by Liora Blake
When he pauses, holding a single bag of chamomile tea in his raised hand, he sees that I’ve slumped into the couch cushions in the living room. Dropping the tea bag on the counter, he makes his way over and sits gently next to me. With my head flopped against the back of the couch, I watch him scan the room out of the corner of my eye.
“I’ve never been in your actual house. It’s nice.”
His attempt at idle conversation seems to be intentional given the soft tone of his voice. As if his only goal is to avoid anything that might rile me out of my current—I’m sure utterly confusing to him—quiet state.
I close my eyes and speak into the empty space above me. “It isn’t mine.”
“Do the people who live here know you’re a squatter? You take really good care of the place if you’re trespassing.”
A tiny laugh escapes me. “Trevor owns it. He claims he bought it as an investment, but I think he just can’t help himself from enabling every woman he’s related to. I tried paying him rent, but he never cashed the checks. It made reconciling my bank statement a real bitch. I finally gave up after a couple of years.”
Opening my eyes, I notice Simon has curled down to rest his head on the couch back so that he can stare at me. He looks like he was just caught doing something he shouldn’t, so he raises his head up from its reclined position and turns away a little.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. The Silver Lake real estate market is in the middle of a killer upswing these days. If he bought years ago, he’s got a nice little bundle of appreciation on his hands here.”
Watching him idly inspect the room again, I shake my head in disbelief for a second.
“This is so weird.” I pull one hand up, pressing my index finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose.
“What?”
“You. Simon the ER savior. Simon the real estate agent. Mr. Market Appreciation Guy.”
Before I can think clearly enough to stop myself, knowing it doesn’t make a lick of sense, I lean toward him and rest against his body, dropping my head to his shoulder. “It’s weird. It’s making my head hurt.”
“That’s the giant goose egg on your head. Not me.”
I sigh, a concession to every single component of weirdness that the muted light of this room can hold. “Nope. I’m pretty sure it’s you.”
Pulling his arm out to drape it over my shoulders, he tugs my body closer and manages not to speak for a while. Eventually, just as my mind teeters on sleep, he moves and cranes his head down to see me.
“Tea? Do you want to take a bath? Are you too tired? What do you need, Devon?”
“Too many questions, Simon. I’m fine; you can go. I’m just going to crawl into bed.”
Shoving off of the couch, my legs feel a little less steady than I would like, but once I lock my knees it seems manageable. All I need to do is make it down the hall and into my bed. Once I’m there, I won’t have to worry about staying upright.
“Doctor’s orders: I’m staying.”
A growl erupts from my throat. I don’t need a babysitter, especially one who smells really delicious, whose arms feel nice around my body, and whose nice-guy act is bordering on almost too good to be true. I stalk off toward the kitchen, determined to demonstrate exactly how fine I really am, but the tiny little falling stars that cloud my vision make it harder than expected. As I grab the edge of the kitchen counter, the vortex of fatigue tugging at me dissipates just enough to keep my voice strong.
“I. Am. Fine.”
“Is that why you’re holding on to the counter for dear life? Because you’re fine?”
Simon has already made his way to stand behind me, with his hands on my hips to stabilize me. “I’ve got nowhere else to be. Just let me do this; you don’t need to put up a fight tonight, sweetheart.”
Good. I’m tired of fighting, anyway. Tired of fighting the fatigue of today and tired of fighting the way I want Simon’s hands on me as much as possible. To avoid saying exactly that, or demanding he crawl into bed with me, where he can touch me tenderly until I fall asleep, I grit my teeth and say something less pathetic.
“Make yourself useful, then. I want the tea.”
I pry my fingers off the counter and lean against it with my hips as he moves around me, stopping to lift the teakettle off the stove and shake it. Feeling the weight of its fullness, he replaces it and stoops to turn the burner on. Yanking open the cabinets again, he grabs a mug out and goes to set it on the opposite counter, where something catches his eye.
