by Lily Kate
“When?”
He looks up at me, my confirmation everything he needs. Instead of an answer, he stands, bringing me with him, my legs locking around his waist. One of his hands reaches to the wall over my shoulder as my arms cling to his neck.
I’m pressed firmly against him, wishing for my clothes to vanish. It’s irresponsible, irrational, and I’m well aware my desire is wreaking havoc on my ability to make thoughtful, adult decisions, but I can’t help it.
“I don’t want to wait until tonight,” he says, “I want you now. Let me drive you home—Steve can babysit, the pancakes will wait. We can take our time.”
“Not now,” I say, but my body says differently. It arches to meet his, and he responds.
He moves so my back is pressed against the wall, his hard chest against mine. We connect until the spiral of kissing drives us into a frenzy, and it’s only when movement sounds in the other room that we both freeze entirely.
“Drop me!” I hiss at him, poking his shoulder. “Boxer!”
He does as I command, and it’s lucky I’ve taken yoga classes because I somehow manage to land on my feet. I think it’s called Tree position. Or maybe Standing Human. I don’t really pay attention in yoga, but whatever it’s called, it works.
Boxer raises an arm, scratching behind his head in an awkward motion as he spins around, closes his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths.
“I’ll check on her,” I say, straightening my attire. “You might want to, uh... fix your apron.”
He looks down to where the frills of the apron are all off kilter, protruding in ways they weren’t ever intended to be worn, and the image strikes me as funny. I never thought I’d make out with a man in an apron.
I laugh, hating that I sound like a hyena, but loving it all the same. I haven’t been this giddy in years. I take a second to gather myself, pull my hair together and my shirt all the way down, and then make my way out to the couch.
“Good morning, birthday girl,” I tell a still sleepy Charli. “How does it feel to be six?”
“Are there pancakes?” she asks. “We have pancakes on my birthday.”
“Sure are,” I tell her. “We’ll just give them a second to, uh, cool off.”
Luckily, Charli had wild dreams, so we spend a good twenty minutes discussing them. Charli has a way of telling stories that goes on, and on, and finally, sometime between a dinosaur eating her cheese, and a mouse chasing her around the yard, we are called into the kitchen for breakfast.
With twenty minutes to have calmed down, Boxer once again looks at ease in his kitchen. He has a few pancakes still sizzling on the skillet, and a plate stacked halfway to the ceiling with the rest of them.
Charli moves about the kitchen with a dedicated role, pulling out the syrup first, hoisting it to the table with both hands. She then makes her way toward the silverware drawer and withdraws two forks, mumbling to herself as she makes her way back to the table.
At the last second, she glances up, catches sight of me, and shines a shy smile. Still yammering to herself under her breath, she hurries back to the drawer and retrieves a third utensil.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.
Boxer waits for his daughter to respond.
Charli looks to her father for guidance but when he raises his eyebrows, she puffs up her chest and answers. “No, you’re our guest.”
“What can I get you...” Boxer prompts.
“What can I get you to drink?” Charli interrupts excitedly. “Water? Wine? Beer?”
Boxer stares at her. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Uncle Steve always wants wine or beer,” she says.
“Uncle Steve doesn’t want wine or beer at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning,” Boxer grumbles. “Coffee?”
“Thanks,” I say. “And thank you,” I tell Charli as she worms her way in front of me to set the table. “Everything looks delicious.”
It tastes delicious, too. And smells delicious and feels delicious and everything about the morning is entirely delicious. Charli struggles to pour syrup for her dad, finally drowning his plate in a pool of maple sugar. Golden butter melts onto the top of the warm, brightly colored sprinkle-pancakes. Boxer even adds a candle and a scoop of ice cream to Charli’s, and we sing one more round of happy birthday to her.
“But it’s not your birthday anymore!” I tease once we’re finished. “That’s not fair; I want ice cream too.”
Boxer gives me a scoop of ice cream and Charli insists we sing another round for me, even though it’s not my birthday for another few weeks. I realize with a twinge of surprise that it’s the first time someone’s sung happy birthday to me in a long while. I told everyone at my office to ignore my birthday and, save for Lindsay, they pretty much do. Lindsay will slip me a card and a cake, but she doesn’t make a big deal out of it.
What’s more surprising is that I don’t mind the attention when it’s coming from the two sitting across from me. We’re all being silly, squirting whipped cream straight from the can into each other’s mouths and pouring rainbows of sprinkles over our ice cream, and it’s fun.
We laugh as Charli tells us jokes that make zero sense whatsoever, and we listen as she rambles on and on about her exotic dreams. I’ve never had a dream about a dinosaur before, but the way Charli tells the story, I feel like I’m missing out.
The whole thing is easy. Fun and light and sparkling with sunlight through the wide kitchen windows. Boxer has propped a window above the sink open, and a fresh breeze washes over us. He keeps my coffee cup filled with piping hot liquid, the taste warm and welcome after our sweet choice of food.
I haven’t felt this elated since my childhood. I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is, but everything feels right. I haven’t checked my phone once in the last twelve hours or so, which is beyond rare. For all I know, it might be dead. Nearly twenty-four hours have gone by in which I haven’t sent a single email. That didn’t even happen the day I had my appendix removed.
