Since I Found You

by Ashelyn Drake

  I study his face. His jaw is red both from the ice and Oliver’s fist. I gently touch it before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against his cold skin. He turns his head slightly, capturing my lips with his. I kiss him back, my hands cupping his face. He cringes, and I pull away. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t ever apologize for kissing me,” he says.

  “We should get the ice back on that,” I say, reaching for the paper towels.

  Alex grabs my hand. “Not now.” His gaze lowers to my mouth right before he kisses me again.

  This time, I don’t touch his face. My hands grip his sides instead. He leans forward, pushing me down so I’m in a reclined position with him on top of me. We barely fit on the couch together, so I spread my legs, allowing him to settle between them. “Are you okay?” I ask, wondering if lying down is making the blood rush to his jaw.

  “Better than okay.” His mouth descends on mine. Alex’s hand trails down my side, and I squirm, which makes him pause and pull away.

  “Sorry. My sides are really ticklish,” I say.

  “Just your sides?”

  I nod.

  “Duly noted.” He kisses me again, but his lips don’t linger. Instead, they trail down my jaw to my neck. His tongue traces circles across my flesh, and I moan as I tilt my head to give him better access. His hands are still on my sides, but they aren’t tickling me anymore. One is lifting the bottom of my shirt. Alex raises his head to look at me before continuing.

  I smile, letting him know I’m okay with this. I’m more than okay. In the past week, Alex has proven he’ll protect me at any cost. He’s earned my trust, and more than that, he’s earning my heart. I’ve never fallen so quickly for anyone, and maybe it’s the situations we’ve been thrown into since meeting, but I feel so close to him. Like I’ve known him for years.

  He lifts my shirt and kisses my stomach, which I never knew was ticklish until the scruff on Alex’s chin grazes it.

  I laugh, and he lifts his head and smiles at me.

  “Do you know you have the best laugh?” he asks, purposely rubbing his chin against my stomach to make me laugh again.

  I squirm and then squeeze his body between my legs.

  His eyes widen at the maneuver, and then he lowers his mouth to my stomach again. This time he makes his way upward to my black lace bra. He kisses one breast and then the other right where they peek out over the lace. “Whitney?”

  “Yes?”

  “Should we stop?” He’s being a gentleman. That’s clear, because the look in his eye is nothing short of pure desire.

  I run my fingers through his hair. “I think we should.”

  He inhales deeply and sits up.

  As soon as I’m not trapped beneath him anymore, I stand up and take his hand. “We should move to my bedroom,” I say.

  His expression goes from disappointment to elation faster than I can blink. He scoops me up, cradling me in his arms.

  “What are you doing?” I laugh.

  “Carrying you upstairs. Too much?” he asks.

  “Just right,” I say, kissing him.

  He manages to walk us upstairs while still kissing me. He gently lowers me to the bed and then stares at me as if waiting for permission. I open the top drawer of the nightstand, and as soon as he realizes why, he reaches inside for a condom. Then he’s next to me in bed, kissing me again.

  I pull away and say, “I almost forgot. I have a no paint-splattered clothes in bed rule.”

  A devilish smile creeps across his face. “We wouldn’t want to break any rules.” He pulls me to a sitting position, grabs the bottom of my shirt, and lifts it over my head. Then he kisses the top of each breast again before motioning for me to lie down. He pulls my yoga pants down past my hips, his eyes taking in my matching black lace panties before he finishes removing my pants. His hand runs down my body from my right breast to between my legs. He slips one finger under my panties and tugs them down. Every move he makes is so slow and sensual I’m not sure I’m going to make it much longer. By the time he unclasps my bra and takes a nipple in his mouth, I’m screaming his name.

  Chapter Thirteen

  David

  Convincing myself to leave Whitney’s apartment yesterday wasn’t easy. When I went over there, I had no intention of things going so far. I really did just want to have lunch with her. But after kissing her on her couch, touching her, hearing that laugh when my scruff tickled her soft skin... God, I was done. I had to have her. She’s so unlike any woman I’ve ever dated. Sure, I’ve had the occasional one-night stand. Not that I ever set out to have one. Things happen. You have sex and realize you don’t mesh at all. It’s awkward, and before you know it, you just want it to be over. That wasn’t the case at all with Whitney. I wanted to savor every moment. Study her face when I kissed different places on her body. Learn what she liked.

  “Alex, if you don’t stop staring at me like that, I’m going to have to call human resources,” Cheryl says. Then she playfully punches me in the arm. “What is up with you?”

  “I know that look,” Emily says, bending down in front of my desk. “Someone got lucky.”

  Dear Lord. Emily wears some low-cut tops, and she’s currently flashing half of the office. “Emily,” I say, closing my eyes. “I really don’t want David punching me when I still haven’t recovered from Oliver Strauss’s fist, so could you please get your boobs out of my face?”

  She stands up abruptly. “Oliver Strauss punched you?” She’s so loud everyone turns in our direction.

  I rub my jaw, which hurts more today, making me wonder if Whitney had merely distracted me from the pain yesterday. “I’m fine.”

  Aria walks out of her office and straight to my desk with Nate in tow. “It’s not fine,” she says, crossing her arms, and she has such a stern look on her face I don’t bother to tell her I said I was fine. “Why did he hit you?”

