by Mariah Dietz
Coen reaches forward and brushes my hair over my shoulder. It quickly falls forward again. He smiles, twisting the same piece around his fingers. “Everything about you captivates me.” He stops watching my hair slide between his fingers and looks at me. “If you aren’t ready, I understand.” Coen licks his lips, and his eyes grow serious as they watch my reaction. “I’ll wait.”
Dropping my face to his chest, I press light kisses across his skin, not ready to discuss the future when I’m not ready to leave this moment.
He wraps an arm around my back, holding me closer. “I want to do this. I want to try us.”
“I feel so guilty,” I confess. “Rachel really likes you.”
“You can’t feel guilty. I could tell you that it wouldn’t matter if I had met you because I wouldn’t be interested in her regardless. I know that, but it’s really beside the point because I did meet you, and it just feels right. You feel right. And I don’t want to mess up your relationship with her. I know she’s your best friend, but this was never a choice of you or her because it’s always been you.”
I start to say something but stop, my emotions conflicting faster than I can process them.
“Hey.” Coen brushes my cheek. I turn my attention to him, and slowly his eyes travel over my face as though he can read all the questions and indecisions I’m struggling with. “Talk to me.”
“Rachel is so great. She’s funny, and smart, and doesn’t have any baggage, or strange tendencies like not watching TV at night or answering emails at three in the morning. She sleeps normal hours, and this town doesn’t want to stone her at the drop of a hat.”
“Ella, I don’t need you to tell me why I should like her. I just need you to listen to me. Listen to my actions. Do you realize how many times I’ve come over here with weak excuses just so I could spend more time with you? Do you understand that I fall asleep thinking about you and wake up with you still on my mind? This has nothing to do with her and everything to do with you. With us.”
“We have to do this slowly,” I tell him. “Not just for her, but for Hayden, and me. I don’t know how to have an adult relationship. The last time I thought I was in one, I found out the guy was married and had no intention of ever doing anything more than sleeping with me.”
Coen’s jaw tightens, and his lips curve into a frown. “We’ll go at whatever pace you want. This is going to be new for both of us, but I don’t want you thinking I’m anything like that bastard.”
“He’s not a bad person.” It’s the automatic excuse I’ve been using on Patrick’s behalf for years, generally with my family and Rachel.
Coen lifts an eyebrow, doubt and anger shadowing his usually friendly demeanor. “He used you.”
The word sounds so dirty and makes me feel like I was disposed of.
“He’s another issue we have to be careful of.”
“I’m not telling you to hate him. You having found room in your heart to still care about someone that’s hurt you so badly shows how good of a person you really are. And it’s your business how you want things to go with Patrick, but eventually he’s going to find out. And you shouldn’t be worried about that. He’s married, for Christ’s sake.”
“That feels like such a backhanded compliment.” A strange chuckle caused by discomfort follows my words, and then I sit up, reaching for my shirt.
“Ella,” Coen says. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m…” He sighs. “I can’t stand the guy, but that’s my business and my issue, not yours. I understand he is always going to be in your life. I get that. I just want you to set the parameters of what role he plays rather than allowing him to reestablish it whenever in the hell he wants.”
“Why are we arguing about my ex?”
“Because you’re taking his feelings into consideration as we discuss our relationship.” He stares at me. “You really aren’t over him, are you?”
Tears sting my eyes with his accusation. It’s been nearly a decade since I slept with a guy who’s accusing me of loving a man I thought I was in love with up until a few weeks ago. I pull my shorts back into place, not bothering to put my underwear on first because I just want to be covered at this point. “You know firsthand what it’s like to move forward when the past keeps pulling you back. I don’t understand why you can’t respect that?”
“Don’t compare your dickface ex to my dead sister.” His voice is cold and filled with anger.
“I’m not!” I glare at him accusingly. “I’m asking you to understand my situation. To have some fucking compassion.”
“We just slept together, and you’re telling me you still have feelings for your ex.”
“I did not! I told you I need to take things slowly.”
“Do you love him?”
“What?”
“Do you still love Patrick?”
“No!”
Coen shakes his head and grabs his jeans. Keeping his eyes on the floor he pulls them on, then reaches for his shirt.
“You need to stop allowing other people dictate how you’re going to live your life.” He stares at me, every part of him a complete contradiction as his eyes challenge me, his lips twisting with anger, and his arms outstretched as though inviting me to be embraced.
I don’t know how to respond. I don’t know how to react. I wait, hoping he’ll ask me a single question so I can focus all these spurring thoughts on it, but Coen drops his arms, and with his shirt still fisted in his hand, he leaves out the back slider.
I stand in my living room, taking account of what just occurred.
I have just slept with another man for the first time in over nine years.
And once again, he walked out.
I have just irrevocably damaged my relationship with Rachel, and she doesn’t even know it.
And once again, my heart feels torn with the ramifications.
I have just let the man that has allowed my heart to feel and laugh and want again to walk out the door with the belief that I love someone else.
And once again, I’m left with a mess of fractured pieces.
I have just shed more tears for another man.
