by Kim Bailey
“You’re doing what?” Eric barks.
“It’s nothing,” Caleb answers, turning back to address the table.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it nothing,” Solange continues in ignorance. “Chante said you’re spending time in the pediatric oncology ward, volunteering three times a week? I’d say that’s significant.”
“Oh, Caleb!” Jamie sighs, sounding concerned.
“Sounds rather significant to me, too,” Eric says, his eyes zeroed in on his brother.
A strange feeling of protectiveness comes over me. Caleb’s a grown man and can handle himself. But something about Eric’s tone makes me want to wrap Caleb in my arms and shield him from it.
What’s the problem with volunteering? And how dare Eric look at him with such condemnation.
“Well, I think it’s great,” I speak up. “This society doesn’t have enough people willing to give their time.”
Caleb’s soft hold of my leg turns to a death grip. His entire body fills with tension as he continues his staring match with his brother.
Jamie, senses the escalating testosterone. Wrapping her arm over Eric’s shoulder, she tugs him toward her. “This baby is making it impossible to enjoy a big meal these days. Solange, the food is terrific, but I think I need to lie down for a moment. Eric, baby, will you help me to the couch, please?”
Finally, coerced by his wife, Eric breaks his disapproving glare. “Of course, beautiful, whatever you need.” Looking to his aunt he says, “Thank you, Tante Sol. I’ll be sure to tell Mom your stuffing and potatoes are still better than hers.”
“Merci, Eric. Why don’t you take your wife to the guest room, I’ll take care of the girls. This one looks like she could use a nap as well. Right, Cheri?” she coos to Mia.
Chairs are moved, dishes piled. Jamie attempts to clean up some of the plates before she’s shooed away by Solange.
“Caleb and I can clean up,” I offer.
“No,” she insists. “My daughter can do it when she’s done acting insolent.”
Everyone slowly clears the room, except for me and Caleb. Neither of us move. With just the two of us, sitting quiet and still, the house feels peaceful. For the first time today, I feel relaxed. The only sound is a tap running somewhere, and Caleb’s gentle breathing.
Slowly, he turns in his seat, his entire body shifting to face me. I do the same, tucking my legs under my chair. His legs are so long, they take up the space between us, his shins pressing lightly against my knees.
“And that is my family,” he laughs. “Well, part of it. Believe it or not, they’re the easy ones.”
“They’re a hell of a lot better than mine,” I tell him.
He looks at me with his eyebrow quirked and his lips slightly parted, as though a thought may be sitting right on the tip of his tongue. He’s the epitome of handsome. He’s a walking, talking contradiction—part hard muscle, part soft hair, balanced by emotional intelligence—all parts sexy.
“I’m so sorry, Zadie.”
“Why do you keep apologizing to me? You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
“I feel like I’m pressuring you, like I’ve given you some juvenile ultimatum.” He runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it back from his chiseled face.
With just a casual glance, I’m sure most people pass him off as a delinquent or a thug. I know better. I’ve looked deeper. His long, flowing locks and super casual style are a cover. He’s not completely carefree, he’s not lived a life of easy going leisure, and he’s definitely not getting into any trouble.
Caleb Anderson has dealt with some shit in his life. I may not know the details of what kind, or how deep it goes, but I know it’s been significant. Cancer is fucking significant. And I know it’s made him who he is today—a man with a big smile and an even bigger heart. He sees the world as a place of possibility. A place of fucking hope.
Hope that’s contagious.
“You’ve been honest about how you’re feeling. I don’t think that’s something you should be sorry for. If anything, it’s mature as hell. I’m the one who’s been acting childish—leading you on and then pushing you away. I’m sorry.”
“You probably should be. You know most women find me irresistible, right?” He winks.
“Such modesty. I’m sure that gets all the girls’ attention.”
“I don’t want attention from all the girls, Zadie. I just want yours.”
