by Aven Ellis
“Wait,” I say, stepping into his kitchen. “Where are your appliances?”
Brody squints at me. “Um, like a toaster?”
“Toaster, juicer, coffee maker, toaster oven, tortilla maker, waff—”
“Why do I need a tortilla maker?” Brody interrupts.
“Because you can make fresh tortillas with it,” I explain. “I love specialized appliances.”
“Interesting.”
I notice Brody’s eyes are dancing, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth in amusement.
“How many appliances do you have?” I ask, suddenly compelled to know this information.
“I can show you.”
He releases my hand and opens a lower cabinet for me to peer into. “These are my appliances.”
I bend down and take a look inside.
He has exactly two.
A toaster and a blender.
I stand back up. “That’s all you have?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have a coffee maker?”
“I get that from a coffeehouse.”
“What about a juicer?”
“I’m not a juice guy.”
“Quesadilla maker?”
Now Brody bursts out laughing. “Why is a quesadilla maker a necessity?”
“Because it makes perfect quesadillas,” I say.
A huge grin lights up his face, and I’m rewarded with his dimple popping out. “Do you have any idea how cute you are?”
Brody slides his hands up to my face, and I relish the sensation of his skin gliding against mine.
“I love appliances,” I murmur, my eyes dropping to his lips.
His hands begin to travel to my neck and up through my hair. Heat flickers inside me as Brody begins to drag his fingers through my blonde layers.
“Tell me more,” he urges.
I can’t concentrate now, not when his touch is creating all this desire to kiss him.
“Um . . . I like As Seen On TV products,” I blurt out.
He begins to laugh, and I do, too.
“You fascinate me,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth toward mine. “There’s no woman like you.”
His mouth is now mere inches from mine. My heart is racing as I gaze up at him.
“And that is an extremely good thing,” he whispers.
Brody eases my mouth open in a kiss that is deliciously slow and sensual. I melt into his muscular body, running my hands over his solid chest as my tongue explores his mouth once again. I find the back of his neck and reach up for his thick dirty-blond hair, winding my fingers through it as I deepen the kiss.
He moves his hands to my waist, his fingertips gliding up and down my curves, and my pulse accelerates in response. Brody’s hands climb upward, stopping just short of my breasts, and then skim back down to my waistband.
“I like the way you feel,” Brody murmurs against my mouth. “You have curves.”
Then he reclaims my mouth in another slow, deep kiss.
I move my hands to his face, loving the way his facial scruff brushes against my palms. Brody’s hands move up my back, and I shiver against him from the sensation of him holding me like this, kissing me slowly. When his fingertips find my face again, I relish the gentle way he’s touching me. I feel protected and adored and desired.
It’s a beautiful combination.
Brody breaks the kiss but continues to stroke my face in his hands. “Sorry, but apparently, talking about appliances is a big turn-on for me.”
I begin to laugh, and Brody grins down at me.
“I will help you outfit your kitchen. I bet you don’t even have an avocado knife.”
“What if I don’t like avocados? Do I still need an avocado knife?”
“Hmm. Valid point. But I guarantee you are missing a million useful gadgets that would simplify your life.”
“Let me show you the rest of the apartment, and you can start making lists of how my place is lacking.”
He winds his hand around mine and flips on the light to another room down the hall. “This is going to be the guest room, when I get a bed for it, but for now it’s empty.”
I study the space, and there is not a thing in it.
Gosh, if I had a spare room I’d have it filled with crap.
Kind of like how I’m using my old bedroom in Maryland as a crap-holding station, much to my mother’s dismay.
He pauses by a room across the hall and turns the light on. “This is the guest bathroom,” he says.
I peek inside. I give him credit, it’s extremely neat and has hand soap and hand towels, and no other decoration, which makes me smile.
“Very tidy,” I say.
“Code for boring,” he teases.
I laugh as he shuts off the light.
“Now, the master bedroom,” Brody says, continuing down the hall.
Ooh!
Then I have a flash of him having a trapeze over his bed.
Surely, he wouldn’t.
Right?
Because there is no way I’m that sexually talented, and I’ll need to kiss him goodbye on the spot if he does want me doing tricks in his bedroom while hanging from something on the ceiling.
Brody pauses in the doorway and switches on the overhead light. “Also very tidy as you would say.”
With relief, I don’t see a trapeze, or a sex swing, or any other apparatus that would require flexibility and balance and me being suspended in mid-air.
There’s a huge king-sized bed, covered with a simple white duvet and more navy pillows. There’s a pale-wood dresser, and a simple desk with a laptop and some bills neatly stacked on it.
Crisis. Averted.
“But it does have a view of the monument,” Brody offers helpfully.
“Yes,” I say, grinning at him.
“The bathroom is this way,” Brody says, and I follow him.
He flips on another light, and again I’m met with a tidy bathroom with no décor.
“Are you formulating a list of my needs?” he asks.
I smile mischievously at him. “Décor might be one of them.”
