on a Friday. Tomorrow is a workday for her.
I grab my phone.
twenty-five
Alexandra
Three nights in a row, I prepped myself for him. I showered. I shaved my legs. I slathered lotion on my skin. I did my hair in lush waves. I applied nude makeup. I slipped on my sexiest lingerie.
I studied poses on the reading nook. On top of the bed. On the freaking rocking chair.
Three nights in a row, he didn’t come. After the kiss we exchanged and the orgasms he gave me. After the room he gave me and the key to his stupid secret staircase.
Angry at myself for being a docile puppet, I repeat the mantra—Men only bring misery—and will myself to not let it be true.
So, on Friday, I take Grace up on her offer to go out. I wear my sexiest lingerie again—the bodice that Cassandra gave me, with the garters and silk stockings that Sarah made me buy when I was trying to spice things up in the bedroom with my last boyfriend. It didn’t work at the time, but Sarah knows her shit.
The boyfriend was the problem.
Not me.
Right?
Or is it me?
Because why has Christopher been ignoring me for the last three days and nights?
Maybe it is me.
I fasten Cassandra’s bodice and think back to what she said when she gave it to me. Something about being careful who I wore it with? Well, if it brings me luck, I’ll owe her.
Then I shimmy into the short red dress that hugs my shapes just right.
Now if that doesn’t get me lucky, I don’t know what will.
Don’t judge me. Christopher ignited a fire in me that needs to be taken care of, and if he won’t be my fireman, someone else might. What else is a girl to do? Just because relationships aren’t for me doesn’t mean I don’t have needs.
I’ve recently discovered sex is totally for me.
And I want more than the taste Christopher gave me.
The Growler, an actual barn in the hills turned club slash event space slash game room, is the locals’ favorite nighttime hangout. Tonight, it’s packed with bikers showing off their tats on their bare arms, outdoorsy types and farm hands in flannel shirts, and office types with their button-down sleeves rolled-up. The troublemakers and the trouble seekers, both looking for relief after a week of whatever it is they do. There’s a small dance floor off the main bar that’s manned by a deejay, and a live band somewhere in the back.
The place is huge.
The women travel in packs, showing lots of glowing skin. I fit right in with the piece of red fabric barely covering my ass.
Everywhere, there’s the urge to either douse or arouse the sexual tension with too much alcohol.
It’s the kind of night I need. A night to make a mistake I won’t regret.
Drink in hand, I sway with Grace and her girlfriends on the small dance floor, looking for a suitable mate but seeing nothing. Surely, someone will make his way to me and replace the face that’s haunting me—dark eyes, curly hair, shadow of a smile—with something equally appealing.
No one does, yet.
Wandering hands make their way under my skirt, and I whisk them away when they don’t have the right feel. The one feel I’m looking for.
A strong arm grabs my waist from behind, but I don’t like the way his veins don’t bulge. I snake away.
After a couple of hours of this hide and seek, the girls and I travel to the bathroom.
I check my phone for no particular reason and see a text message from Christopher from an hour ago.
10:30pm
Christopher
Where are you
11:30pm
Me:
Growler
Christopher
Why
11:38pm
Me
This girl needs her fun
Christopher
Come home
Me
…
11:40pm
Me
???
Christopher
Come.
Home.
We go to the back of the barn, where a local group is performing live. I lift my arms and jump in the air with the crowd. A wet kiss smacks my neck; a hand grabs my boob. I shake off the intruder and catch Grace’s eye. She’s our driver. She points her chin to the door. I’m beat and follow her out, welcoming the sobering air. She greets me and the other girls with bottles of water as we pile into her Jeep.
I take out my phone and look at the last messages from Christopher.
What the heck. I’ve got nothing to lose.
1:17 am
Me: What will I get in return?
I watch as the bubbles wave up and down on the screen on his side, stop and start again. Does he never sleep?
The bubbles stop, and minutes later, Grace drops me off.
Shoes in hand, I tiptoe up to my bedroom. It’s chilly in there, so I keep my dress on to clean up.
There’s a full-length mirror in the bathroom now, and after brushing my teeth, I take time brushing my hair and looking at myself.
I lift my dress, revealing the bodice and matching thong.
I would fuck myself in that thing.
What a waste. I let the dress slide back around me.
I skip removing my makeup, dab some cream on my lips, and step into my bedroom.
And freeze.
Against a bedpost, wearing nothing but sweatpants, his arms crossed over his muscular, naked chest, one bare foot hitched over the other, Christopher stands, the image of fury and desire.
“This what you wear to go to that place?” he growls, his hungry eyes raking my body.
I indulge for a beat in being under his scrutiny. Why doesn’t he kiss me, touch me, hold me? I can tell that’s what he wants. But he only looks at me, and from that alone, my breasts swell, my nipples tingle.
“What’s wrong with that?” I finally say, a little out of breath. “This dress is sexy.”
He closes his eyes and growls again. “Fuck, Alexandra. Do you know what kind of guys go to that place?”
Really? That’s the reaction I get? “I was just there. I saw,” I clip.
His nostrils actually flare but his gaze finally meets mine. “And?”
“And no serial killers. No rapists. I’m back in one piece, thank you very much. And there’s nothing wrong with me, and nothing wrong with my dress either. Everything in perfect working order.” Tears of frustration start gathering behind my eyes, and I take a deep breath that comes out shaky, but helps me recenter. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed, please?”
He pushes himself from the bedpost and takes three long strides that bring him an arms’ length from me. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”
“Bed. Sleep.”
“Everything in perfect working order. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.” He takes another step toward me that places him entirely in my space, his warmth and scent wrapping around me.
God he’s beautiful. And the way he looks at me? He drinks me in, caresses me with just his gaze. It’s unfair what he does to me.
But he’s so frustrating. “After the way you kissed me. After everything you gave me. The room. The key to the friggin’ hidden staircase. After all that and what I thought it meant, you ignored me. You already gave up on me!”
I blink back tears of frustration. Why am I even upset?
It’s always like that.
