We Were Once

by Scott, S. L.

  “Why don’t you become a chef?”

  This time, he looks my way. “It’s not on the short list of options my dad will pay for.”

  "Sounds like mine.” My stomach drops from the admission, and I turn, holding the cold stone counter behind me.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Shoving off, I move to the window. I scoff, waving it off like it’s no big deal.

  Behind me, I hear the click of the stovetop and the cabinet open again. Like the first time, his presence fills my space and caresses my back. But it’s not just his presence; his hands caress my shoulders, and he places the gentlest kiss on the side of my neck. “I’m not sure what the situation is between you and your dad, but you can talk to me, Chloe. You can say anything, and it will stay between us.”

  “I don’t know why that made me sad. He’s paying my way so I can become a doctor. There’s nothing melancholy about that.”

  When his body presses to the back of mine, I feel the heat from his exchanged. I find myself leaning back, relying on him for the support I lack. Standing there for two beats, I finally say, “If I think about it too much, I’ll fall apart, and that scares me more than dealing with it.”

  “You can fall apart. I’ll pick up the pieces.” I’m held protectively, his arms wrapped around my middle like a belt. His words have me resting my head against him.

  “My dad and I have similar dreams for me. It’s just the path where we disagree.”

  “What does he want for you?”

  “For me to follow in his footsteps. He’s a well-known neurosurgeon.”

  “What do you want?”

  The words strike in the chest, my heart clenching. I turn in his arms, wrapping mine around him. I whisper, “What I really want . . . I want to work in an ER.”

  Large hands rub my back, and then he leans back just enough to see my eyes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It is to him.”

  “It’s sounds amazing to me.”

  We might not have a long history, but I mentally note the time and date, and the way he holds me as if it’s been years and not days. I’ll remember this moment forever.

  After a week of kissing, it’s been nice to slow down, the pace more my usual speed. I rock back, noticing the two plates of food on the coffee table. “We should eat before it gets cold.”

  He doesn’t add any burdens or pressure me for more, just accepts me at face value. It’s intoxicating.

  Sitting on the couch, we take our plates in hands and start to eat, not desperate for a distraction, but good in the peace.

  As he chews, he looks around the apartment. “You live alone. You’re OCD neat, and you’re showered and dressed for bed,” he says, eyeing my laptop with a tomato on the tines of his fork. “You’re a better student than you let on, aren’t you?”

  “Everyone at Yale earns good grades. That’s how they got here.” My feeble attempt to appear average . . . normal by college student standards doesn’t fool him. Everyone knows that you have to have over a 4.0 GPA and nearly straight A’s. Perhaps I have a genetic advantage, but I still worked my ass off to get here. But then so did every other student. “True. Let me ask you, Chloe. Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  The question mingling with the way his brown gaze delves deeper than the surface of my skin has my stomach tied up in knots of excitement. I set the plate down and get up to get water. “Guess I haven’t found the right guy.”

  “You sure about that?” The comment has me whipping back to look at him. He’s caught up in those eggs like he didn’t just lay a bomb at my feet.

  I hand him a bottle of water and sit down slowly, his words still wreaking havoc on my mind. I realize I’m sitting next to a guy who doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t have expectations based on who my dad is. I’m simply Chloe Fox to him. It’s . . .

  It’s . . . it’s awesome. I almost feel as though I should spend more time getting to know him, but it’s been years, okay, one day, since I’ve been kissed, and I’m yearning for that. For him. Is it too forward to attack him on the couch?

  He’s not shy to show his interest through the warmth of his caramelly eyes and I’m pretty sure it’s not the food that’s doing that to him.

  “Um, no?” I nod, stupidly, unable to look away. I don’t even know what I’m saying. He has my heart beating so hard that Ruby can probably hear it next door.

  A deep chuckle vibrates from his chest. Setting his plate down, he moves closer, our fingers bumping into each other on the cushion. Heat zips through me, and he asks, “I’d like to apply for the job.”

