“That’s right,” Reed said. “I don’t lead women on. I don’t send flowers or make promises I know I won’t keep. Griffin has a girlfriend.”
“I know he does.”
“I didn’t think you were the type to be a side piece.”
“Is that what you think?” Peyton barked, rising from her stool. “No one uses me. Not Griffin! Not you! No one!”
Reed looked into her eyes, now gray and distant, whatever pain behind them bubbling up. “You can’t be so blind. Griffin wants you.”
“We are friends, Reed. How many times do I have to say it? He has a serious girlfriend, Stephanie. He’s sent me flowers lots of times — on my birthday, on the anniversary of my parents’ death. He’s a good friend.”
“Do you think Stephanie knows he sent you flowers?”
“I don’t like this jealous, possessive shit. It’s not very attractive.”
Reed sat back on his stool, feeling like a dick. The last thing he wanted was for Peyton to be upset, let alone be the reason for it. He reached for her hand, and she sat down. “I’m just saying you don’t ever seem to notice when someone is attracted to you, and Griffin Dupuis most certainly is.” He drew a breath, seeing Peyton’s beautiful bottom lip go into a little pout, watching her turn over the possibility in her mind. For a moment, he forgot what they were arguing about, and simply wanted to kiss away her pout. “I’m sorry if I was an asshole. I really have no idea what I’m doing here.” He motioned to the air between them, where the daffodils once stood. “This is all new for me.”
Peyton watched his face turn innocent, his eyes go soft. “When he calls, we watch House Hunters on HGTV. That’s it.” She rubbed his fingers. “You know, the TV show? That’s what the card was about.”
Reed nodded but didn’t believe it. Actually, he didn’t believe Griffin. Peyton could think what she wanted, but he knew better. No guy — at least no normal guy — would subject himself to watching HGTV with a girl without some ulterior motive. “I know I don’t have any right to ask this, but I don’t want you dating anyone else. I don’t want to share you.” Reed paused for a second, shocked by his own words. But that’s exactly what he wanted — Peyton to be his. The fear that she could be with someone else gave him the courage to try something new. “I have no interest in any other woman but you. I promise. If you don’t feel the same way, tell me now.”
Peyton raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath, more than a little puzzled this longtime player desired exclusivity. “You don’t like to share?” She stood up from her stool and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I don’t like to share, either.”
He leaned in, sliding his lips over hers, and pulled her hips into him, watching her eyes close. “Be at my house at seven,” he said softly.
Then suddenly he was gone, back to work, leaving her longing for more — for his touch, his kiss, his breath. She hadn’t committed to going to his place, but she’d just committed herself to him. She figured she’d better show up for dinner.
* * *
Peyton visited Gram at Poydras Home and did a few odds and ends around the house but spent most of the afternoon staring at the clock. While time moved like thick praline syrup, her mind did just the opposite, flying at warp speed about what Reed may have planned. She hadn’t been to a guy’s house — a boyfriend’s house — in years and didn’t know what to expect, especially from someone as forward as Reed.
She wondered whether he’d want her to stay the night — she wouldn’t — and whether he’d try to get her drunk — she wouldn’t let him. Just to be safe, in case Reed had any tricks up his sleeve, she thought about packing a toothbrush and change of clothes and keeping them in her trunk. She reminded herself they’d only been dating for two days, if that. She wasn’t going to let things get out of hand.
Then her doorbell rang, pulling her from her thoughts. She found a delivery man on her porch holding a clipboard. He asked her to sign then walked to his truck, returning with a vase of pink roses. She took them with a huge smile, and as she breathed in their magical scent, the man returned to his truck. She saw a card but didn’t need to open it to know who’d sent them.
She turned to walk back inside, but the man called out, “Wait, there’s more!” She looked at him, confused. “There’s lots more.”
The delivery man went back and forth to his truck at least a dozen times, each time bringing Peyton a vase filled with a different type of pink flower, her house quickly filled with tulips, hydrangeas, peonies, lilies, carnations, orchids, daisies, and more roses. When he brought the last vase, the man wiped his brow, and Peyton handed him a cold water bottle for his trouble.