And once again, I put myself back together, forcing myself to continue because I’m a mom, I’m a woman, and I’m going to be okay.
I head upstairs to the confines of my room where I bury my face in my pillow and allow myself to cry, realizing the lies I share are often with myself.
Suddenly, Shakespeare begins to go crazy, barking and scratching at Hayden’s door, effectively ending my moment of self-pity. I race down the hall and open the door, my vision bleak from tears, expecting to find the worst situation imaginable. Shakespeare tears past me, running down the stairs, still barking.
I move to Hayden, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hands though it’s useless, the tears are instantly replaced with new streaks of sadness.
Hayden’s fast asleep, his face peaceful though Shakespeare continues to bark. With my hand on his back, I count ten breaths before pressing a chaste kiss on his forehead. I close his bedroom door and run downstairs to see what has Shakespeare so worked up. She’s at the front door, barking a warning.
“Are you kidding me?” I mutter, wiping at my cheeks again when I hear a soft knock that sets Shakespeare off with another chain of growls and barks.
“Shakespeare,” I say. “Quiet.” I pat my leg to get her to come because I don’t want to answer the door.
She sits but continues barking, and it’s loud, demanding, and relentless.
“You’re a traitor,” I tell her, pushing her out of the way.
I take a deep breath and avoid flipping on any lights to highlight my tears before I open the door.
Coen stands in front of me, a statue in the dark, and we stare at each other for several seconds, his eyes pained and filled with regret as he stares at me, making a new sea of tears fall from mine.
He steps inside and doesn’t say a thing as he reaches for me, pulling me securely against him.
&
nbsp; “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me.”
I cry harder, realizing I couldn’t at this point even if I tried.
“Ella.” I hear the pain in his voice but don’t know how to respond. I’m drained and don’t want to give him promises and assurances that could later inflict more pain to my heart. Instead, I wrap my arms around his waist and lean into him. His arm goes around the back of my neck, and he kisses my temple.
Coen closes the door and slides the lock into place, then places a hand on each side of my face and draws my face back. “That’s not me,” he promises. “That’s not who I am. I am not the guy who makes you cry, and I sure as hell am not the guy who leaves you when you’re hurting. I swear,” he says, brushing away my tears with his thumbs. His jaw tightens, and I see the pleas and promises I want to confess visible in his brown eyes.
I nod, understanding the silence far better than I do the words neither of us seem capable of speaking.
Coen leans forward, kissing my cheeks and then my eyelids and my nose and finally my lips. The kiss is nearly forceful, and I match it with my own demands until we’re breathless and don’t know how to turn around.
“Come on,” I tell him, taking his hand. I lead him up the stairs with Shakespeare following closely. I stop at the top of the stairs and lead her back into Hayden’s room, giving her the command to lie down before closing the door and turning back to Coen.
I pass in front of him to my opened bedroom door. He’s silent, but his presence is deafening, my entire body aware of him.
He moves in front of me, my door still open. “I want to break all the rules.” He takes another step closer to me. “All of these ridiculous rules we have. That this town and society have. I want us to break each of them.”
“All of them,” I whisper.
Coen runs his nose along my jaw. “And we’ll crush them as slowly as you want.” His voice is husky and thick with emotions, and though I know he’s referencing the hurdles we’re going to have to face, my body is hearing an entirely different message as his hips press against mine.
I close the space between us by wrapping my arms around him, knowing as I do it that I am choosing to do exactly what he’s proposed: break every last rule, even the ones I know are going to be nearly impossible.
My body is humming with expectations and desires all the way down to my toes.
But much like Coen, I don’t know how to outright express my feelings or even what I want, so I release him and move to my door and softly close it.
He understands me though. Hears the implication and the invitation and he doesn’t hesitate in meeting either one. Coen captures my wrist and pulls me against him, and as his lips connect with mine, I fall into him, losing myself fully and completely into a sea that I don’t know how to tread, much less survive in, but willingly dive deeper into because he’s there with me.
My lips feel sticky from having cried, and Coen somehow feels larger, like his shoulders and arms have expanded. He pulls back, and I reach down and pull my shirt free before leaning forward and kissing him again, my heart and spirit both starved for more.
His tongue slides against mine, and I moan with appreciation before catching his bottom lip between my teeth.
“Ella.” My name is a warning, and I absolutely love it. Everything inside of me awakens and hums louder, and as his shirt litters my bedroom floor, I feel ready to take on even the most intimidating rules that I’ve established. Ones that involve my heart and my trust.
I can’t get my shorts off fast enough, and though he’s going slowly, softly, sweetly, I don’t want to comply, because I’ve already jumped.
I’m already in, and right now all I want to feel is Coen inside of me.
20
Coen
I wake up to discover we definitely broke a rule: I spent the night. Ella is fast asleep beside me, her hands tucked under her head like a pillow. I’m entirely too aware of how warm and naked her body is but continue to study everything about this moment, from the way her lashes fall on her cheeks to the line through her bottom lip, and the small bruise above her chest. I kiss the spot once, twice, and then when I go to kiss it a third time, she stirs.
