During every play, I went my hardest and ran smart routes, choosing my spots and succeeding in bringing victory to my team.
And with Demi, I wasn’t about to back down just because I had built some tough-ass obstacles for myself to overcome.
This time, she had actually agreed to go out with me. Instead of me having to force her there using a child and his illness. Sure, I could tell she was still skeptical, but I was wearing her down, and that was a tactic I knew how to use well. I’d gotten my ass beaten by huge defensive linemen for years, and I could tell you, Demi Rosen was probably tougher than all of them combined.
No, not probably. Definitely.
Setting the knotted rope I’d just secured down, I put a hand over my eyes to watch the dock for visitors. I’d told her to meet me here, knowing she would want to drive herself so she’d have an escape if she wanted it.
However, I’d outsmarted her on this one. Getting her on a boat, where she had no escape, would force her to open up a little more to me. Unless she really wanted to escape me, in which case she could abandon ship and swim back to the dock at Tailrace Marina. I wouldn’t put that past her.
Since moving back to Charlotte, I’d had one of my boats transported to the marina just outside the city. I know, it sounds obnoxious saying just one of my boats, but I was a boy who’d grown up on them. My salary afforded me the luxury of keeping up the hobby, and it was one of my only vices these days.
It was surprising to many that my parent’s deaths hadn’t stunted my love of the water. But if anything, I felt more connected to them when I was out there, free from the land and cutting through the depths of oceans or lakes. Out there, on the open water, you answered to no one. You could just … be. And I was free to feel anyway I wanted about my parents. Happy, for their love of the water and the way they taught us to love it. Sad, that it had taken them way too early. Scared, that I would never find the kind of love that I hadn’t realized they’d given me until it was too late.
“He’s athletic, charitable, a celebrity, knows how to sail boats … seriously, is there anything you aren’t good at?” Demi stands at the beginning of the gangway that leads up to my boat, her hands on her hips.
She looks like some picture out of a sailboat magazine, one of those slender, elegant models posing in Monte Carlo or something. Her outfit is lightyears more sophisticated than my cargo shorts and T-shirt. She probably went out and bought the perfect sailing attire, just for this occasion. It was cute, and I knew she cared about this.
“Chemistry, fucking terrible at it. Hence why I chase a ball around a field instead of mix things in test tubes,” I joke, wiping my hands off and going to help her up the gangway.
I take her hand, leading her up onto the deck, and take the oversized bag she has slung over her shoulder. When I pick it up, I almost drop it, not expecting it to be that heavy.
“Holy shit, what the hell is in here?”
“A woman never reveals her secrets.” She winks at me.
“Yeah, because she carries them all in her ginormous bag. Why do women do that? Why do they need a bag the size of Texas? You can’t possibly need half the stuff in here.” We walk to the cushioned benches, and she sits, removing her sandals.
“I need all of it. What if I get a blister on my heel? I have Band-Aids and Neosporin. Happen to get hungry? I’ve got snacks. Need to follow-up on emails? My tablet is charged and ready. Haven’t you ever wondered how women can multitask like men never could? It’s partially the bag.”
I chuckle, because Demi is so damn sexy explaining things to me while practically undressing. She’s shed her sandals and the light sweater she had on, leaving her in a one-piece bathing suit that’s making my mouth water, and white linen pants. The sun catches her hair, the strands of light brown glistening. I want to kiss her, capture her mouth and make her succumb to me, but I hold back. My nails dig into my palms as I force my cock to quiet down.
“Whatever you say. Now, why don’t you go sit up there while I cast us off?” I point to the cushions on the back of the boat, the ones that give the best view of the retreating harbor.
She smiles, a raw, happy expression, and quickly bounces over to them. I want to give her some time to herself, after all, I think this is probably a rare moment for her. From what I can gather from the team, and from Demi on the couple of dates we’ve been on now, she is a total workaholic. Today is the first time she’s agreed to take a break for me, and I want her to feel comfortable and relaxed before I really turn the charm on. I’m determined to open her up, and maybe get the kiss I’ve been waiting for.
We spend the first half an hour of the date apart; me working hard to adjust and steer and get us into the water smoothly. It’s hard work, one that leaves my muscles burning and the eye for detail sharp.
Demi lies back on the sundeck, watching the big sails go up, and letting the sun wash over her face. When I finally lower the anchor, securing our position in the open sea, I make my way to her with beers in hand.
“You know, I typically don’t drink beer.” She examines it before clinking her bottle against mine and taking a sip.
“What, you got too sophisticated since your days of drinking Keystone out of kegs?” I nestle closer to her.
Our knees are touching as we lounge next to each other, and being this close to her without touching her face or pulling her waist into mine is killing me.
She lightly taps my shoulder in a playful hit. “College doesn’t count. You’ll drink anything that’s cheap and/or free.”
“True.” I let the silence settle over us, the water lapping at the boat.
“You love it out here, don’t you?” Her brown eyes examine me.
“I do.” I nod, not needing to explain further.
“It reminds you of them.” It’s not a question from her, just a statement.
