I slip out of the bed quietly, hoping to remain undetected. She sighs and moves and for a moment I freeze, thinking I’ve roused the sleeping beauty, until she turns over and pulls the covers to her chin. I tiptoe from the room, stopping at the bathroom to brush my teeth before heading to the kitchen.
I set the coffeepot to brew and get to work chopping fruit and making waffles.
I get so lost in the task that I don’t hear her sneak up behind me before she drops a kiss on the nape of my neck. I flip the waffle maker and turn around. She’s in one of my dress shirts, with the first few buttons undone and red lace underwear peeking out from beneath. Her hair is rumpled from sleep and her eyes are still heavy lidded. They’re most definitely fuck-me eyes that make me want to stop cooking and undo the rest of the buttons to explore what’s underneath, but I decide to behave myself instead.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
Emma nods and smiles. “Better than I can ever remember.”
“Funny you should say that. Me too.”
“You’re making breakfast for me again? Isn’t it my turn? I should be making it for you.”
“You should sit down and have a cup of coffee. Relax, put those feet up, and don’t worry about a thing.”
She looks at the coffeepot.
I grab two mugs from the cupboard and fill them before she says a word.
She wraps two hands around the mug and inhales like it’s potpourri. “This is amazing.”
I chuckle. “You sound like you’ve never had coffee and waffles before.”
She sits at the kitchen table. “Growing up, my breakfasts usually consisted of a granola bar or some cereal. A yogurt if I was lucky. That was at my dad’s place. At my mom’s, I was lucky to get any of that. So it’s not like I haven’t had coffee and waffles, like, ever. Just not often.”
I turn my attention back to the waffles. “Well then, I guess it’s up to you and me to make it a tradition. Coffee and waffle Sunday?”
“Aren’t we supposed to rest on Sunday?” she asks. “I mean, technically speaking, it should be waffle Wednesday.”
“Funny, Em, didn’t peg you for a real churchgoer.” I remove the last waffle from the iron and set it on a plate, garnishing it with berries and peaches and a little whipped cream before I place it in front of her.
“Thank you.” She dips a finger in the whipped cream and brings it to her mouth. As she savors it, she gives this little inconspicuous eye roll that I’m not sure she’s even aware of. I have to adjust myself because she’s turning me on something fierce.
“I’m not a churchgoer,” she says, picking up her knife and fork and cutting a piece of the waffle. “I didn’t peg you for a chef.”
I shrug. “I’m full of surprises, Emma Fletcher.” I move to kiss her but she dodges it, turning her head to the side fast.
I step back, surprised. “Wow, I make love to you only to be denied the next morning.”
She laughs. “I probably have, I dunno, like, chronic halitosis or at the very least, some awful morning breath.”
I grab her chin in my hand and tilt her head up toward me before bringing my mouth to hers and kissing her passionately.
“You taste like mint! You brushed your teeth!” she accuses.
“You taste like coffee and peaches, Peaches. Relax and eat your waffle.”
She gives me an obnoxious mock salute. “Sir, yes sir.”
I make a plate for myself and sit across from her, even though it’s taking all my willpower not to toss breakfast off the kitchen table and do her right here. “What are your plans for the day?”
It’s weird. We’re sitting here playing house, yet we live two very separate lives.
“I don’t know. I thought I’d shower, then go home, go for a run, and maybe pick up some groceries for my mom’s place. She’s been pulling double shifts and has today off. I think she should get to enjoy it rather than be forced to do household stuff.”
I nod. “Makes sense. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
“What about you?”
“Well, I was going to wait until you’re finished with breakfast, then I was considering taking a shower—with you, if I’m lucky. After that, I was going to call Mateo. See if he wants to go shoot some pool, watch a game—”
The sound of Emma’s fork being deposited on her plate interrupts me. “I’m done with my breakfast.” She stands, bringing her hands to the already dangerously low button holding my shirt together, and unfastens it.
I stand too, round to her side of the table, and slip my hands under her thighs to lift her off the ground. “Really? ’Cause I’m not.”
Emma
Tristan carries me down the hallway and to the bathroom before he sets me down on the sink. God, how is he so freaking perfect-looking in the morning? It’s like sleep itself is so charmed by his looks that it won’t dare to tarnish him with messy hair and tired eyes, both things I possess in this moment.
He finishes what I started, opening the dress shirt I’d borrowed from his closet, then sliding his hands inside to slip it from my shoulders. The way he looks at me makes me forget that anything evil exists in the world. He makes me forget about what happened, makes me forget about the scar that flaws my stomach, makes me forget my own name, for God’s sake. I have never wanted, needed, anyone so badly in all my life.
Once the shirt falls to the floor, he moves my hair to the side, exposing my neck and resting his lips there. I let my head fall back, closing my eyes so the feeling of him brands itself on my mind. One hand cups my breast while the other slips inside the lacy fabric of my underwear. My breath hitches and he pulls away from my neck, his gaze swinging back up to mine before the corner of his lip curls in a half smile.