  “Do you have experience?” I ask, a little breathless and desperate sounding. “I’ll need to see your résumé.”

  “How about I show you instead?” His hand covers mine as he leans forward and kisses me.

  And there goes my heart again.

  8

  Joshua

  Dragging myself away from Chloe Fox is one of my worst decisions, and I’ve made a lot of bad choices over the years. Still tasting her on my tongue, I grin.

  She’s one of the best I’ve made in a long time.

  Putting myself on the line isn’t easy, so in the past, I didn’t do it. I like the cards stacked in my favor. Easy. But spending time with her has felt right from the start. Each time, even better. The kissing is great, but we’ve also talked. About school and life. She asked about me and growing up in New Haven. I could get used to how she looks at me. Like I’m good. Like I have something to offer the world. Like I matter instead of being looked down on as a townie, even when sitting next to them in class.

  I know it’s not just how she makes me feel. It’s also how she keeps so much locked inside. I want to be the key that unlocks her secrets. I want to be the guy who gets to know who she really is and wants to be, to peel back the layers.

  She’s given me a taste, but greedily, I want more.

  Sitting in my truck with the engine idling, I look up at the third-floor windows. No fucking curtains hang to protect what’s inside, making my stomach twist.

  The lights are still on, and I can’t help but want to see her one more time. I cut the engine and honk the horn twice before getting out of the Blazer. When she doesn’t appear, I honk again until her silhouette fills the living room window. I shut the door and stand there in the street with people staring as they pass, but I gave up giving a damn a long time ago.

  She slides the window up and leans out. “What are you doing, Joshua? Waking the neighborhood?”

  “No, just you.”

  “Keep it down, asshole,” some guy yells from one building over. Okay, so yeah, the neighbors, too.

  I move closer, looking up, and say, “I wanted to see you again.”

  Enough light from the streetlamp extends for me to see that sweet smile of hers. Pressing her hands to the sill, she’s leaning out enough for me to wonder if I should worry. “Here I am, Joshua Evans.”

  Yes, there she is with her hair hanging down, a tangled mess from my hands minutes earlier, and the moon shining down on her. She’s my Juliet. “I want to kiss you some more.”

  Resting her hands on the sill, she laughs. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  What am I waiting for? I take the stairs by two and just before I knock, the door swings open. Boxy pajamas still cover her body, but she can’t hide that spark in her eyes. Holding the door open, she asks, “What took you so long?”

  Wrapping my arms around her waist, I kiss her and then lean back to see those pretty green eyes. “I took a few detours in life, but I finally got here.”

  She cups my face and kisses me again. “Better late than never.”

  I kick the door closed and back her up to the couch, making out like a bandit. Our lips pressed together. Our tongues exploring. Each of us staking claims with our bodies and hands. Our hearts beating together. I don’t know where I end and she begins, but when we settle on the couch, I’m quickly reminded.

  The hem of her shirt is angled
up, and my hand finds the soft skin of her middle. She whispers, “God, yes.” A little moan follows, encouraging me. I want her. I need her so badly. Lying on the couch between her legs has my hips seeking the release I so desperately crave.

  Her hands roam my back and settle on my ass as she holds me close. Thrusting through jeans is the fucking worst, but I’ll do it if it gives me relief in the end. I’d fuck her in a heartbeat, but I knew that was a lie as soon as the thought materialized.

  I’ve had sex with girls up and down this town, but she’s not like them. She’s not someone who came onto me at Lucky’s, went to high school with me, or pursued me after eating at the diner. They don’t see my test scores or my grades, or ask me about my life in any way.

  I don’t wear designer clothes or drive an expensive sportscar. That’s not what they want from me. They want to fulfill their bad boy fantasy before settling down with a guy named Chet who works on Wall Street and will eventually have a midlife crisis with their assistant who’s half their age.