“Well, you definitely have it. It’s only...” I hesitate, unsure what to say, or more accurately, how to say it.
“It’s only, what?” he encourages. He boxes me in with his spread legs. Moving forward in his seat, he rests his arm on the table beside mine and leans toward me.
My pulse pounds heavy.
I feel defenseless. I’m incapable of preventing my broken heart and wounded soul from laying themselves bare to him. He wants to convince me dreams can come true. He wants to prove to me that love is real. He wants to drag me back to a world where I’m capable of being destroyed.
I believe he can.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, the true depths of my fear remaining unspoken.
“So am I,” he admits. “But you’re afraid to try... and I’m afraid of not trying hard enough.”
Yes, he wants to strip me of my protective barrier and show me how to truly feel. He wants to give me optimism. Faith. The hopeful illusion of unending bliss.
I believe he will.
“Are you sure you still want me?” I drift closer to him. “Warts and all?”
“I told you, I do. Your warts all look like beauty marks to me.”
My eyes mist over, a lump lodging in my throat. Emotion threatens to overwhelm me. He touches my shoulder gently, before winding his hand up the back of my neck and into my hair.
“I think you’re gorgeous. In every single way.”
A whimper escapes when he pulls me to him. Our mouths brutally collide. Lips, tongues, and teeth, united in a passionate frenzy. This isn’t one of the soft, barely there kisses we’ve shared before. This is restraint finally giving way.
I knew he would eventually break me.
All it took was a kiss.
My hands seek him, finding his arms, his shoulders, his hair, his face. I can’t stop touching him, can’t stop testing the solid feel of him. With grasping hands, I use his shoulders as leverage. I pull myself sideways into his lap—all without pausing or even slowing the tempo of our tongues.
He grunts into my mouth when my bottom lands over his growing erection.
The sound of his need spurs me on. The feel of his hardening length, sending a flood of desire through my center. My whole body is a live-wire. I can’t hold still, can’t keep calm. I’m two seconds away from ripping my dress up over my head and demanding he fuck me on the dining room table. Dirty dishes be damned.
His hold on me is firm, the pull of hair at my scalp not painful, but rousing. The squeeze of his other hand, at my hip, driving me to push further into him. Grinding my hips in slow circles, I rub my ass over the bulge in his pants. Until we’re both panting and clawing at each other like animals.
“Well, it’s about fucking time!” Caleb and I both jump in surprise at Chante’s interruption, breaking the seal of our lips. “As happy as I am to see this—I think—let’s not forget there are children running around. Might want to keep it PG,” she warns.
With his hands securely holding my waist, Caleb nuzzles my ear. He deftly nips at my lobe before moving to place a sweet kiss on my cheek.
When he lifts his head, challenging Chante with a defiant smirk, I get the feeling that something’s out of place. “You’re a doctor,” he says to her. “Don’t you know it’s unhealthy to keep secrets?” Does he know something about her odd behavior?
Chante’s face pales, the pulse in her neck rapidly ticking.
“It’s okay,” he quickly adds. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she denies.
&nb
sp; My curiosity’s peaked. What kind of dirt does he have on her? I wonder if it’s something more than the strange way she’s been acting or the things she’s been keeping from me.
“Yes, you do, but like I said, I’m not talking. And don’t worry, we’ll keep quiet about you playing match-maker too. So, that’s at least two secrets I’m keeping for you. I guess you kind of owe me, eh? Maybe you can start by doing all the dishes.” With his features schooled to a mask of exacting demand, he dares her to argue.
She quirks a manicured brow at him, staring back for a beat. Then, shrugging, she gives in and begins collecting the dinnerware. “Never took you for a badass, little cousin,” she laughs.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Chante,” he warns. “You and I are going to talk about your voyeurism issues later.”
Chante laughs louder. She’s relaxed, maybe even happy for the moment. It puts me at ease to see my best friend with something other than a scowl on her face. She’s been too angry, too distant, and too damn impossible to read lately. With luck, Caleb’s charm will last.