“We don’t have a single pink flower left in the store,” he said, breathing hard, placing the cold bottle against his cheek. “Your friend bought them all.”
The man limped back to his truck, and she opened the card. So you will think of me, as much as I think of you. Reed.
Peyton hopped up and down then rushed to call him. Sadly, his phone went to voicemail. In a high-pitched voice of a school girl, she thanked him profusely, telling him how awesomely crazy he was, saying she couldn’t wait to see him tonight. Then she smelled each flower again and floated up to her bedroom to get ready.
* * *
Reed listened to her message over and over while preparing dinner, with a huge grin on his face. She sounded so happy. He was happy he made her happy. He promised he wouldn’t take advantage of her happiness. She was coming over for dinner; that’s all. And nothing but kissing, he told himself — even if she begs. Well, maybe if she begs. He shook his head reminding himself to move slowly, as he’d promised, a promise he’d already broken more than once. He knew he had to do better, to control himself, or else she’d bolt.
He took a quick look around his loft, a mix of old and new. No girl other than his mother had been in his place, so he wanted to make sure things looked right. It was all one big open space, except for the separate bedroom, all furnished with masculine decor — at least that’s what his mother told him. Still, he liked the way it looked, the industrial features of the original warehouses, masonry walls and exposed pipes, alongside polished hardwoods and floor-to-ceiling windows. It had a chef’s kitchen and stainless steel appliances, an L-shaped couch with leather on the bottom and suede on top, a couple of black leather chairs, a wooden coffee table with some architecture books and the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit magazine, and a mounted flatscreen TV. He’d put it all together in just a few short months.
He heard a knock at the door and walked towards it, looking behind him for one last check of the loft. Damn. He raced back to the coffee table and seized the swimsuit magazine, quickly searching for a place to stash it. He didn’t want to throw it in the trash; he hadn’t properly analyzed it yet. Then came another knock at the door. Shit. He grabbed the back of his neck. He ran to his desk and buried it under some drawings and plans. He blew out a deep breath and raced back to the door.
He opened it, still catching his breath, and Peyton jumped into his arms. “The flowers are amazing! That was the sweetest thing ever!”
Reed locked his fingers with hers. “I’m glad you liked them.”
He gave her a quick tour of his place, letting her walk in front so he could check out her ass in jeans, but her sweater was two sizes too big and covered her up. He ended the tour back in the kitchen and left Peyton to roam about. “It’ll be just a few more minutes.” He stirred some wine into his chicken dish and added a bit of seasoning and a pat of butter.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“Nope. You made lunch. Just make yourself at home.”
Peyton walked next to a distressed wood dining table set with candles and eyed the architecture books on the coffee table. She occasionally stole a glance at Reed in the kitchen, his old, faded jeans hanging perfectly off his hips, his plain white shirt rising as he moved, showing off his chiseled abs.
Reed watched her move around, making herself at home as he wanted. She seemed to fit perfe
ctly, like she belonged there. His mother had been wrong: his loft didn’t need a woman’s touch — it just needed the right woman. But then Peyton moved towards his desk, fingering a few drawings and plans. He began to panic, to sweat. Please don’t dig too deep. He needed to stop her.
“Did you see my Saints photo?” he blurted out, awkwardly, immediately feeling like a stupid child, knowing it would’ve been better just to let her find the magazine. “It’s over the couch.”
Peyton moved her fingers off his desk and looked at him curiously, trying not to laugh. Am I making him nervous? She walked towards the couch, finding an autographed picture of former Saints cornerback Tracy Porter, hands extended, racing towards the end zone after his interception, sealing Super Bowl XLIV. “Did you go?”
Reed nodded. “The best moment of my life.”