“Décor is not an appliance or gadget,” Brody teases.
“Well, regardless, you need some,” I say.
“All right, I have to agree on that,” he says, turning lights off as we leave the room. He takes my hand in his again and leads me back to the kitchen. “What about special accessories for donuts? Any recommendations for that?”
“Do you want to make your own donuts?” I ask. “Baked or fried? Because you need different things depending on what you want to do.”
“Hmm.” He absently rubs his hand over his jaw, stroking his stubble as if he’s pondering donuts in his head. “I hadn’t delved that far into the thought. It’s probably easier just to buy them when I want them, like I did today for you.”
“What?”
Brody lets go of me and moves to the counter. Then I see it.
He has a box from Astro.
He opens it and reveals cherry blossom donuts.
“I know these are your favorites,” Brody says proudly.
My heart swells with pure joy. He took my conversation to heart and went out to get them just for me. I gaze down at my favorite donuts in the whole world, almost too beautiful to eat, and my heart catches when I realize I can’t have one.
“Oh, Brody, you are the best for remembering this,” I say, reaching up and touching his face, “but I’m on a diet. I can’t have one.”
Brody puts the box aside. “Why are you on a diet?”
I cringe. “You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Brody, I know you’ve been with hot girls. My body is not a hot girl body.”
To my surprise, Brody looks genuinely perplexed.
“Um, if the pic you texted me is accurate, I like what I saw. It was damn hot.”
I turn away from him, hating my squishy stomach and hating myself for letting myself go like this. And for texting that stupid pictu
re to Brody by mistake so that now he’s trying to be nice about it.
“Hayley, look at me.”
I turn back around, and I know my face is bright red, as this conversation is mortifying.
“Are you healthy? Like according to your last physical?”
I think back to January when I last had one. “Yeah.”
“That’s all I care about,” Brody says, his voice firm. “I’m not the kind of guy to tell you what to do. If you want to diet, that’s your call, but I want you to know I happen to like what I see, both inside and out.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I exhale loudly.
“Hey,” Brody says, cupping my chin in his hand, “don’t ever worry about your body with me.”
Then he drops a kiss on my lips, and my insecurities evaporate with his sweet words. Of course, I’m still going to try to drop some weight, but at least I know it’s not a turn-off for him while I work on improving myself.
I break the kiss and smile up at him. “Maybe we can split one?”
“We can,” Brody says.
He grabs some plates and cuts one of the decadent donuts with a knife. Oh, I’m so glad I don’t have to pass up this deliciousness tonight.
“We can sit in the living room,” Brody says.
“Okay.”
I enter the living room and sink down on his couch, and he takes a seat next to me.
“A donut toast,” Brody says, lifting up his half. “To you being here tonight and sharing this donut with me.”
We tap our donut pieces together and each take a bite.
Oh, every year I have the same response at my first bite. Pure. Cherry. Bliss.
“Damn,” Brody says after eating it. “That is ridiculous.”
“I know, it’s so good,” I say, taking a second bite.
Brody takes another bite, and I see he has a smear of the cream cheese glaze on his upper lip.
I lean forward and surprise him with a kiss, and oh, my, it’s delicious kissing the glaze off his lips.
“You had a bit of glaze there,” I say, flirting with him.
His eyes flicker in response.
“I think I have some more,” Brody says suggestively. “You’d better assist me in cleaning up.”
As his mouth meets mine for another cherry-infused kiss, I know tonight I’ll have no problem burning off these calories.
Because I’ll be kissing Brody for most of it, I think with a grin.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
Chapter Sixteen
I sigh happily as Brody plays with my hair. We’ve talked and kissed, repeating that pattern over and over. I know it’s late because my eyes feel heavy, but I’ll resist closing them as long as I can stay here in his arms. We’re now lying on the couch, I’m on my back and Brody’s propped up on an elbow, and the way he’s stroking my hair makes me practically melt. I feel relaxed. Blissful.
All because of the man next to me.
I’ve learned so much more about Brody tonight. He’s gone deeper into his relationship with Brady, his twin, telling me how they text multiple times a day. They fought like crazy growing up but were also as close as siblings could be. He confirmed the twin dynamic is very strong and Brady has always been the closest person to him. He says he does have a “twin sense” and he gets a strange feeling when Brady is upset or nervous, as does Brady about him, no matter how many miles separate them. Then he shared stories that made me laugh, like how being named Brody and Brady was a curse and everyone mixed them up. He also told me people call them identical, saying they look “exactly alike” when Brady is two inches taller and has dark brown hair and green eyes. All their lives, they’ve always been asked ridiculous questions from strangers.
I found out Brody talks to his parents every week, and while he doesn’t connect to their alternative lifestyle, there was always love in the house, even if it was an unconventional upbringing. Brody said that while they don’t agree with him being paid millions to catch baseballs, they are happy he is living in the moment and has joy in his life. He said they taught him a lot about being open-minded and laid back, which has served him well in becoming a catcher.