As she continues clearing the table, I examine Cal’s attractive face.
In some ways, Chante’s right. I wouldn’t call him a badass but he is a bit of a rebel. A determined fighter. Although right now, all I see is well-hidden humor. This man has stolen my reason, replacing it with a dream so large, my head may not be able to contain it.
***
Caleb
I’VE DECIDED I’M GOING to ask my aunt for cooking lessons. Good, home cooked food is one of those things I never realized I took for granted until I moved away. Unfortunately, Chante didn’t get her mother’s chef gene—I’ve been doing the cooking for both of us since I moved in. It makes me wonder what she did without me.
“That meal was seriously to die for. Do you think Solange would teach me?” Zadie reads my mind as we shuffle from the dining room, leaving Chante to clean up our mess.
Yes, learning to cook could be a very worthwhile endeavor.
“Or maybe I could just move in,” she jokes.
“She might like the company. She’s got this entire house to herself. I’d imagine it gets lonely. Maybe I should move in too.”
“It sure would be a step up from living with Chante,” she laughs. “I don’t know how you put up with her mess.”
“She’s not that bad. She’s hardly home.” Rubbing my full stomach, I recline on the couch.
Zadie hesitates briefly before curling up beside me. “I should probably sit on the other side of the room.”
“But then you’d be on the other side of the room,” I tell her, wrapping my arm around her middle, pulling her closer to me.
“Exactly. I feel like a teenager who just got caught making out by her parents. I don’t know about you, but I don’t ever want to relive that trauma.”
“Can’t say I know what that’s like.”
“What?” she laughs. “Your parents never caught you with a girl?”
“Nope.”
“Well, surely a teacher, or some other adult must have caught you at least once.”
“Never.”
“How’s that possible? I was really good at sneaking around—like really, really good—but my mother still walked in on me enough times to make me think she had my room bugged. How were you never caught?”
“My teen years weren’t exactly normal,” I tell her lightly. “I didn’t have the opportunity to sneak around with girls. Although, I did smuggle my way out of my hospital room a couple of times. That’s how I met Jamie—I bet they didn’t tell you I’m the reason those two found each other. I was hitting on her in the cafeteria when Eric decided to break us up.”
The look on her face is hard to read. Conflicted might be the best way to describe it. Is that wonder, jealousy, fear, or regret I see? Not pity, I hope.
Please don’t let it be pity.
“You were hitting on your sister-in-law?”
“Well, she wasn’t my sister-in-law at the time. We’d never met. She was just a sad looking girl in a hospital cafeteria who I thought was pretty.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Seriously?” she laughs. “I would have paid money to see that. I bet you were just as charismatic then as you are now. Did you woo her? Did she make those googly eyes at you, like she did with Eric at dinner?”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” I smile, relieved by her sarcastic wit.
“A little bit, yes.”
A devious smile graces her lips. A wicked glow lights her eyes. Her heavy breath and barely contained laughter, emphasize the tight wrap of her crimson dress across her chest.
Before she can register what’s happening, I’ve pinned her to the couch. She’s flat on her back, holding tightly to my shoulders, staring heatedly at me.
“How funny are you now?” I whisper hoarsely.
Dipping my face toward hers, she closes her eyes in anticipation of a kiss. I’m so tempted to take her mouth. Tempted to take a hell of a lot more.
At the last moment, I deviate to the right, my lips landing in the crook of her neck where I begin nibbling, playfully. My hands find her sides, tickling up and down her ribs.
“No!” she gasps.
Her laughter’s no longer silent. The harmonic sound I love so much is punctuated with shrieks and snorts of delight. She wiggles around, attempting in vain to escape my hold.
“Please,” she begs, breathless from her hysterics.
My own breathing’s labored, as I laugh along with her. “Please what?”
“Cal!” she cries for mercy. “Please stop.”
