“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I tell him, reaching out to touch his bicep. It’s rock hard and warm and oh my God, I’ve missed him tremendously.
“You gotta stop touching me,” he says.
“My hand is just on your arm,” I say, letting go of him.
“Yeah, but it drives me out of my mind. And I’m trying to concentrate on the road and scared I might jump over to the other side. You Brits got it all ass backwards,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Um, I’ll have you know we were here first, and you Americans ran away from us, so you’re the ones who drive on the wrong side of the road,” I point out.
“Whatever.” He shakes his head and I sock him on the arm, unable to resist. “Didn’t I tell you not to touch me?”
“Am I really that much of a distraction?”
“Yeah, you are. First you’ll touch my arm. Then you’ll touch other body parts, and the next thing I know, you got your hand in my pants and your fingers wrapped around my junk and that just won’t work. I’ll crash the car, you’ll get into another accident and might hurt yourself even more. It’ll be all my fault, and your parents will hate me forever,” he explains.
Hmm. He really does have a point. “You might be right.”
“I know I’m right. You should take a nap.”
He did grab that hospital blanket for me before we left the room. It’s not the coziest thing—it’s kind of stiff, a little scratchy, but at least it’s something to keep me warm. I tug it farther up so it covers my chest, and snuggle into my seat. “This car is comfortable.”
“Nothing but the best for my girl,” he says, making me smile.
I close my eyes, appreciating the smooth ride. My car may be a Mercedes, but it’s old, and it’s low to the ground, so it’s not that comfortable. This Range Rover, though, is a luxury ride through and through.
“You sleepy, baby?” his deep voice asks me a few minutes later.
I nod. “Mmmhmm.”
“Get some rest. You’ll wake up and we’ll be at your place in no time,” he encourages, his voice sounding distant…
My eyes slowly open to find Cannon hovering above me, reaching across my lap to undo the seatbelt. “Home sweet home,” he says, his voice soft just before he dips his head and kisses me.
A girl could get used to treatment like this.
“I’d carry you up to your apartment, but with my knee, I can’t.” He makes an apologetic face. “I hope you can walk up.”
“Of course I can.” It’ll be a slow go, but I’ve got this.
“I’ll help you,” he offers, and I smile and say I’ll be fine, but really I’ll probably need whatever help he can give me.
I wasn’t exaggerating with the slow go. Between both of our injuries and trying to carry our bags and the vase full of roses, we’re kind of a mess. And I only live on the third floor.
But that’s the third floor, people, so it’s quite the journey.
“I should’ve got us a hotel room,” Cannon grumbles when we finally make it to my door. The hallway is so narrow, he’s practically pressed up against me, and I really hope none of my noisy neighbors pop out of their doorways and start asking questions.
Luckily enough, most everyone is away at work, so no one will disturb us when I finally get the door unlocked and we both stagger inside my dark flat. I go to the window that faces the street and crack open the blinds, then hobble into the tiny kitchen and light a candle to take away the dank, damp smell that permeates the place.
One of the joys of living in an old building.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Not particularly,” I tell him as I wander into my bedroom and set my duffel bag on the edge of the unmade bed. I’m such a sloppy mess, and if I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d be scrambling about, tossing clothes in the washing basket, shoving shoes in the tiny wardrobe and making my bed. I’d run into the bathroom and pick up the towels on the floor, take the bras that dangle over the shower rod down, and try my best to appear as if I have my shit together.
But I don’t have my shit together. I’m a bit of a disaster sometimes, at least when it comes to housekeeping. When you’re raised with servants who pick everything up for you, how do you ever learn to clean up after yourself?
I sound like a spoiled brat, but it’s true.
“Hey.”
I glance up to find Cannon literally filling my bedroom doorway. He’s so tall, he has to hunker down to fit, his arms above his head, hands gripping the top edge of the doorframe. Goodness, he’s large, and I’ve rubbed myself all over that large body multiple times.
