by Anne Jolin
When I pull up to Jami’s house, I am caught off guard by the onslaught of memories. Everything seems to play in fast forward through my brain. This has been happening a lot over the past few days. The dreaming, the flashbacks. It’s overwhelming.
I climb out of my SUV, grabbing the six-pack of Bud I brought with me from the passenger’s seat, and make my way up the walkway. I knock softly on the door and hear barking. When he opens the door, I almost wipe out on the front stoop when Martha comes running out to great me. Martha is Jami’s black pit bull, and yes, she’s named after Martha Stewart, but she’s also the sweetest dog on the planet.
“Hey, you.” He winks, reaching out to take the beer from my hands.
“Hey,” I answer back before squatting down to pet Martha. “Hey, pretty girl. I haven’t seen you in so long. I missed you,” I say scratching her behind the ears and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Well I’m not sure that’s fair.” Jami smirks, closing the door after us.
“What’s not fair?” I ask, my back turned towards him as I start to take off my coat.
I feel his breath on my ear. “I’m not sure it’s fair that you greet Martha with a kiss but not me, Beatle.”
My body shudders and I brace myself on the wall.
“I’ll let it slide for now,” he whispers into my ear before walking towards the kitchen, patting his leg for Martha to follow.
I shake myself out of the stunned spell he always puts me under, taking off my shoes and finishing hanging up my coat. Then I take my time walking through the house, looking at everything. The last time I was here, I was completely consumed with lust. I’m not even sure I saw anything that night. I don’t even remember seeing Martha, come to think of it. I wander through the living room, past his large, green sectional, and step up into the open kitchen.
“Your house is beautiful.” I don’t even trying to hide the awe in my voice. “It suits you,” I tell him, and it does. The house is warm with all of its wood accents, and the modern kitchen doesn’t surprise me with his love of cooking.
“You’ve been here before,” he answers, putting the beer in the fridge.
“I know. I guess I didn’t really see it last time,” I respond shyly, ducking my head so he won’t see the blush forming on my cheeks.
He chuckles softly but doesn’t tease me about it. Which is probably a good thing because I’m already extremely on edge being back in his home.
“So what are we doing today?” I ask him.
“I was thinking we could cook dinner together.” He beams at me.
“All right,” I say, looking around his massive, decked-out kitchen. “But I’m warning you. I’m not a good cook.”
“That’s okay, babe. I am.” He picks up the keys to his Jeep from their spot on the counter. I must look confused because he answers the question I haven’t asked yet. “I didn’t know what you’d want to make, so we have to go to the store.” When I don’t answer him right away, he starts to speak again, looking nervous. “If you don’t want to come, you’re more than welcome to stay here with Martha until I get back,” he offers.
I shake my head. “No. No. I’ll come.” I smile back at him reassuringly. I don’t think I’d be able to contain myself from snooping if he left me here alone for an hour. Oh please. If any of you girls are shaking your head right now saying that you wouldn’t do it, you’re full of shit, because you absolutely would.
Twenty minutes later, we are making our way inside the grocery store. It’s pretty quiet for a Monday afternoon. Most people went back to work today. And this is when a thought crosses my mind.
“Don’t you have to work today?” I ask him.
“I have a few orders, but nothing that’s pressing. I’d rather spend the day with you,” he says, picking up a shopping basket.
“Oh,” is all I manage to say in response.
“You only really eat chicken and fish right?”
“Right.” I smile back at him. “How did you know that?”
“I’ve known you a long time now, Beatle. I’ve been paying attention.” He winks, slipping his free hand into mine as we walk through the store.
“What are we making?” I ask as we turn into the fresh vegetables section.
Instead of letting go of my hand to reach for the items, he puts the basket down, freeing up his other hand. “Do you like carrots?”
When I nod in response, he picks up a bundle of large carrots and sets them down into our basket.