“You feel so good,” he says.
He has no idea how good he makes me feel. I lose all sense of time and space. It’s all I can do to breathe. I am momentarily disappointed when he removes his hand and steps to the side, but all he does is start the shower, and then he returns. “Where was I?”
I take his hand and place it back where it was and say, “Here. You were here.”
“Right,” he whispers, pushing his hand against me, “that little sweet spot. Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“Seems like you’re the one doing,” I say.
His hand slips farther inside the underwear before his fingers slip softly inside me. “I don’t hear any complaints.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath if you’re waiting for an objection,” I manage to say. My voice is shaky and I’m lucky my words were even audible.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, placing his lips on mine.
We spend an hour, maybe more, in the shower. Tristan takes his time, bringing me to the brink before stopping and starting all over again, until he finally gives in to my pleas and gives me what I want. Afterward, I am both perfectly sore and content.
I’m doing my best to towel-dry my hair, because, not surprisingly, Tristan doesn’t own a blow dryer. He stands beside me in quiet observation. He’s still pretty much naked, with a towel slung loosely around his waist. “Emma.”
I stop squeezing my hair with the towel. “Tristan?”
“What I said to you last night. I want you to know I meant every single word.”
I know. I can feel it. “Me too,” I say.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Tristan.”
“I think I might love you until the day I die,” he says.
My heart skips, flutters, and kick-starts at his proclamation. I could see myself loving Tristan forever. Sure, I’m young, but there are no age requirements for finding your soul mate, are there? “Me too,” I say.
This makes him smile and he kisses the side of my cheek. “Good.” With that, he leaves me in the bathroom, staring at the reflection of a pers
on who is glowing from the inside out.
And it’s all thanks to none other than Tristan Banks.
Forever is a long time. I bring my hand to my belly and touch the scar, feeling the raised surface on an otherwise smooth plane of skin.
My mom is doing a Sudoku puzzle at the table when I come in, chewing the end of her pencil. She looks up and smiles. “Hello, honey.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“How was your night?”
I’m an adult. I shouldn’t fear what my mother thinks of me for staying the night at Tristan’s, but when she asks how it was, I blush. “It was . . . perfect.”
That’s all I need to say. My mom may have a plethora of problems, but ignorance isn’t one of them. She knows. “Tristan seems like a wonderful young man.”
I sit beside her, ready to gush as if I’m talking gossip with Marley. This is either a critical mistake or a perfect chance to bond. “He is.” I try to come up with the right words to describe him, but they’re elusive. “I’ve never felt more beautiful or more admired.”
“I’m glad he makes you feel those things, sweetheart. You deserve them.”
“I feel safe,” I continue.
She sighs, looking down at the wood-grain pattern on the table, tracing it with the eraser side of her pencil. I watch as her eyes fill with moisture. “I should have been there for you,” she says woefully.
I know my past haunts her. Not only the attack but my childhood, and all of the years she lost to a bottle. To make things worse, when I first arrived in Stonefall several weeks ago, I didn’t exactly display the utmost faith in her recovery. “Mom, what’s done is done.”
“I—” She shakes her head. “You could have died.”
I nod. God knows there was a time when I wanted to die. “I didn’t. I’m here and we still have a lot of lost time to make up for, and I want to know you, Mom. I do.”
This makes her smile. “I want to know you too, sweetheart.”
I place my hand on top of hers. “So let’s keep the past where it belongs and look forward to the future. Listen. I’m going to go for a run and then head to the grocery store. Maybe I can make you dinner tonight and we can stay in and spend some time together?”
“You don’t want to be with Tristan?”
“Of course I want to be with Tristan,” I say, “but I want to be with you too, and Tristan can wait.”
“If you’re sure you want to spend time with your aging mother, then I would love to do that.”
“It’s a date.”
Tristan
That afternoon, I meet Mateo at the pub across from his gym. It’s his favorite hangout spot. They play ESPN from countless TV screens, serve beer, and their chicken wings are to die for. Not to mention that Mat’s picture decorates three walls at least, proudly displaying his championship belt. A real local hero.
He’s more mellow than usual, and I’m immediately suspicious as I sit in the booth across from him. He pours me a beer from the pitcher before topping off his own glass. “What’s going on?” I say.
“I’m so screwed,” he says.
“What? Why?”
“Because I love Marley Scott with every single bone in my body.”
I smirk at the implication of his comment. “I bet you do.”
“I’m serious, man.”
“Okay. Fine. I still don’t see how this is a problem. You’ve been pining after her for years and now she’s yours. How is that not the best thing that ever happened to you?”
“It is the best thing,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
I nod to the beer. “How long have you been drinking?”
“Can you stop avoiding the topic?”
Shit. He really is all in a rut about this. “Can you stop trying to get me to read between the lines and just tell me what the fuck your problem is?”
“What if I’m not good enough for her? What if she gets bored?”