Brow furrowing, he lifts a small clear tub off the counter, stares at it, and leans in to sniff the contents. “What the hell is this?”
I had just bent my head down to rest my forehead on my palms. Instead of going through what feels like the enormous effort of lifting my entire head up, I slide my hands down and slip my fingers open so I can peer through them.
“It’s a starter. Just leave it there. I have to feed it in the morning. I forgot to do it today before I left.”
“Oh, shit.” He drops the tub to the counter and closes the distance between us. “Look at me, Devon.”
When I raise my head, his eyes are darting over my face, anxiously searching for something. He stops and raises up one hand with his index finger outstretched and begins to track it in front of my face. “Follow my finger.”
“What?”
“You’re not making any sense. Talking about feeding some weird rotten dish of bubbly crap. Maybe you have a concussion. Do you feel sick?”
I manage an eye roll even though it hurts like hell. “I don’t have a concussion. It’s a wild yeast starter for bread. You have to add flour and water every few days to keep it active.”
Pointing toward a loaf of bread sitting on the far counter, I drop my head back to the safety of my palms. “I make my own bread. I use that instead of the little packages of yeast you buy at the store.”
His hand drops and he takes another long look at me. The teakettle starts to whistle and when my face contorts a little, he moves quickly to shut it off. Before he pours the water, he lifts up the bread, turns it over in his hands, giving it a whiff until he notices the thick, well-used cookbook sitting nearby on the countertop. The book is my bread-baking bible, authored by the owner of a bakery in San Francisco, and, although I’ve never been, I know it would be a veritable fantasyland for me. A place with warm loaves of artisan bread that crackle loudly when you bust off a piece, glistening tea cakes studded with poppy seeds and sugared almonds, and perfect little banana crème tarts, all there for the taking. Simon sets the loaf down and casually flips the book open for a brief moment before returning his attention to the teakettle.
“It seems I’m not the only one full of personality surprises tonight. Devon the Bread Baker. All domesticated and shit. Who knew?”
When he places a full, hot mug in my hands, the fizzing of chamomile-scented mist covers my face and I inhale until my lungs won’t take any more.
“Why don’t you go get in bed. I’ll be on the couch. Holler if you need anything.”
I’m so tired of talking that I turn and walk down the hall, without even saying good night or thank you. Inside my dark bedroom, I set the mug down on my nightstand and walk into the closet, pull off the T-shirt that smells like a hospital now, and unbutton my jeans, stopping before pulling them down. Nestled in the far uppermost corner of my closet is the shirt I want to sleep in. It’s a perfectly broken-in flannel shirt—threadbare, really—and the only thing I’ve kept that hints at my old life in Cleveland.
Even though it originally belonged to Kyle, I claimed it as my own a long time ago. It smells like me and feels soft against my skin in a way I desperately need right now. It’s the shirt I wear when I’m sick or when the weight of being alone feels like too much. I wear it when I spend a lazy day watching back-to-back episodes of Veronica Mars on Netflix because doing any more would be too complicated. Or when I don’t feel like doing anything but lounging around and flipping through the stacks of cat
alogs that pack my mailbox.
Rising to the tips of my toes, I reach up with my right arm until the tension in my pained side reacts and stops me. Grrr. I want that shirt like a toddler wants a security blanket. Nothing else will do.
“Simon!” I try not to yell, so he won’t panic, but even my barely raised voice sounds like shouting in the quiet of the house.
I can hear him striding down the hall and the jingle of whatever is in his pockets as he lands in my room. “What? Where are you?”
“Closet. I need your help.”
Until he was right there, standing in the doorway to the walk-in closet, staring at my bare back, I didn’t quite consider that I was half-naked. When I look over my shoulder, his face is torn. Eyes heavy, jaw clenching, a visible strain evident as he inhales and exhales. I grab the T-shirt I previously tossed on the floor and grasp it haphazardly to conceal the front side of my body.
“I need that shirt. The blue plaid one.”