I expect her to panic and consider ways for me to sneak out of the house, but instead a lazy smile lifts her cheeks and her eyes shine bright in the dimly lit room.
“How long does he usually sleep?” I whisper.
“Until I wake him up.”
I chuckle, appreciating this moment with her. It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up beside a woman, and longer since I’ve wanted to, and now, being here next to Ella, I realize exactly why. I’ve been waiting to meet her. Missing her though I didn’t even know her.
“What happened?” I ask. “How’d you get a bruise here?” I kiss the spot again, and Ella stretches out beside me, her legs running against mine.
“It’s nothing,” she tells me, but I recognize the shift in her eyes, the one that reveals she’s avoiding something.
I lean closer and lick a path along her collarbone. “Tell me.”
“It’s so stupid.” She wriggles beneath me as my breath fans across her skin.
I kiss the side of her neck then suck the soft skin.
“I got hit by a rock,” she tells me, turning her head to give me full access to her neck. But I don’t accept it. I push up on my arms and stare at her.
“How did a rock hit you in the chest?” I work to keep my voice from sounding abrasive.
“It was nothing. It doesn’t even hurt.”
I kiss the length of her neck, stopping below her ear. “I can do this all day,” I tell her.
She sighs. “You’re lucky I like you. If I didn’t, I’d probably find you manipulative and conniving right now. If you Hulk out, I’m not going to tell you anything ever again.” Her blue eyes look between mine, waiting for an agreement I can’t offer her.
“I won’t turn green.”
“It’s the temper part I’m more concerned about.”
“You’ve seen my temper at its worst, and it rarely makes appearances.” I assure her, but she doesn’t look convinced, and it drives me closer to the edge of my sanity. “What happened?”
“Remember that morning I was walking Shakespeare and Mrs. Grant went crazy?”
I nod, waiting to hear how the two are connected.
“I had caught her son and a couple of his friends over by the clubhouse. They were being jerks and throwing things at each other and at the clubhouse.” Ella’s gaze shifts to the window, and I wait several seconds until she looks back at me. “I told them I was going to send the board their pictures for breaking a window, and they got upset.”
“They threw a rock at you?”
Ella drops her chin, shooting me a glare. “You’re turning green.”
“They threw a rock at you!”
Ella
I stare at Coen, only half wondering if he’s truly going to Hulk out. He doesn’t just look upset. He looks pissed. I try to distract him by teasing him, kissing along his jaw.
“You lied when you said you don’t have a temper.”
“Why are you making a joke out of this?” he asks, pulling his head back.
“Because it’s not a big deal.”
“Ella. They threw a rock at you. That’s a huge fucking deal. Did you send their pictures to the board and tell them what they did?”
“Everyone knows it was them,” I tell him.
He takes a deep breath in through his nose and then releases it through his lips, and I wait for him, watching his anger recede.
“Want to come over for breakfast?” I ask him.
He smiles, but it’s sad, and I hate that I’ve ruined the moment—scratch that, I hate that some bratty, unsupervised kids ruined the moment.
“Go home. Shower. Get dressed. And come back over.” I bring my arms down and begin to roll out of bed, stopping when I hit the edge. “And later, when you’re not trying
to prove to me exactly how unlike the Hulk you are, we’ll continue this.”
Coen wipes a hand down his face and lies back against my bed of pillows. “Why do I only own one pillow? I never knew I needed twelve.”
“There aren’t twelve.” For good measure, I lift one and hit him with it.
He sits up far faster than I expected, and I have to leap back, out of the comfort and security of the sheet and blankets. I cross my arms over my chest because it seems like the most mature way of covering myself.
“Ella Chapman.” Coen’s voice is that deep bass that’s been sanded so it’s nearly fully smooth, but when he speaks real low like he is now, you hear more of the gravel in it. He sits up, his chest defined and divided into segments of muscled flesh that make me want to devote hours to studying and appreciating them.
“My eyes are up here,” he says.
My face heats as I laugh so hard my shoulders curl inward.
He stands, a smile that has been consuming far too many of my thoughts spreading across his face, squaring his jaw, and making his brown eyes shimmer with the morning light. Coen takes each of my hands in his, and without words, I hear him asking my permission.
It’s been so long since I have felt sexy or wanted, and it goes against everything inside of me to want to expose myself to anyone, even myself, but Coen doesn’t make me feel ashamed or embarrassed of even my darkest scars, neither internal nor external. My muscles relax, and my grip on his hands tightens as he slowly moves my arms from covering myself.
Words are left unsaid, but with Coen, the intention is always clear, and when he runs his fingers from my neck, over my breasts, and down my stomach, I hear his body telling me how beautiful he thinks I am.
“Will your mom approve?” he asks.
“She’d take the news better if we’re dressed.”
Coen laughs, and the sight makes me smile that same stretched grin that makes the muscles in my cheeks ache.
“All my mom has ever wanted was for me to be happy. My dad is a little tougher. Lead with how you want to make over your backyard, and he’ll be sold.”