Despite the injuries and the pain and the difficulty I have breathing, I’m tempted to jump on him and beg him to have his way with me.
“Yes?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“First of all, you shouldn’t be cleaning up.” He enters my bedroom, glancing around the messy room. “We’ll fix this later,” he says, returning his gaze to mine.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh, dropping the edge of the quilt that covers my bed.
“Second, I’m starving, and you have no food in your kitchen beyond some condiments in the fridge and stale crackers in a cupboard.”
I grimace. “I’m a terrible cook.” As in, I don’t do it. Ever. Stems from that same problem I have about cleaning. When you have cooks who prepare you delicious meals morning, noon and night, you don’t need to learn how to work in a kitchen.
“Know of any restaurants who deliver?” he asks hopefully.
“Plenty,” I tell him as I whip my phone out of my yoga pants’ pocket and open up a delivery app I use before I hand it over to him. “Look through the menus and see what you want.”
“Awesome.” He’s scrolling through my phone, pausing every once in a while, and I just stand there staring at him, still in disbelief over the fact that he’s here. With me. In my home.
All mine. To keep forever and forever.
Well. I don’t know about that last part.
“You hungry?” he asks me when I remain quiet.
“You already asked me that a few minutes ago, remember?” I smile at him.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. When I’m starving like this, I can’t concentrate well,” he admits sheepishly. He taps a few buttons the screen and then hands my phone back over to me. “I ordered something. It’ll be here in thirty. Think I can borrow your shower?”
I bite my lip. “It’s probably a mess. I had a body scrub spill last week.”
“Is that like an oil spill in the ocean?” he teases.
“Sort of,” I offer with a shrug, not willing to explain that I spilled half the tub of body scrub and it’s so thick, I gave up trying to clean it. “I’m just warning you. It’s probably not going to be the tidiest shower in the world.”
“I don’t care. I just need to get this plane sweat off of me. As long as you have a bar of soap and a clean towel, I’m good,” he declares.
“A bar of soap? How very primitive of you,” I say primly.
“Damn, I love it when you sound all snotty like that.” He swats my butt, making me squeal, and I glare at him as he exits my bedroom. “Come on, girlfriend. Let’s get you settled on the couch so I can jump in the shower.”
I love how he oh-so-casually called me girlfriend. And I love that he’s wanting to take care of me. So I let him. He positions me on the couch just so, with a few pillows from my bed propping me up and my favorite cozy throw draped over my body. Despite my protests, he’s turned on the heat and promises to pay the bill, so I give in. My parents give me a substantial allowance, but I’m still cheap when it comes to heat. I blame it on growing up in a drafty house.
Cannon rummages around in the kitchen and brings me a cold bottle of water, though I’d rather have tea. But I don’t trust his American ways to make me a proper cup, so I’ll deal with that later.
He hands over the remote, asks me if I need anything else, and then he’s locked away in my bathroom, r
unning the shower so hot I swear the steam seeps from the rather large crack at the bottom of my bathroom door and fills my flat.
This is heaven, I think as I turn on the television and pull up the guide to see what I can watch. There’s nothing good on—every show that’s currently airing is complete rubbish—so I turn the TV off and grab my phone to see I have a couple of missed text messages from Evie.
I heard your American boyfriend showed up and took you home!
Answer me, woman, and tell me you’re alive!
Hmm, seems an alien has invaded Evie’s body. She’s not one to use exclamation points. Says they’re pointless and juvenile.
Deciding texting her would take too long, I call Evie instead.
“Where are you?” I ask the moment she answers the phone.
“At my place. Why? Do you want me to come over?” she asks eagerly.
“Absolutely not.” Perhaps I was a little too vehement in my protests. “I’m too tired. And plus, Cannon is here.”
“I’m dying to meet him. Please. Let us come over.”
“Oh God, you’re with George.” I do not want to imagine them having sex or whatever, gross.