Turned at the waist to see him, I point back toward the far corner. With obvious effort, he draws his gaze away from my body and looks to the shelf, not moving for a moment. Finally, he seems to find the control he needs and, narrowing by me, easily snatches the shirt down and hands it over before fixing his gaze on mine. For a split second, his eyes drop, taking a hurried inventory of the bare skin on my neck, my shoulders, the upper swell of my breasts. When his eyes return to mine, there is a new depth of want in his expression, in the set of his jaw and the lingering of his eyes on mine. Something far greater than anything he’s ever said or done before. This look is absolute, solid, bona fide desire, not just snarky innuendo or dirty-mouthed bullshit. It’s yearning. And it’s . . . real.
Either that or my head is about to explode from an aneurysm of some sort and this is the delusional part of the symptoms.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Sliding past him, I turn and step toward the doorway.
“Wait, Devon.” His voice is rough, edgy. Hinged only by the softness of its tone. “I’ve never seen the art on your back. Not all of it. Even that night at the wedding, it was too dark when I took your dress off.”
I can tell he hasn’t moved toward me, trying to maintain a certain distance, which feels like the only thing keeping us from going at each other. His next words are nothing but a plea.
“Can I look? I want to see it all.”
“Sure.”
My unsteady voice cracks in so many places that the tiny word ends up broken into what sounds like a million syllables. Instantly, he’s there, his body electrified in desire that I can feel radiating out from his fingers when he sweeps my hair off my back and over my shoulder. His breath spills out over my skin in small labored pants as his fingers trace over the design.
When Stacia started, it was with the simplest of ideas: let’s put a cherry blossom tree on my back. Over the next two years, the base of that tree became a gnarly knotted mass of blackened and deep roots, the trunk rose into a bundle of strong limbs that wove gently over one another in rich layers with no beginning or end, and the top of the tree, with its delicate pink blossoms, spilled over into trailing vines down the backs of my arms. Buried in the depths of the limbs, the leaves, and the blossoms are a million tiny little things. Hummingbirds and crows. Butterflies and scorpions. Stars and skulls. Scepters and crowns. There is light and dark in every choice, yet a balance in its entirety.
His fingers continue their ambling excursion over my shoulder blades, the small of my back, then up my spine again until his warm hands splay over my shoulders and his thumbs rest against my neck.
“It’s so fucking gorgeous.”
Those simple words, combined with the weight of his touch, threaten to topple me at my trembling knees until I push one arm out to bow my weak body toward the doorjamb. I lock my elbow to stave off the shaking, hoping he won’t see it.
Leaning back, he takes a final pass with one hand, fingers spread lazily as he gently skims down until he drops his touch from my body entirely. The fragile feeling in my limbs is the only thing to drown out the screaming in my head that demands his skin against mine again.
“Who did it?”
I have to swallow consciously and lick my lips before answering. “My friend Stacia. She has a studio in Echo Park with her husband. She tattoos; he paints.”
“It’s nothing like I imagined. So much better.”
The idea that he imagined what it looked like does strange things to me, the reality of this moment clouded by the fantasy of him with his eyes closed, drawing images of my body in his mind, and I hope it made him crazy thinking about it. I wished that when he did, it made him so insane with want he had to finish himself off just thinking about what he would do with me if I were there.
“Sometimes I regret it’s on my back. I don’t get to enjoy it as much.”
“Trust me, I’m enjoying it enough for the both of us right now.”
The tremble of my body betraying me takes over and it won’t escape his notice now. I have to get out of this small room to give my brain and my body a break. With conscious effort, I twist my arm a bit, testing to make sure I won’t collapse when I pull back from the security of the doorjamb.
Nestling against my back, he wraps his arms around my waist, the gesture tugging down the shirt I have balled up against me, while I still try to cover my breasts. Even through the haze of fatigue and want, I can feel every inch of him. Including the feel of his cock, clearly hardening and pressed against me, testing my will like never before.