Boxer and Charli are in the middle of a conversation about what sort of cereal to buy for the upcoming week, and it’s pleasing to simply sit back, listen, and enjoy being here. It won’t last, that’s for sure, since as soon as this spell is broken, I’ll be back to work. Tomorrow is Monday.
Monday. It rings like a curse word in the bright Sunday morning, so I push it out of sight and focus on the party at hand. Boxer, however, must sense my change in mood because he shifts Charli to his lap, snuggles her for a long moment, and then sets her on the floor.
“Go upstairs and get dressed,” he says. “Wash your face because you smell like syrup, and brush your teeth.”
“Why?” she moans. “I don’t want to go.”
“We’re going grocery shopping today since Marie can’t come back until Tuesday, now.”
“To the store?”
“Where else do you buy groceries?” he asks. “Of course the store.”
“Does that mean we can stop by Gabe’s?”
“You just had ice cream.”
“But it’s Gabe’s,” she pouts. “He says to stop by more often.”
“I can’t argue with her logic,” he says to me. “It is Gabe’s.”
“So we can go?” Charli asks.
“We’ll see,” he says. “We’re not going anywhere if you still smell like syrup in fifteen minutes.”
She’s gone in a flash, and suddenly the easy chatter that’s filled the kitchen falls to silence. It’s not uncomfortable, not really. It’s uncertain.
“Thanks for feeding me,” I say finally. “Everything was delicious.”
Boxer doesn’t answer, instead retrieving the coffee pot for one last refill. I murmur a word of thanks, but I have the feeling he’s not listening as he pulls the apron off and tosses it onto the counter. When he returns to his seat, he’s got a contemplative look on his face.
“There’s something between us,” he says finally. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I shift in my
seat, the memories of earlier, in this very kitchen, resurfacing. “Yes.”
“I have a proposal for you,” he says. “It came to me while I was cooking.”
“What sort of proposal?”
“The sort of proposal that I hope you’ll listen to.”
“I’m listening.”
He folds his hands and rests them on the table before him. Our fingers are inches apart, not quite touching, and I wait to see where this is going before I move one way or the other.
“You want to get this out of our systems.” He gestures between us. “But I don’t think that’ll work. It’s not a one-time thing.”
“How do you know that?”
“Come on, Joss. I’m not a one night sort of guy, and you’re not a one night sort of girl.”
“How do you know what sort of girl I am?” He’s right, mostly, but I’ve always hated when people tell me what I am or what I’m not. So, naturally, my hackles come up.
“I don’t, but I’m guessing,” he says gently. “You can tell me if I’m wrong.”
He’s not wrong, so I sit back and cross my arms over my chest.
“New York is in two months—the endorsement deal. I talked to Steve last night, and he’s happy to stay here with Charli for that weekend. What do you say we spend the next two months getting to know each other... with one catch.”
“I see where this is going.”
“No sex,” he says. “Before we complicate things, let’s see if this—us—works. Let me take you out on a few dates. Spend some more time with me and Charli.” He gestures his hand in circles, signaling the passing of time. “Then, if we still want one another after two months, we’ll have New York. Alone for the entire weekend.”
Listening to him talk has my nerves in a spiral. First, my heart sank, then rose, and now I have chills thinking about a weekend alone with Boxer.
“I need more from you than one night,” Boxer says. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m not even asking you to be my girlfriend. But I don’t want to get you out of my system, Joss, and I refuse to ever pretend I do. If we’re going to act on this, we’re going to give it a fair shot.”
I swallow, stalling, trying to come up with something to say. “But what if you’re wrong?”
“Wrong about what?”
“Us? What if we’d be better off just putting to bed the tension and forgetting it ever existed? Then we can go on and be business partners like planned.”
He closes his eyes and rubs his hands across his eyebrows. “Is that what you want? Really?”
I blink, looking up to the ceiling. “It would be easier.”
“Maybe,” he agrees, eyes still closed. “If you want to take the easy route.”
“I never take the easy route.”
“Then why the hell are you taking it now?”
“I’m not, I’m just suggesting—”
“That I’m not worth investing your heart into. Right? Because surely, I’ll break it?”
“No, Boxer, that’s not what I’m trying to say—”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“Wait!” The word emerges like the sharp crack of the whip. In that moment, a flood of information crashes through my brain, drowning me in a pool of confusion. My talks with Lindsay, my past relationships, Mr. Hot Shot who didn’t bother to know my last name. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.”
Boxer opens his eyes, then his hands, and gives me time, space to talk. The only problem is that I don’t know what to say.
“I’m listening,” he says.
“I don’t think I’m right for you. Long term. But I do care about Charli, and I’m trying to avoid hurting her feelings. That’s why it might be better to just wrap up this weird kissing thing we keep doing.”
“Don’t you think I know my daughter better than you do?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then let me protect her. I’ll decide what’s good and bad for her—what I want her exposed to and what I want to shelter her from.”
“Fine.”
“Why would you say something like that in the first place, though?” His brow furrows in genuine confusion. “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide whether or not you’re right for me?”