  Chloe doesn’t treat me that way. She doesn’t care what I’m wearing, be it an apron or a flannel shirt. I’m treated equally, if not given more respect than I deserve. She called me out for judging her, for placing my insecurities in her head, when I assumed, she didn’t see anything beyond my appearance.

  That right there tells me this is more than casual flirtations on her part. And the buzz I get when I’m around her tells me it’s not different for me either.

  There are definitely strings involved, which should scare me, but they don’t. Chloe has me wanting to slow down, to hang out, to take her to the lake and watch the sunset.

  My hips slow, and my hand slips under her shirt to feel the warm skin of her middle. I inch higher until I’m holding a breast in my hand—soft, supple, and a perfect fit for me. Each knead elicits another moan until she’s grinding against me.

  Her hands slide to my shoulders, hot to the touch even through the thin cotton.

  “I don’t want to rush this,” I say, but when I reach her eyes, I still.

  Her anger is readable—the ire flickers.

  Happiness shapes the corners, tipping them up.

  Even her curiosity has her engaged with me through touch or by how her eyes latch to mine.

  Just when I think I’m reading her correctly, a new expression appears. Is it . . . trust? Trust in me? There are no doubts in her eyes, and her body is free for me to explore. Chloe’s trusting me.

  And for the first time, I see her so clearly, and I see us reflected back at me. Running my thumb gently over her cheek, I rest my forehead on hers, my thundering heart still loud in my ears. “You fascinate me, Chloe.”

  “Good or bad?”

  The question pulls a light laugh from me. Can she not see how weak I am around her? How she’s ten thousand miles out of my league? “Good. Always good.”

  “Good,” she replies. “That makes me happy.”

  I kiss her temple just as the feel of her hand slips between us and tucks into the top of my jeans. One button is undone, causing my breath to stagnate. Another and I’m breathing double time. The third has me desperate to shed these strangling jeans. Four, and I’m rock hard for her, my hips thrusting of their own accord.

  My gaze slides back to her face—pink cheeks and red lips swelling from kisses.

  I’m fast to return my hand under her shirt, wanting to push until we both find relief. “Keep going. Harder,” she whispers against my ear.

  So close already. I take pride in my work, but damn, even I’m impressed. I bet it’s all that pent-up energy from studying. I get restless, too, and more so this week from a hunger to see her again, to touch her, to feel that electricity like I’ve finally opened my eyes after a long hibernation.

  Cupping my face, she kisses me again as our bodies find a rhythm that’s going to send me over the edge as well. She pushes my jeans down enough to scrape her nails over the fabric of my boxer briefs. The friction feels good, too good for me to focus on anything but chasing down a release.

  Her head tilts back and her mouth falls open. “Yes,” she breathes, her body tensing as she squeezes her eyes closed.

  Watching her fall apart underneath me has my orgasm ripping from my core before I can control it. “Fuck,” I grit, my forehead dropping against her neck, my body a live wire exposed to air. Losing myself, I devour the darkness that sparks to life.

  And then exhaustion takes me down.

  My neck is kissed, over and over again, so I lift on my forearms, not wanting to suffocate her. Her cheeks are rosy red, her lips officially swollen, but it’s her eyes that drive me wild. As if she caught the sunshine inside, they sparkle like gems. “How are you?” I ask, my voice husky.

  “Never better.” She tries for casual like I’m not on top of her. A for effort, but I hear the teasing in her tone. “You?”

  I push off and balance precariously on the edge of the couch. Holding her, I kiss her shoulder. A stupid grin crosses my face before I can wrangle it not to look like a fool who just kissed a girl for the first time, much less what we just did. “Not to be overly confident or anything, but I think I totally nailed this interview.”

  She bursts out laughing. Scooting to the side to get a better look at me, her arms remain loose and around my neck. “You definitely nailed it. When can you start?”