“No, I’m not with George. He’s at work. I’m all alone at my flat, bored out of my mind.” She pauses. “Maybe we could get together later. For dinner?”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid.” I sigh, my ribs aching. “I’m still in too much pain.”
“Of course, I completely understand.”
“Evie, is your—is your dad terribly angry about the car?” I ask, my voice weak, my stomach twisted in knots. “I feel so bloody awful about wrecking it. I can’t imagine how mad he must be, especially since he’s always telling you to be careful.”
“No, you’re the one who’s always telling me to be careful,” she teases. But then her tone turns serious. “He wasn’t angry, Susanna. He’s just thankful nothing too terrible happened to you. Says he’s been beside himself with worry over you, as well.”
“Aww, your dad is always so sweet,” I say, fighting the tears.
“On you. Me? He’s constantly telling me I need to do something with my life,” she grumbles.
“Did you tell him about George?”
“Not yet.” She sounds nervous. “I’m afraid he’ll hate the idea.”
“My brother is quite the catch,” I remind her. “Handsome. And he’s the most loyal man you’ll ever meet, despite that whole Priscilla fiasco.”
“You don’t need to remind me. I’m quite aware of George’s many fine qualities.” She hesitates, sighing before she forges on. “It’s just I haven’t done anything for myself, you know? I live off my parents’ money and I don’t work.”
“Neither do I,” I point out.
“You have the art gallery.”
“I only work there part time.”
“But at least you get paid to do it,” she says.
True. It is an actual paying job. I use the money to feed myself, mostly. Keep up my coffee habit.
“I need to find a purpose, Susanna. I just can’t be George’s girlfriend. I need to be Evie, who does…whatever.”
We end the call with promises of a dinner date between the four of us in the next few days. Yet her words linger, making me wonder.
Am I selling myself short by not becoming something? I don’t want to be the girlfriend of whoever, or the daughter of whoever. And I definitely don’t want to become the wife of blah blah and the mother of blah blah blah.
I want to be me. Susanna, who’s great at…
What?
“Do you think I’m interesting?”
I tear my attention away from Susanna’s crappy not-4K television screen to focus on her. “What did you just say?”
“I asked if you thought I was interesting.” She tilts her head, contemplating me. “Or do you find me boring?”
“You are the least boring person I know.” I give her foot, which is propped on a throw pillow in my lap, a firm squeeze. We’re extra careful around my knee, around her ribs and broken arm, because we want to keep touching each other.
And I can’t stop touching her. It’s like I’m addicted.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re just saying that because you want to get into my pants.”
“Well, there is that, but that sort of action isn’t going down for a few days.” No matter how bad I want it to, my girl isn’t ready. My knee can’t handle much, but I can lie on a mattress and just let her ride me.
A broken arm and healing ribs won’t let that happen.
“I find you very interesting,” she says, holding up her hand, her index finger pointing right at me. “One, you’re American.” She’s ticking off all of my so-called interesting traits with her fingers. “Two, you’re a football player for the NFL. Three, you came from a single mother, and look at you now. Four, you could have all the fame you want, but you’re not interested in any of that.”
“I am nothing special. I happen to be good at football. That’s it,” I say.
“Five, you’re incredibly modest.” She shakes her head, smiling. “You’re unreal, Cannon Whittaker. Oh, and six, you have the best name for a football player ever.”
“You’re going to make me blush,” I tease and she laughs.
We’re cuddled up on her tiny couch, legs carefully draped over mine, me sprawled as best I can despite the knee brace and the miniature size of her furniture. It’s late in the afternoon, I’m fed, I turned off my phone and it’s raining outside.
I wouldn’t mind spending the next few days just like this.