I forget that she knows me. And she also knows people dealing with death and grieving. And it’s her job to know how to make it better. In some ways, even after all of these years since losing my parents, that is a comfort.
We finish our beers, not needing to fill the air with chatter. Maybe this is what it’s like to find the person who most truly fits you. The kind of relationship that doesn’t need words or banter, although those are nice. The ability to sit in comfortable, companionable silence … perhaps that’s how you know you’ve found her.
After another gap of time, I reach over, lacing my fingers through Demi’s. Our eyes meet, and every emotion within her is communicated to me. She’s letting me see her fear, her lust, her willingness, her hope.
“You can kiss me now.” The words are quiet, but there is no wavering in her tone.
I cup her cheek, pausing just centimeters from her lips to look more deeply into her eyes. And then we both flutter our lids closed, and I lean in.
The kiss is soft, searching. A coming home after years apart. The taste of her, the exploration of our lips and tongues together, makes me dizzy. Stokes the fire inside me, sending both lust and the sensation of falling in love spiraling down my spine.
I don’t stop. I just keep kissing her, over and over now that I’m allowed. Hours pass, the sun starts to set, and still, I can’t pry my mouth from hers.
This day should be endless. It should last and last until nothing else fills me but Demi.
Twenty
Demi
Mothers are known to bring all sorts of guilt, at least that’s what they say.
Guilt about not calling them enough, not coming by for lunch, not doing what they thought would be the best thing to do, in any situation.
But if you don’t have a Jewish mother, you know absolutely nothing about guilt.
“Sweetheart, it looks like you decided to get the challah from that new bakery.” My mother, Sarah, stands in my kitchen, scrutinizing each thing I’ve made for Friday night Shabbat dinner.
What she doesn’t say is that she would have bought the challah she’d used for my entire life, from the bakery she
frequented near her house, but that I couldn’t find at the grocery store. This would be a point of contention for years now, she’d bring it up every time we had challah. The time I bought the wrong kind. Thankfully, I got the right gefilte fish.
“It’s challah, Mom. It’s on the side and we dip it in soup or spread butter or gefilte fish on it. It all tastes the same.” I roll my eyes but smile because I love having my parents around.
Jews from Queens, they had that East Coast attitude through and through. They’d grown up with money, but both sets of my grandparents had made them work from the age of fifteen. They’d made something of themselves, a professor of literature and an accountant respectively. Mom had stocked my library with the classics, while Dad had always taught me the importance of finance and numbers. Even now, my father went through my books with me each quarter to make sure the business, it’s taxes, and reports were properly filed.
When I’d moved down to Charlotte, my parents had said goodbye to the cold weather and followed me. Now my father freelanced, my mother was retired but spent her time volunteering at the local library, and we had dinner almost every Friday night.
“It’s a good-looking brisket, bubbala.” My dad, Aaron, slices the meat and places it on the white platter I placed out specifically for it.
It was my week to host, and while I was dead tired, conversation and time spent with my parents could never be beat.
“Thanks, Dad. The soup is almost done, and we have to wait for one more person, and then we’ll be ready.”
I went to the cabinet to grab the Manischewitz and avoided my mother’s beady stare.
“One more?” Her tone is way too excited.
If my mother could have sold me off and had ten grandchildren by the time I was twenty-two, she would have.
“Yes, one more.” I hustle into my dining room, getting away from her curious questions and proud looks.
I hadn’t been sure if I wanted to introduce Paxton to my parents yet, but when I’d mentioned Shabbat dinner, his ears had perked up. He was just crazy enough to want an invite, and he’d worn me down until I reluctantly said he could join us.
Good thing for my sense of humor, he had absolutely no idea what he was in for.
“Who is this young man?” Mom practically jumps on me as I set the table.
Part of me wants to brag, but the child in me wants to withhold facts from my mother simply because it’s kind of fun to watch her squirm.
“You’re going to meet him in about twenty minutes, can’t you just wait?”
She stops, clutching the gold Jewish star necklace that she always wears. “Demi Rachel Rosen. I have waited thirty whole years for this moment. You will not keep me in suspense one minute longer.”
Like I said, buckets of guilt.
I give them the only piece of information that I know they’ll grill Paxton about. “I will say this … he’s not Jewish.”
My mother says, “Oy vey” at the same time my father pops his head in and demands, “What?”
“He is not Jewish. And don’t act so enraged, you’d rather have me happy than unmarried.” I knew this to be very true.
My parents look at me, their gazes unapproving but I also know they’re seeing my reasoning.
“As long as he’s a mensch, I’ll give him a chance.” My mother inclines her head, and my father doesn’t say a word.
He learned long ago not to disagree with my mother. Even if she was wrong, explaining why she was took more effort than just staying silent.
Twenty minutes later, exactly on the dot, Paxton shows up with flowers in one hand and a bakery box in the other. He presents them to my mother, who wraps him in a big hug and I know instantly that he’s sold her.
“Oh, look, bubbala, he brought rugelach!” She is so over the moon about him already, I can tell.
When she turns her back, Paxton mouths the nickname at me and raises an eyebrow. Why do I know that he’s going to tease me for that later?