  “I think I already did.” I kiss her. Tired of being on the verge of falling, I move my legs down and stand. Fucking hell. Seeing the wet spot I left on her . . . this is just plain embarrassing. I yank my jeans up, and ask, “Bathroom?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  Offering her a hand up, I help her land on her feet and kiss the side of her head. “Do you need it?”

  “You can go first.”

  I work my way through the one-bedroom apartment, noticing she doesn’t have curtains in either room. The bed is messed like she took a nap, but everything else is put away. She’s the neatest girl I’ve ever met.

  When I’m done in the bathroom, I walk out to find her wrapped in a robe waiting on the bed. “You need window coverings. People can see in.”

  “You’re worried about me?”

  “Of course, I’m worried.” I sit next to her. “That’s what boyfriends do. Hey,” I say. When she looks at me, I wrap my arm around her lower back. She rests her head on my shoulder. “I know we were playing around earlier, but what do you think about being my girlfriend?” Nerves zip through me, and everything feels so real. I’m fucking nervous, so nervous, because what if she says no. What if, even though she’s never made me feel otherwise, she doesn’t want me want me?

  Her hair is still wet, though, it didn’t bother us a few minutes ago on the couch. The tangles are forming, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look more beautiful. Tilting her head, she takes my hand and doodles on my palm with her nail. The light tickles feel good, the attention to parts of me that never get love. Love? Fuck. It’s too soon for that.

  She says, “I’d like that.”

  “Me too.” I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her palm, hoping I can make her feel the same by giving her similar attention to her palm.

  We lie back, our hands clasping together between us, and she asks, “What do we do now? Make plans together?”

  I could fall asleep right here. I’m not pushing my luck by asking to stay, but after the day I’ve had, I scrub my face to stay awake. “What do you want to do?”

  “Surprise me.” Her eyes dip closed, and I know that’s my cue. I sit up and tug her to her feet.

  Walking to the door with her tucked under my arm. “I checked the schedule and I’m closing the next four nights—”

  “I’ll wait up.”

  Just like that, she’s folding into my life. “Yeah?”

  We stand at the door, wrapped up in each other. “Absolutely.”

  And there I am molding to hers. “Okay. I can come over after?” I kiss her twice—once for me and once for her before I back into the hallway, looking my girl
friend over. “Damn, I’m a lucky man.”

  She gives me a solid once-over, leaning on the door with a smirk on her face. “Not as lucky as I am.”

  9

  Joshua

  “How’d your week go?” my mom asks when I clock in.

  “Pretty good,” I reply, not elaborating as I slip the apron over my head. She doesn’t need to hear how boring my classes are or how I’ve been spending every night of the last week at Chloe’s. She gives me my privacy—the perks of having a separate entrance into the basement where I live.

  She wipes down the counter, and then says, “I need you bussing tables tonight.”

  “Why?” I ask with my hand on the kitchen door.

  “John called in sick. T will cover the kitchen. Trina and I will serve.”

  As much as I want to argue because I never did like bussing, I do it. My mom fought for this restaurant to be a success. I’ll never cause her grief. The locals have given her enough over the years.

  When folks didn’t know I was her son, I overheard the rumors. She was called names—wild and reckless—for getting knocked up and having a bastard son. A kid I went to school with repeated his mom’s term for my mom to my face; he called her trash. I was grounded for being expelled, but she never made me apologize for punching the little shit.

  His family never returned to the diner, and fortunately, back then, lawsuits weren’t filed for kids fighting on the playground. Last time I saw him, he was smoking weed before a football game. Became the disappointment of the New Haven Ravens when he missed that catch.

  Can’t say I felt sorry for him or for hooking up with his girlfriend later that night.

  I get to work, wanting the hours to pass so I can see Chloe again.

  Some college kids ramble in—loud and wanting service faster than Trina can get to them—around eight. She can usually hold her own. She’s worked here long enough to handle rowdies from the campus. “Hey,” I say, catching her fill up some soda cups. “You haven’t had a break. I’ll cover your tables.”