“I don’t think you’re boring,” I tell her, breaking the silence. “It seems you’ve lived a pretty full life, and you’re only twenty-three.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “I hate that I’m only twenty-three. It sounds so young, though everyone considers me an adult, which I am, so that makes sense. But I wish I were twenty-five. That’s a good age. A respectable age. Not a wayward teen, but someone older. Responsible.”
“You’re very responsible, Susanna. Despite what you say.” Her brain and the way she thinks is fascinating to me. “Don’t rush yourself. Enjoy each year you’re given,” I tell her, sounding like an old man trying to offer up some wisdom. I’m only a couple years older than her, but sometimes she just talks so young.
“Okay, wise one,” she teases, nudging my lap with her toes.
I grip them in my hand, tickling the backs of them and making her wiggle. “Better watch where you put that foot.”
“Why, are you going to strip me naked and check if I’m wet?” she asks hopefully.
“Lady Susanna Sumner, did you just say something about being wet?” Damn, we can’t talk about this kind of stuff. Not tonight, not for the next few days. I’ll get too riled up and then can’t do anything about it.
“I did.” She bites her lip, the look incredibly sexy. I’ve noticed that her hair is even more curly than usual, and I figure my earlier suspicions are true. She straightens the shit out of her hair to make it sleek, but I like her curly look too. “Am I going to get in trouble?”
“You wish,” I tell her, making her laugh. “We can’t mess around like that, Sus. No matter how bad I want to, I’m not going to do it. I might hurt you. Or I might hurt myself.”
She sighs. “You are such a gentleman.”
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“When I want you to ravish me, yet you resist like a noble duke, then it is a bad thing.” When I send her a questioning look, she shrugs. “I’ve read too many historical romances over the years.”
“You read romances?” I’m surprised. I figured she’d be the type to read classic novels like the shit they tried to force on us in high school.
“I do, but I haven’t in a while. Guess I’m too busy living my own romance,” she says with a tiny smile.
“I wish I could make this visit with you more romantic,” I tell her, feeling bad.
“You’re very romantic, getting me whatever I want whe
n I ask for it. Giving me a foot rub when I don’t ask for it, which is even more thoughtful. You’re tending to my every need, and it’s wonderful.” Her gaze drops to my knee in its brace. “I wish I could help you.”
“I’m fine.” I’m really not. My knee is throbbing. But I won’t tell her that.
“You should go home so you can see the doctors,” she says, her voice soft. “I’m sure they’re anxious for your return.”
I wouldn’t know, since I turned off my phone and can’t see their text messages, voicemails and emails. I’m sure I’ve got all three from a variety of coaches. I’m sure they’re pissed as hell.
I have other things on my mind. Like this woman I’m sitting with.
“Do you care if we have dinner with George and Evie Wednesday night?” she asks, gazing at her phone. “Evie just sent me a text asking.”
“That sounds good. I should still be here.”
“Great.” She taps at her phone screen and I hear the whoosh sound that tells me she sent a reply. “I can’t wait for you to meet my brother and best friend.” She makes a face. “It’s still so strange to me that they’re together.”
She already filled me in on all the details from their wild weekend at her family estate. “If their relationship works out, I think you got lucky. Not only is Evie your best friend, but she could end up also being your sister-in-law.”
Susanna smiles brightly. “Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
I give her ankle a squeeze. “See? It’s not strange that your brother ended up with her. It’s a good thing.”
We remain quiet for a bit, and nerves swirl in my stomach as I try to come up with the right way to tell her that I’m in love with her. Do I just blurt it out? Give her a little speech? Whisper a few romantic words and hit her with the most important info right at the end?
I don’t know how to do this. I haven’t told a woman I love her in a long-ass time, and what we share feels different. Susanna isn’t some girl I had a crush on in high school. And she isn’t a woman I had a thing for in college either.
She’s a woman. A woman who breezed into my life in the most unusual way and ended up changing it completely. I’m a different man with Susanna by my side. There’s so much still to learn and do, but I know without a doubt that she’s the woman for me.
Thinking About You Page 18