“Yes, but I’m just trying to be realistic.”
He stands abruptly, his chair shooting back as he leaves the table. Feet pound on the stairs as he climbs them, the low murmur of conversation filtering back. It sounds like he’s first talking to Charli, her high-pitched squeals signaling good news. Then, the responses turn lower, more annoyed. Steve.
Boxer returns downstairs, changed into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that looks soft enough to sleep in, and extends his hand. “Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to go for a walk.”
“Oh, um...” I scrunch up my sleep hair and push my coffee away. “Maybe I could use the restroom quick?”
“Why? You look great.”
“Well, I still need to use the restroom.”
“Oh.” He actually blushes, and it’s adorable. “Of course, sorry. I’ll be waiting outside.”
I ease into the bathroom to take care of business and wash up. Before I leave, I pause in front of the mirror. I dig in my purse for remnants of barely-functional mascara, and do the best I can to touch up the mess that is my now makeup-free face.
Even then, I’m still not ready to face him. I take a few deep breaths, wondering where Boxer came up with this idea of dating for two months. I still don’t know what to think about it.
I’m not used to the idea of men turning down an offer of a no strings attached relationship. Not that I’ve ever offered it to someone before, but I just figured the answer would be an easy one.
Then again, Boxer’s surprised me from day one, and I have a feeling that’s not about to stop anytime soon.
Chapter 29
Boxer
“How does the beach sound?” I ask, and she nods in agreement.
I pull her hand into mine. It’s small, warm and gentle as she squeezes back.
There’s a short path between my house and the sandy shoreline, and the area is mostly private property. On a Sunday morning, it’ll be deserted.
I don’t know why I feel compelled to bring her here. Outside, away from others, out of the stifling kitchen in my own home. When I am in a room with Jocelyn Jones, the air becomes more difficult to breathe, and maybe being outdoors will give us the space to talk as we need.
We’re quiet as we make our way to the beach; the only sound along the way is our footprints grating sand against the path. It’s one of those perfect mornings, the ones made for the happiest moments in life.
The sun is shining brightly, the breeze carrying a hint of coolness to combat the warmth of its rays. The world is not yet bustling with movement for the day, the busyness not yet taking over the pleasant stillness of morning.
The weight of Jocelyn’s hand in mine, however, tells me this might not be the happiest moment. There’s something there, something she’s harboring inside that’s causing her to keep me at arm’s length. Maybe that’s why I wanted to take her here, to see if she’d share the burden.
“It’s beautiful.” Her face tips up toward mine, cherubic and sweet without her normal makeup. “So peaceful.”
“It is.”
But I’m not talking about the landscape; I’m talking about the way we are together. Dewy lashes blink up at me, and she’s brilliant in the stilted sunlight through the clouds. Her hair shines with a light all of its own, and her eyes, bluer than the water and so perfectly unique, watch me with a hint of curiosity.
“I had so much fun spending the day with you and Charli,” she adds. “Thanks again.”
“What did you mean at breakfast?” I turn to her, unable to resist a moment longer. We’ve reached a large boulder with a perfect ledge for sitting, and I nudge her toward it. “That we wouldn’t work out long term?”
She climbs onto the rock easily, folding her legs under her bo
ttom and situating herself just out of the spray from the waves crashing below. If she extended her foot, her toes would dangle into the water.
She considers her words carefully. “We’re very different people.”
“Different people can make for a great relationship. Keeps things interesting.”
“Yes, true, but we’re extremes. Our lifestyles, our priorities. Our goals.”
“How do you know what’s most important to me?”
“I suppose...” She clears her throat. “Maybe I assumed.”
“Take a guess,” I offer. “I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Take a guess.”
“Okay, then. Your first priority is Charli,” she says, her eyes fixed on something above and beyond the ocean in the distance. “I think that one’s obvious.”
“Lucky guess,” I say, which makes her laugh. I like making her laugh. It’s not something she does often, so when the sound rings through the morning, my heart thumps a little bit louder. “What’s next?”
She scoots back on the rock as a large wave sprinkles our legs with mist. I’ve climbed up next to her, and I like that her adjustments bring her closer to me. We’re touching at the hip and nowhere else. It’s incredibly intimate.
“Your career is second,” she says. “Then ice cream.”
“You’re not all that far off. Pretty good.”
“What am I missing?”
“Missing?”
“You said I’m not all that far off,” she says. “That means I’m not exactly correct. What haven’t you told me?”
“Nothing.”
“If you expect me to be honest, you’d damn well better be honest, too.”
I survey her through a side-eyed view. “You’re correct about my current goals. I had one other goal, but it’s expired.”
“There’s no such thing,” she says. “No goal ever expires. It might change, or adapt, but it’s not dead.”
“Maybe not.”
“What did you want, Landon?”
Her words are soothing. Nobody calls me Landon—I’m Boxer to everyone except my brother, and to him it’s Danny. Somehow, though, when she says my given name, it’s fitting. Selfishly, I like that it’s unique to her, that it’s only between us. Then her hand reaches for mine, finds it, and squeezes, which draws me another inch out of my shell.