Then Brody told me how much studying he does on opposing players, pouring over scouting reports and learning the weaknesses of each one. He even makes charts to show his pitchers, and all of this is done outside of the physical work he does to prepare for games. That was the most fascinating part of our conversation. I had absolutely zero idea how much mental work goes into playing baseball.
I never thought about how he is mentally engaged in every play, from knowing the count to the inning to the score. He has to determine the weaknesses of the hitter up and the strengths of the pitcher on the mound. Brody explained he has to recall—in seconds—how they got this batter out the last time he was up. Brody told me he goes through all of this before he makes his choice and flashes the signal to the pitcher for what type of ball to throw for the next pitch.
“I also have to settle pitchers down when things aren’t going well,” Brody explains, trailing his fingers through my hair. “That is where my parents’ teaching of positive energy really helps. I go up to the mound and use those tools. I’m calm. I’m positive. I tell him he’s got this, even if he’s worked himself behind on a count or given up a run. I’m the one getting him through the game, and I like that responsibility.”
I smile up at him. “You like helping people.”
Brody smiles and drops a kiss on my mouth. “I do. I’m more like you than I thought.”
Mmm. Bliss.
“I always loved whenever I could help Ethan,” I say, remembering how I always helped my older brother with his homework by reading things aloud to him. “For so long, he struggled in school. His dyslexia symptoms didn’t present, and I wanted to take all that pain and frustration away from him. My parents were relentless in getting answers and a diagnosis, and it took a lot of their free time because they both had such demanding jobs during the day. Ethan was always grateful for my help, and so were my parents.”
Brody studies me with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Did your parents sometimes ignore you?” Brody asks quietly.
“What? No, of course not. Why do you ask that?”
“I don’t mean intentionally, but because you were a good student. Ethan needed their attention and you didn’t. I’m getting the impression you might have suffered a bit due to the situation in your house.”
I lie still as Brody’s words hit home. I never allowed myself to acknowledge it, but in his arms, in this moment, I feel safe enough to admit a deeply buried truth.
“I feel guilty saying this,” I whisper, “but yes. I was the good girl, the good student. Ethan was depressed and struggling. They were so worried about him that he consumed their time and energy, but I understand that. I do. I didn’t need them like Ethan did.”
“All kids need their parents’ time,” he says, stroking my hair. “I’m sorry you didn’t get that.”
To my surprise, I feel a lump in my throat. Brody has hit on some long-repressed feelings, bringing them to the surface for the first time since I was a kid.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you sad,” Brody says, worry etched on his face.
“No, I’m fine. I just hadn’t thought about it in a long time.”
Silence falls between us, and Brody continues to loop his fingers through my hair.
“Tell me about your tattoo,” I say softly. “Do the papers represent school? And the vines how you felt about it?”
Brody clears his throat. “School was torture for me. My grades were horrible. I’d get sick before tests and blank out, no matter how hard I studied. My parents urged me to find a way to release those feelings, so I got the sleeve my senior year of high school. It represents how strangled I felt and constricted by it. All I wanted to do was play baseball. On the di
amond, I was good. Smarts didn’t matter, how I hit the ball did, and I did that well.”
This still doesn’t make sense to me. Brody is so smart, and I don’t mean on the baseball field, although that is obvious.
There has to be more to this.
I trace my fingertips over the sharp-edged vines inked on his arm, the ones binding all the pages symbolic of his pain, and wish I could take that away for him. That his experience didn’t leave him with this horrible feeling about himself.
“Brody, you had test anxiety.”
Brody stares down at me for a long time without answering. “Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t bright,” I say softly, lifting my hand to his face again. “It means you struggled to take tests.”
“No. If I were smart, I wouldn’t have panicked.”
“You’re wrong. That was anxiety driven. It has nothing to do with your intelligence level. Brody, you’ve taken this on for all these years, but it’s not you. It’s the anxiety that caused your problems. I’m guessing it fueled your hate for school. It gave you bad associations, and with nobody to help you through this, it drove all these feelings of insecurity in you.”
Brody searches my eyes, and I feel mine grow watery. I can see he’s surprised by what I’ve said, by what I see in him.
But every word I’ve spoken is the truth as I see it.
To my surprise, he drops his head next to mine and drapes his arm across my waist.
“You see me in ways nobody else does,” he whispers.
I close my eyes so he won’t notice I’m crying.
“I see a very intelligent man,” I say slowly, my voice thick, “who needs to see himself the same way.”
Brody is quiet for a moment.
“Lie here with me for a while,” he whispers. “I want to lie with you before I take you home.”
“There’s nothing I’d like more,” I say, answering him with everything I feel in my heart.
I hear nothing but our breathing as we stay entwined on his couch. Tonight, we’ve gone deeper. We have a connection that is growing every time we’re together.
And I’ve fallen just a bit more for this incredible man lying beside me.
***
I feel stiff.
And there’s something pressing on my right boob.