“It was awesome.” Peyton closed her eyes for a moment, remembering how the Saints had saved a broken city, how she screamed when Porter picked off the pass and cried like a baby when the game was over, the first time she’d cried for reasons other than her own pain and suffering. The Super Bowl victory, as silly as it may sound, had given her some belief, some hope, some motivation — that a team as shitty as the Saints for so many decades could finally pull through. It made her feel she at least had a chance to get better, to get out of the darkness, to get beyond her pain.
“Dinner’s ready.”
Peyton opened her eyes. Reed brought over two plates of chicken and vegetables and pulled out her chair. “Maybe I’ll take you to a game in the Fall,” Reed said.
“Or maybe I can take you?” She took a seat. “I happen to have some connections.”
“Really?” he asked, sitting down. “My family has a suite.”
“Well,” Peyton said, a smirk across her face, “I usually sit in the owner’s suite. Or occasionally in a player’s suite.”
Reed dropped his jaw. “Whose suite?”
“I can’t say.” Peyton smiled. “My profession....”
Reed shook his fork at her. “Your profession?”
“Yes, my profession,” she said, her smile widening, “has a sort of doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Confidentiality?” Reed laughed.
“Let’s just say a certain MVP’s kids, a few high-ranking members of the organization, and a couple Pro Bowlers love my pies.”
“Damn, well, we can use your connections. I want to sit in the owner’s suite, too.”
Peyton winked at him. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
As Reed cleared the table, Peyton stood at the bathroom mirror, clutching the sides of the sink with her hands, wondering what he had in store next. She couldn’t and didn’t trust him to take things slowly, and now she was in his loft — after dinner — with his bedroom mere steps away, and the couch even closer. She didn’t fully trust herself, either, her mind drifting to Quinn’s kit in her purse from the night before, and whether she’d possibly need it. She opened the bathroom door and peered out at the clean table, Reed sitting on the couch waiting for her. She twirled her locket, took a deep breath, and walked cautiously towards him.
She sat down and after a moment of silence, told him that dinner was great, hoping a few words would calm her nerves. Reed simply smiled in return — knowing words weren’t required or useful at this point — then lifted her feet onto his lap. He took off her sandals and began to rub her feet. Peyton closed her eyes and leaned her head back on a pillow. Reed watched the way her chest rose and fell, her breasts pushing against her cashmere sweater, a small peaceful smile across her pink lips. She opened her eyes and caught him staring. Then he looked away, trying to control himself.
Her peaceful smile faded away, all of a sudden fearing something was wrong. The foot rub was certainly nice — she couldn’t remember the last one she had — but she knew this wasn’t what Reed really wanted to be doing. She knew he wanted to pin her against his kitchen counter, like he did at lunch, and rubbing her feet was anything but that. He probably regretted saying he wanted to be exclusive. She bit her lip, concerned, and lifted her head off the pillow. “Maybe I should go.”
“What?” His eyes darted to hers. “Why?”
She put her feet on the floor and reached for her sandals. “We both have work tomorrow.”
“But it’s early.”
“I just thought maybe you were tired.”
Reed looked at her, confused. “I’m not tired. I’m not a relationship guy, either, so....”
“Right, so I’ll just go.” She reached for her sandals again, and Reed grabbed her elbow.
“Let me finish, please,” he said. Peyton looked down at his hand, and he immediately released her. “What I was saying is I’m not used to relationships, so if I’m doing something wrong, I need you to tell me.”
“Oh, OK.” She sat back down and twirled her locket. “I can do that.”
“So what am I doing wrong that makes you want to leave?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s wrong then?”
“Well,” Peyton said, her head falling into her hands, “you haven’t kissed me tonight.” She peeked out from between her fingers, as Reed burst into laughter.
Then he sweetly took her hand. “I give you permission to kiss me whenever you want.”
Peyton lunged across the couch, almost tackling him, like a starved woman hungry for the taste of his lips. She kissed him hard, pushing her body against his, then pulled away for a brief instant to take in his face with just a touch of stubble, his blue eyes letting her know she had nothing to worry about.
“I was just trying to behave myself before. It’s hard for me to just kiss you. And I promised myself I would only kiss you,” he said, a dirty look in his eye, “unless you begged.”