Immediately, I let up. Rolling off the couch, I kneel on the floor beside her.
She’s flushed, her hair’s spread in a tangle, and her dress is bunched high on her thighs. She looks sexy as hell.
“You stopped,” she says.
“Of course, I did—you asked me to.”
“That’s...wow. You have no idea how much that means. Thank you.” Her gaze travels over my face as her breathing slows.
I like the way she’s looking at me. The way she’s relaxing with me. But I don’t like the connotation of her words. The thought that there’s been times when no wasn’t enough—I can’t think about it without rage ruining this moment. So, I focus on the depth of her gaze instead.
“How long were you in the hospital?” she asks.
“Which time?”
Resting my head on her shoulder, I run my hand lightly down her arm, to her stomach. The way she’s lying, the fabric of her dress hugs every curve. The swell of her lower abdomen is barely noticeable, but I can’t help fixating on it. I can’t help but caress her tiny baby bump.
“How many times were you there?” she asks.
“A few. The time when I met Jamie, that was the longest—I was there a few months. That’s the time I died.”
She covers my hand with her own, linking our fingers and stilling my movements. “How can you be okay with this? You’re so...”
“If you call me a nice guy again, I swear, Zadie, I’m going to be tempted to prove otherwise.”
“I wasn’t going to say nice. I was going to say impressive.”
Lifting my head from her shoulder, I look down at her. The sincerity I see fills me with a need so powerful, it’s overwhelming. It’s a need to keep her safe. A need to see her dreams come true. A need to keep her with me forever and to show her love is real.
My love is real.
“You think I’m impressive?”
“Yeah, I’m a little impressed by you. Or, maybe a lot.”
“It’s the hair, isn’t it?”
“Shut up!” she laughs lightly, squeezing my hand.
Leaning down, I kiss her cheek. “I’m more than okay with it, Zadie. A lot more than okay.”
“You really are...and I guess that’s what’s throwing me off, because I’m still not sure if I’m okay with it. How can you be? You’re young, fun and sexy as hell –”
<
br /> “You think I’m sexy, eh?”
“Stop!” she laughs. “This is serious. You know you are. At least, I hope you know. I’m sure there are plenty of girls out there who’d be more than happy to date you. But you’ve chased me. Me. And a baby. Why would you want to tie yourself down like that?”
“What can I say? I guess I’m not normal.”
“No, you’re not normal. You’re very far from average, Cal Anderson.”
“I’d like to think that’s a good thing.”
Reaching up, she threads her fingers through my hair, pulling me down to her. I don’t resist. Why would I? She’s insistent and I’ve been a goner for her since day one.
The meeting of our mouths feels natural. It feels right. Her lips, my tongue, her teeth, my breath—unified in a sultry kiss.
A kiss that makes me want to get carried away again.
With a reluctant groan, I pull away. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Breathing deeply, her sigh turns to a yawn.
“Did I wear you out with all the tickling?” I ask.
“Maybe. This whole day’s been a bit crazy.”
“Have a rest. I’m going to go make sure Chante hasn’t collapsed under a pile of dirty dishes.”
With a small, tired smile, she nods. “See, you really are a nice guy.”
It’s hard for me to leave her—so sleepy and sweet—curled up on the couch. Being separated from her at all is becoming increasingly difficult. I want to spend every minute I have with her.
I want to breathe, sleep, eat... live her.
But we’re not there yet. Hell, she hasn’t even agreed to a date—not with words, at least. Physically, we’ve jumped from zero to sixty, with my body gunning for a hundred. The mental and emotional pieces need some time to catch up.
The kitchen’s quiet. Chante isn’t scrubbing dishes like I expected. The counter’s in a haphazard array of organized mess. Chante sits silently in the breakfast nook, staring at her phone with a frown.
“You know, you’re not doing yourself any favors,” I say, joining her at the table. “You can’t act the way you did at dinner and get away with half-ass cleaning.”