Mom joins Dad in the dining room, and Pax uses the moment to steal a kiss. Now that I’ve given him the go ahead, he won’t stop kissing me. And I’m not complaining, the man could win a Lombardi trophy for making out.
We all sit down for dinner, and Dad immediately starts in. “Wait a minute, you’re that football player …”
Pax chuckles, looking at me. “Now I see where you get your love of sports.”
It’s true, my family has never been big into organized athletic events. I’m not sure why, but my parents never gave a crap about this country’s obsession with grown men chasing, hitting or catching balls.
“You play football? How nice!” My mom bats her eyelashes at him, and all criticism of him not being Jewish is seriously outside with Elijah.
“Either that or I run around a field trying to catch a ball like a five-year-old. My profession is basically for overgrown boys who never grew up.”
“You’ve got chutzpah, kid. I’ll give you that.” Dad stands with his wine glass, reaching to get more, and slaps Paxton on the back, grinning.
I shook my head and dropped it into my hands. Only my father would tell the leading tight end in the NFL that he had chutzpah.
Truth was, my father could care less what the person I dated did, or how much money they made. As long as they treated me with respect, he was okay with it. He’d always made that clear, not that I’d brought many boys around my folks.
The rest of dinner goes swimmingly, with my parents hanging on every word that Pax says, and my mother giving everyone grief.
“Eat more. Eat!”
“Demi, I wish you’d wear your hair back more, I love it like that.”
“Aaron, not too much red meat, you know what it does to your stomach.”
The only one she didn’t chide was the man who seemed to have stolen all of our hearts. When it’s time to go, my mom wraps me in a big hug.
“I’m just verklempt, I’m so happy. Mazel tov, sweetheart,” Mom whispers in my ear as she kisses me goodbye.
The thing is, I’m verklempt, too. It’s been a long time since a man made me this nervous, or this hot for him.
Come to think of it, Paxton had been the only guy to ever make me feel this way.
“I like you, even if you are a shegetz.” Dad shakes Pax’s hand as my parents make their way out.
“I’ll get you guys tickets to next week’s game, so you can come see what football looks like.” Pax smiles good-naturedly.
They finally go, and it’s sadly quiet without their hemming and hawing.
“They’re freaking awesome.” He takes me in his arms, pressing his lips against my forehead. “Thank you for letting me be a part of a family again.”
I just settle into him, loving the feel of his warmth and strength around me. I don’t say it, but I wasn’t letting him be a part of my family. He was becoming part of it, way too quickly for my heart to process.
Fear gripped me, and yet, I didn’t want to let him go. I didn’t want him to go home, I wanted him to stay here. Uncertainty surrounded me, and the walls I’d carefully used to guard my heart since him didn’t know whether to fortify themselves, or fall.
Twenty-One
Demi
I buckle the strap to my tan suede block heels, smoothing the fabric over so that it all runs one way before I stand up.
Looking at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I check my stomach to see if I can actually see the butterflies fluttering around in there.
My velvet green strapless ball gown is practically glued to me, every body part snug in its place inside the material. I picked the signature color because it was the one I always looked best in, my mocha-colored hair always meshing well with the shade. My earrings were simple, small diamond studs, ones I’d bought myself as a birthday present last year.
I was ready. Wish Upon a Star threw an annual gala every year. And like every year, I gave a speech. And like every year, I was dreading it.
I knew as the CEO of my own company that
public speaking was a must. I just really hated doing it. I was articulate, sure, but I typically let my work speak for itself. Alas, we needed funding from some of the biggest players in Charlotte, and this is how we kept the lights on and were able to make so many dreams come true. So for that, I’d swallow back the nervous bile threatening to work its way out of my throat and just get on with it.
There was a second reason I was so nervous tonight as well. I’d agreed to let Paxton escort me as my date.
He’d caught wind of the gala through a few guys on the team and in the Cheetahs organization who attended every year. And naturally, bugged me until I said he could go as my date.
My doorbell sounded, and Maya the cuddly guard dog barked. I quickly made my way downstairs, grabbing my clutch off the bed.
“Maya, shush. It’s your favorite person.”
It was true. Pax had been over to my house, never for the night though, a couple of times now, and Maya had all but peed on him and made him her own. Things with us had been going well, hence my letting him come to the gala. My parents asked about him every week that I spoke to or saw them, and he continued to send flowers or little treats to my office or home.
All in all, I was getting used to the idea that I could be with him again. And so was my body.
Our kissing had evolved from long, soft explorations to heated romps on the couch or in the car, to hands wandering and pulling at the fabric of clothes. Every time he touched me, I shivered. But for some reason, just before we crossed the line into southern territory, I put a stop to things. I couldn’t move to the next … base, to put a sports metaphor on things.
“Hi, beautiful!” Pax leans down when I open the door, his face covered by Maya kisses as he sticks a bone out for her to grab and devour.
“You spoil her.” I shake my head, laughing.
He stands, letting me have a good long look at the gorgeous god in a tux before me. “And hello, gorgeous.”
When Stars Burn Out Page 8