Peyton lowered her lips to his neck, her breath sending sparks through his body. “So I need to get on my knees?”
“Please!”
“You’re the one begging now,” she whispered.
Reed groaned and put his hands on her hips. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.”
She sat up and pressed into him. “I think I know.” She pulled up his shirt slightly, her fingers brushing his abs.
Reed watched her straddle him, her hands gently touching his skin, thinking it was impossible to get any harder. He sat up and pulled her hips to his. “I’m going to make you beg,” he whispered. He caught her hands and took her down to the sofa, running his fingers along the curve of her neck. “Tell me you want me, Peyton.” She quivered at her name rolling off his tongue. He let his fingers slowly slide down her neck and collarbone, pausing for a few seconds before outlining the curve of her breasts. “Is there a part of you that’s not perfect?” he whispered, brushing her lips with his mouth. “Please beg,” he moaned, knowing he was the one begging. She gave a sexy smile then shook her head. Reed gently took her arms in one hand, pinning them over her head, and started to kiss her neck.
Peyton clenched her eyes. “Please,” she whispered.
Finally. It hadn’t taken quite as long as he expected.
She wiggled her hands. “Please.”
Bed or sofa? Both?
“Please don’t hold me down.”
Reed released her wrists like he’d just been burned. His head darted up, finding her eyes misty. Has she found out about my father?
Peyton saw the concern, the tension, in his face, hating she’d ruined the mood when they’d been having such a good time. She trusted Reed wouldn’t hurt her but didn’t trust her flashbacks to stay away. She ran her fingers through his hair and tried to cover. “I can’t have you holding me down when I want to touch you, too.”
“Anytime,” he said, stroking her cheek. “One day I’m going to kiss every inch of you and try to find one imperfection.”
Peyton instinctively touched the scar near her temple. “I’m not perfect.”
He moved her hair out of the way. “How’d you get that?”
“Just a fall
when I was younger.”
Reed kissed her scar. “It’s perfect to me.” He tilted up her chin and kissed her softly, melting under the warmth of her tongue stroking his. He gripped her hair with his hand, pulling her closer, deeper into him, their mouths pressed hard against each other as if they couldn’t get close enough. He hiked Peyton’s leg up to his waist, groaning as she pushed into him, her hands sliding down his back as she rubbed against him. He felt Peyton’s warm breath on his neck as she nibbled on his ear.
He knew he needed to slow down. She wasn’t going to have sex with him. And he didn’t want to embarrass himself like some junior high kid. He pulled his mouth away and stopped grinding into her, holding her for a few minutes until their frantic breathing slowed to a crawl. He looked down at her full pink lips, now in a shy smile, her head nestled against his chest, the sound of his heart almost lulling her to sleep.
“Do you want to stay?” Reed asked, laughing inside at saying the very words he always hated hearing.
“I do,” Peyton said, leaning up on her elbow, “but I won’t.”
Reed gently pulled her head back to his chest then reached for his phone, holding it out to snap a picture of her.
“Delete that!” she cried.
“No way.” Reed showed her the photo. “Since you’re not staying, I want to be able to see you first thing when I wake up.”
Peyton took the phone from him and planted a kiss on his lips. Then she took a picture. “You can have a good morning kiss.” Reed tackled her back down to the sofa, snapping a few more photos. “Stop! Stop!” Peyton laughed. “Let me see those!” She scrolled through the photos and deleted the blurry ones. Then she moved her finger across the screen and looked at some of his camera roll. She saw a few of Bret acting like a fool, some old memories of the Super Bowl, and a few buildings around town. She stopped on a picture of a young black teen in a soccer uniform. “Is this your son?”
“Yeah, can’t you see the resemblance?”
“No, he’s way too cute to be yours.”
“Jeremiah’s more like a little brother. We hang out, eat junk food, talk about girls. I’m supposed to be a good male influence — a mentor or something.”
Perfectly Broken Page 8