“You’re one of the best guys I know,” I tell him. “A little overly sensitive and too sentimental at times, but it’s part of your charm. Quit worrying, bro. If she isn’t already in love with you, she will be. Give her a bit of time to get to know who you really are.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”
I flip Mateo the bird. “Go fuck yourself. You’re freaking out for nothing.”
“I just spent so long building up this expectation of what it’s going to be like and it’s even better than what I thought. Now I’m worried that it’s too good to last.”
The waitress comes to our table and smiles warmly at Mat. He’s a regular, and she knows he’s going to leave her a huge tip. Mateo doesn’t squirrel his boxing money away for rainy days, preferring instead to live every moment like it could be his last, with no intention of taking it with him.
“Hi, Mateo,” she says before giving me a cool nod. “Tristan.”
If you ask me, Shelly the waitress has the hots for Mateo, same way he had the hots for Marley, but he denies it. Says it’s all because of the tip. But Shelly’s body language says otherwise. She stands there with a pad of paper and a pen, twirling her hair absentmindedly while she waits for him to speak.
“Can you bring us two more pitchers of beer, hot wings, salt-and-pepper wings, and some dry ribs, please, Shell?”
She scribbles his order on her paper. “That’s all?”
“That’s it for now,” he says. “Thank you.”
She pauses for a second but when Mat just smiles at her and says nothing else, she leaves.
“You could bone her,” I say.
He looks horrified. “Shut up. I’m won’t be boning anyone.”
“Except Marley.”
I expect a witty retort and am disappointed when I don’t get one. Marley is not a topic we can joke about, obviously. “Look,” I say. “Seriously, stop worrying. I know you think Marley is the be-all-and-end-all for you, and if she is, that’s great. But you need to remember that she’s not a goddess in the literal sense. She’s a person, like every single one of us, and I’m sure she has baggage and insecurities and flaws just like the rest of us do. Remember that at the same time you treat her like gold and you’ll be fine. Relationships fail because one person or both people forget all the reasons why they fell in love in the first place. You only need to remember.”
Shelly returns with a pitcher in each hand and sets them on the table. “Your wings and ribs will be out soon.”
“Thanks, chica,” Mat says.
Shelly blushes ferociously. “Anytime.”
My phone buzzes with a text from Emma: Can we postpone tonight? I was going to spend some time with my mom.
Of course. I reply. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.
See you then. Oh, and Tristan, I love you.
The three words at the end stick out as though she’d typed them in bold font. I will never get sick of hearing or reading them.
Love you too, Peaches.
TWENTY-TWO
Emma
Stonefall has two grocery stores and a few smaller convenience stores that sell canned goods and boxed items, but there’s a larger chain store in Calico and I decide to go there instead. My mom is back at the house, hopefully soaking in a bubble bath with some soft music while I set out for the afternoon in search of whole and healthy foods for our dinner tonight.
I texted Marley to ask if she wanted to come, but she’d booked herself in for a mani-pedi and a bikini wax. More power to her, I suppose, but ripping hair from its root holds little to no appeal to me, despite how groomed she might look in the event of a Marley-and-Mateo hookup.
I told Marley I’d talk to her tomorrow and climbed into the seat of my Volkswagen bug. The interior feels minuscule by comparison to Tristan’s truck, and I have to adjust the seat and mirrors.
I turn on the radio and a beautiful song comes from the speak
ers. The lyrics make me think of Tristan, so I turn the dial, cranking up the volume, and sing along. I should care about how I must look to fellow drivers on the interstate, but I don’t.
I want to relive this morning every single day for the rest of my existence.
Before Tristan helped me set myself free, I was buried in memories of a less-than-perfect childhood. I was never abused by any stretch, but I wasn’t well looked after. My mother was neglectful. My father, although he provided what I needed, was never an outwardly affectionate person. I don’t doubt that he loves me, but he has a hard time showing it. I was a grown-up for a sliver of time before Gabe, and after that . . . after that I was no one. Lost and alone.
Until him.
I am completely absorbed by thoughts of Tristan for most of the drive, and it seems that I’m pulling into the SuperMart in Calico in record time.
I park the car, grab a cart, and proceed to pile it with groceries my mother’s house has no doubt never seen the likes of. I’d read once that the perimeter of any given grocery store is where the best food choices are. Seems to be the case, and I avoid the interior aisles as though they house the bubonic plague, save for a trip down one of them to locate black beans for tonight’s menu. I’ve been inspired by Tristan’s and my trip to the Caribbean festival and the Internet gods of Google.
It doesn’t take long to finish because although the chain supermarket is ten times the size of any store in Stonefall, it’s a relatively quiet afternoon. I load the groceries into the backseat of my bug and am settling into the driver’s seat when my phone chimes.
A smile crosses my face, sure that it’s a text from Tristan, but when I unlock my phone to have a peek, I’m mistaken.
The Enchantment of Emma Fletcher Page 20