We repeat this process, going through the rest of the store. He asks me questions and I rattle off yes or no answers. It’s fun to watch him get excited while picking out the different foods. I’m more of a dial-for-your-food kind of girl, so this is a new experience for me.
Jami’s agonizing over which can of sun-dried tomatoes we should use when I hear a familiar whiny voice come from the other side of Jami.
“Jamison!” Barbie squeals, running at him and plastering her fake tits against his chest.
“Kelsey,” Jami answers, pushing her away with his free hand, the other still tightly clasping mine.
She does that childish pout, and I immediately wonder if she’s had lip injections because no one’s lips could naturally be like that. Not unless you’re Angelina Jolie or something anyway.
“I’ve missed you, bae,” she coos, dragging her cat-claw nails down the front of his arm. Bae? Seriously? Who the fuck even says that? I’m pretty sure it’s, like, the Danish word for poop. Gross. “I’ve been calling you,” she whines.
I feel my back stiffen. I’ve spent so much time with him the last week, and I didn’t notice that she was calling. Have they been talking?
“Now’s not a good time,” Jami says coldly.
It feels like déjà vu, the three of us having some kind of weird standoff in the middle of the frickin’ grocery store. She tears her wide-eyed gaze off Jami and narrows it at me. Uh oh. Malibu Barbie just realized that I’m here too. Jami moves so he’s standing more in front of me now, and that only seems to piss Barbie off even more.
“What is she doing here?” Kelsey seethes, pointing a fake-tan finger at me.
Something about this bitch seriously has me wanting to pull out all that nasty bleach-blond hair of hers. I hate her.
“She’s here with me,” he replies shortly.
Rage flares behind her contacts, and I attempt to pull my hand from Jami’s. This feels way too much like last time. He won’t let me move my hand, only squeezing it tighter.
“I can see that,” she snaps, clearly annoyed by his vague answers. “Why is she here with you?”
He looks at me over his shoulder before turning his attention back to her. “Because she’s mine.”
Whoa. Hold up. Pump the brakes. What did he just say?
Instead of clawing out his eyes on the spot, she seems to ignore the statement all together. “I’ll forgive this little lapse of judgment, Jamison,” she croons, tossing her yellow hair over her shoulder. Yellow hair and orange skin—classy, bitch. Real classy.
I’m trying to keep my expression schooled while wanting to pull out all her hair and feeling stunned by Jami’s forward statement. It’s turning out to be harder than I expected.
She starts to walk away, stopping when she’s standing next to him. “I’ll call you later, bae.” She kisses him swiftly on the cheek before clacking away down the aisle.
He turns toward me quickly, rubbing the lipstick off his cheek with the sleeve of his shirt. “Are you okay? I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m fine,” I answer, turning my attention back to the jars on the shelf. I have no idea what I’m even looking for. I’m just hoping that he’ll drop the conversation. Seeing them together made me feel uneasy.
“Okay,” he says, not sounding convinced. “Let’s get home then.” He picks up a small jar of the sun-dried tomatoes, putting them in our basket and carrying it over to the check-out.
We don’t talk that much on our way back to the house. The run-in with Kelsey seems to
have made things super awkward between us, and I’m not really sure what to say. It’s not even four o’clock yet, so this is going to be a long night if this tension doesn’t ease up soon.
Jami helps me out of the Jeep, picking up the bags of groceries from the back seat before heading up to the front door. Martha is eagerly waiting for us when we go inside, and I can’t help but smile at her.
“Would you mind letting her out back while I put this stuff away?” Jami asks.
“Sure,” I say, following Martha through the kitchen to the back door. She seems to know exactly what’s happening.
I pull open the sliding door and step out onto the covered portion of the back deck. It’s a little chilly, so I probably should have kept my coat on instead of taking it off when we came in, but oh well. As Martha runs around the large, fenced-in yard, I take the time to look it over. There are large trees surrounding the edges, and it’s incredibly private. A beautiful children’s playpen is situated in the far corner, covered in snow. Well, that’s interesting.