“You’re shaking. Come on, you need to get in bed before this rough day of yours knocks the wind out of you completely.”
With that, he walks us, our limbs wrapped together, to my bed. Once he sees that my legs are safely on the mattress, he kisses the top of my head and leaves.
Slipping the soft shirt over my body, I shimmy out of my jeans and drop them to the floor. The sheets feel cold, but maybe it’s only because my skin is covered in the embers of Simon’s touch and that’s just too much for any poor woman to handle. I’m weak, feeling a little broken, and through the haze of oncoming sleep I realize one thing: Simon Cole might just be the kind of man who could fix what ails me.
6
I wake up in a puddle of my own drool on the pillow. Probably a good sign, some indication that I was lights-out for a good long while, undisturbed by pain or discomfort. Which is great until I remember there is supposed to be an unreasonably charming, hot guy sleeping on my couch. One who probably wandered in here at some point to check on me and found me with stringy drool across my cheek. Hot. I’m surprised he didn’t fall victim to its obvious eroticism and bang me into a pile of orgasms right then.
As if he didn’t already preoccupy my thoughts, let us add this embarrassment to the pot. Just add a dash of awkward mortification and we have a recipe for never getting Simon to make this ache go away.
Shifting a little on the mattress, I feel a million times better than last night, refreshed and without the fog of exhaustion trumping everything. Stretching out each side, I lift one arm up at a time, extending them over the pillow to test my body tenderly. The left side reacts, but not nearly as badly as I expected, mostly a throbbing sensation that smarts only when I fully extend my arm. Satisfied that I’m only a little damaged, I slip out of bed and shimmy against the doorway, craning my ear down the hall, listening for him. Nothing. Maybe he left once he saw the drool and noted that I wasn’t dead or anything. Probably better that way.
Padding into the bathroom, I splash some cold water on my face and brush my teeth. In the mirror, I can see evidence of the previous day in my expression. Thankfully, no black eyes, though. Nothing ruins a girl’s looks like a shiner.
Flopping back into the bed, I shove my hair off my forehead and stare at the ceiling. The memory of Simon’s hands on my naked back floods over me all at once. Before I can drown it out with rational thoughts, like what to have for breakfast since my belly is snarling in emptiness, t
he sensation swallows me until my eyes fall closed. Then the sense of anticipation, the needy feeling of wanting more hovers so intensely I consider taking a few minutes to finish out the thought process properly.
Behind the lusty thoughts, I somehow still have the presence of mind to hear noise in my living room. The sound of keys hitting the countertop, the minute noise of shoes moving across the carpet, a small clearing of his throat.
Hell. That would have been spectacular, me getting up close and personal with my fantasy just as Simon wandered in. The mortification of drooling would have been training wheels compared to that.
I lift my head up and see him standing in the doorway, holding a paper coffee cup in each hand. His hair is all kinds of mussed, one side flattened down a little and the top pile of messy strands lying haphazardly about. It shouldn’t be attractive, but it is.
“Morning, sunshine.” He thrusts his hand out while looking a bit nervous to enter the room without my consent. “I got you a chai.”
I shimmy my body up and sit cross-legged on the bed. The posture seems to give him permission to come in, as he strides over until I can reach the cup with my hands. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed with one leg pulled up.
He’s too close, and I can’t think very well because of it—not clearly enough to offer my usual brand of sarcasm. “Thanks.”
“Chai, no water, with soy. Is that right?”
“How could you possibly know that?”
Shaking his head, he looks at the floor for a second. “Not sure if what I’m about to say will make me look brilliantly observant or like a creepy stalker.”
He clears his throat and looks down at his knee, picking at a small tear in his jeans.
“You smell like chai. It always makes me think of you. And, nearly every time I see you, you have a to-go cup from this place in your hand. When I came for my massage, I noticed their store is right down the street, so I went down there this morning and asked the barista if she knew you. She told me the part about no water, with soy.”