“It was here when I bought the house,” Jami says from behind me.
“It’s stunning.” I tell him, looking at it again. It seems to be two stories with a fireman’s pole in the front, wooden horse swings coming out one side, and a slide out the other.
“A family lived here before. The dad made it himself. You should see in the inside.”
“I would have loved that when I was younger.” I sigh, fighting the memories threatening to make an appearance. These ones are good memories, but they still feel tainted, so I choose to keep them buried as well. “Are you going to sell it?” I know he’s been here for less than a year, but I can’t imagine he would have any use for a children’s playpen.
“No. I’d like to have kids one day, so I thought I’d keep it.”
The answer surprises me a little. I didn’t really expect that from Jami, the ultimate not-a-one-woman guy, would keep a massive playpen around for when he settles down.
Martha comes jumping back up onto the porch, shaking the snow off her back.
“All done, sweet girl?” Jami asks her as if she can answer him. He kneels down in front of her, taking a towel and wiping off her paws. “All right. In you go,” he tells her, opening up the sliding door.
I shiver as a gust of wind blows through the yard and Jami runs his knuckles down my arm.
“Same goes for you, beautiful. You’re getting cold.”
I nod my head, following him back into the kitchen. “So, are you finally going to tell me what we’re making?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“And ruin the surprise?” he teases.
“You’re killin’ me, smalls.” I drop the old Sandlot movie line, and he laughs.
“Only because you can quote Sandlot, I’ll tell you.” He grins at me, my traitorous heart fluttering in my chest.
“Well, go on then. Tell me,” I say, leaning over to rest my elbows on the island.
Something flashes in his chocolate eyes and they darken. He’s staring at me from across the marble countertop when it hits me. I’m lying over the same part of the counter I was on that night. He not so subtly adjusts himself, coughing awkwardly to try to distract from the movement. I give myself a little mental high five. At least I affect him too.
I decide to torture him a little because apparently he likes to do it to me. I squeeze my shoulders together and lean further onto the counter, the movement accentuating my large chest and allowing him to see almost straight down the V-neck sweater I have on.
“Jami?” I call to him across the island, where he’s still staring at my chest.
“Mmmm,” he says, not looking away.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re having for dinner?” I singsong, standing upright from my position.
“Uhm. Yeah,” he answers finally, visibly shaking off the lust in his eyes.
“Well…” I prompt again.
“Right. Dinner.” He clears his throat before continuing, and I do a little happy dance in my head—I can get under his skin too. “We’re going to make, honey-tarragon carrots sautéed in butter with boiled baby potatoes, cream-cheese-and-sundried-tomato-stuffed breaded chicken breast, and grilled asparagus.” He rushes out the sentence in almost a pant.
“That sounds amazing. Should we start now?”
“Let’s,” he mumbles, still seeming dazed.
Cooking dinner was actually really fun. Jami walked me through how to do everything, and aside from sticking my fingers into a slimy chicken breast, I loved every second of it. The food turned out amazing.
We are seated side by side at his island table, finishing up what is left on our plates.
“Do you want more?” Jami asks, noting my empty plate.
I shake my head. “I wish, but I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite if I tried.” I would have worn my stretchy pants if I thought I’d be eating this much.
“Well, I hope you left room for pie.” He winks as he gets up to take our dishes to the kitchen.
“Have mercy on my waistline, Jami. Please,” I beg him, putting a hand over my stomach.
“You’re perfect,” he says, looking at me over his shoulder as he loads the dishwasher. “But I’ll give you a break before dessert. I’d prefer you actually ate my pie instead of just looking at it,” he teases.
“I’d prefer that too.” I laugh. “So where do you work?” I ask him, looking around. I imagine making guitars would be kind of messy, but his house seems spotless.
“My shop is in the garage. Do you want to see it?” He seems shy about it and that shocks me. He’s not shy about anything really.
“I’d love too,” I say as I stand up.
He leads me back towards the front of the house, but instead of going out the front door this time, we go into a door to the left. It takes us through an adorable mud room/laundry room before another door leads us into the garage. When he flicks on the light, my eyes take in everything. There are tools strewn across a workbench and different kinds of wood piled up around the room. Some finished and a few half-finished guitars hang from racks on the ceilings and walls. It’s an organized chaos, and I notice that it seems awfully warm for a garage.
“It’s warm in here,” I state, stepping farther into the room.
“I had the garage insulated and it’s heated,” he says. “It’s not good for the wood to get really cold.”
“Hmmm,” I answer absentmindedly as I run my hand over a guitar on the table in the center of the room. “Do you use different wood for everything?”
He comes up behind me, putting his larger hand on top of my smaller one on the guitar. “I usually use a few different types on one guitar,” he says. It’s hard to concentrate on my thoughts with his body pressed up against mine.
“What kind is this one?” I’m genuinely interested. I know nothing about guitars, really—let alone how to make one.
He picks up my hand with his and drags it along the smooth wood at the sides. “This is Amazon Rosewood. I use it for the back and the sides,” he says into my ear from behind me. He moves my hand again. “This is the soundboard. Do you see it?” I nod but don’t say anything. “It’s made from Englemann Spruce wood.” He lets go of my hand, moving his to rest on the outside of my hip.
“It’s beautiful.” I sigh, continuing to drag my fingers over the smooth wood. “They’re works of art, Jami.”
“They’re not bad,” he says from behind me.
I turn around in his arms to look at him. “Don’t belittle the work you do,” I tell him, and his gaze drops down to the floor. I put my hands on either side of his scruffy face and lift it so he’s looking at me. “They are amazing. I don’t know anyone else who could create something so beautiful. Be proud of yourself,” I whisper, the pads of my thumbs slipping over his jawline. “I’m proud of you.”
He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. “I’m trying to go slow with you, Lennon,” he says softly.
“I know,” I answer, feeling guilty t
hat he’s working so hard because I’m a scaredy cat.
His arms around my waist tighten, pulling my body closer to his as he rests his forehead on mine. Neither of us says anything. We just stand there for a while, holding on to each other. My heart swells for him, and in this moment, I know what I want to do. It’s not going to be everything he wants from me, but it’s something. Something more than I’ve been giving so far.
“I want to try,” I say so quietly that I’m sure it could have been easily missed.
He pulls away, looking into my eyes, seeking some kind of clarification. I smile, hoping that my face is able to tell him things I can’t with words. Not yet anyway.
He beams back at me, lifting me so my feet hover above the floor. “Thank you for trusting me, Beatle.” He acknowledges before his lips take mine in a slow kiss.
I SNAKE MY arms around his neck, dragging him closer to deepen our kiss. I haven’t had another man since our night together, and my body craves his. He wraps my legs around his waist, carrying me over to an empty workbench. Then he reaches for the hem of my sweater and our lips part only long enough for him to tug it over my head. I’m suddenly thankful that I wore my jeans instead of yoga pants or I would have one hundred percent ended up with splinters in my ass.
He grabs the back of his shirt, yanking it over his head. When it meets my discarded clothing on the floor, I tangle my hands back into his hair, wanting everything his talented mouth can give me. With one strong hand at the base of my neck, he uses the other to unclasp my black bra. He kisses his way down my neck, slowly sliding the straps down my arms before it, too, ends up on the floor. He moves the hand on my neck into my hair, pulling my chest away from his. I’m breathing heavily, panting from our feverish kissing, and it’s causing my breasts to bounce. He groans before sucking one nipple into his mouth and pinching the other.
“Ahhh,” I moan.
He continues lavishing my breasts, but I can’t stop writhing my body underneath his touch. I need more. I need him in my mouth. I push his chest, his mouth popping off my tit as he looks up at me. I shove him again, and this time, he backs up a step. As I jump down from the table, I see a chair behind him and continue to move him until the backs of his knees are touching it.