  Everyone is crowding around my desk now, including Mr. Monohan, though he’s keeping to the back of the crowd. I fill them in on what happened at Whitney’s—well, the less exciting parts before she and I had sex.

  “So, he tried to force his way into her house and then he assaulted you?” Aria is shrieking. “All for a story?”

  Nate picks her up and spins her around. “This is perfect. This will bury him.”

  “Wait, you really want me to write this story?” Last night, Whitney decided she wanted to let it go, and I fully plan to respect her wishes. “Whitney didn’t go to the police, and neither did I. It would be our word against Oliver’s.”

  “Priority News is already getting bad press,” Mr. Monohan says. “Didn’t anyone read their latest story?”

  “We only read real news, Mr. M.,” Emily says. “That paper is a joke.”

  “That’s my point.” Mr. Monohan walks over to David’s laptop and pulls up the Priority News site. There on the front page is an article attacking the Priority Police Department for not pressing charges against Whitney for vandalism.

  “I’m going to kill him,” I say, jumping to my feet.

  “Alex, sit your ass down and listen to me,” Mr. Monohan says.

  I look to Nate, trying to figure out if Monohan is serious. He’s not the easiest person to read, and he likes to throw people off guard, like hauling me in yesterday morning for a meeting where I thought I was going to be fired when really he wanted to congratulate me. Nate nods, and I sit.

  “What do you think will happen when the PPD reads this?” he asks me.

  “I can’t imagine they’ll be too thrilled with Oliver,” I say.

  “And what do you think they’ll do if you write a story about how Oliver assaulted you and acted in a way that was very unbecoming of a news reporter when trying to question Ms. Stillwater?”

  He wants me to bring Oliver down.

  “Pair that story with Whitney’s feature and David and my column, and that’s a hell of an issue,” Emily says.

  “Bye-bye, Priority News,” Cheryl adds.

>   “Alex, step into my office,” Mr. Monohan says, already walking in that direction. He must not think I’ll be willing to write the article if he wants to talk in private.

  David claps me on the back as I follow Mr. Monohan. Suddenly, everyone is looking at me like I’m a hero. I’m definitely not. I step into Mr. Monohan’s office, and he closes the door behind us.

  “Please, sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

  I sit, but he chooses to stare out the window instead. “I’m not opposed to writing the article, sir. It’s just that Whitney really doesn’t want me to.”

  “Alex, you’re turning into a fine reporter. I’ll admit I had my doubts about you in the beginning.” He turns to face me, and it’s clear from his expression that he really did doubt me at one time. “I was considering letting you go, but the others here went to bat for you.”

  Wow! I had no idea I’d been that close to losing my job.

  “David let you take this story and run with it.” He laughs. “It scared him to do it because he thought you might crash and burn. And then when you didn’t come forward with the artist’s identity, I thought I was going to have to fire you for sure.”

  It would’ve been justified.

  “I get what you’re saying, sir. I’m letting my relationship with Whitney affect my career.”

  Mr. Monohan walks over and sits on the edge of the desk. “Which is why you fit in so well here.”

  What? “I’m sorry, but I’m not following.”

  “Did you know that before you came on board I got Nate a job at The Sentinel as managing editor?”

  I’d heard about that. “He came back here to be with Aria, right?”

  He nods. “And David and Emily, those two almost didn’t take that joint column because they were...” He waves a hand in the air. “I don’t even want to know what they were doing at the time. I’m just relieved they figured it out.” He laces his fingers in front of him. “The point is, I work with a bunch of lovesick fools. You’re no different.”

  I don’t know if I should laugh or be offended. I opt to stay silent in the hopes that he’ll explain.

  “The other thing you all have in common is you’re great writers. To be honest, you took the most work, but you got yourself where you need to be.” He claps his hands together. “So, tell me what I need to do.”

  Is he offering to do me a favor? I thought he brought me in here to tell me to write that article on Oliver.

  “Do you want Mitchell to take this story so you’ll be kept out of it? He’d love the opportunity, seeing as you kept him out of the articles on the murals themselves.”

  I forgot all about Mitchell, not that I needed him. But had he been helping me, he might have exposed Whitney, and she might have been fined or arrested. “No. I’ll write it. You’re right. I do need to prove myself. When I first started working here, I didn’t know what I was doing, but you gave me the opportunity to learn and grow. It’s time I show you I’ve done that.” I stand up. “I’ve got this.”

  He nods, and I turn for the door. As I’m walking out, he calls, “For the record, I already knew you did.”

  I smile as I step out onto the newsroom floor.

  “I guess that went well?” Emily asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. Now you just have to figure out how to get your new girlfriend to go along with this without pissing her off and making her never let you sleep with her again.” She smirks because she’s teasing, but the problem is she’s right. Whitney isn’t going to want to draw more attention to the fact that she was almost arrested. If the school board doesn’t cut the art program, they might still fire her for breaking the law.

  I grab my things and head to Whitney’s place, calling her on the way so she isn’t blindsided by my visit. She sounds happy to hear from me, but that’s because she’s assuming I’m coming by to spend the afternoon with her, not to get her to give me the details of Oliver Strauss’s unprofessional behavior so I can take down Priority News.

  I park out front and let out a deep breath. Now or never. I have to write this if I want to keep my job. Not that I think Mr. Monohan would fire me for this alone, but I’d go back to writing the fluff pieces, and I’ll never advance in my career that way.

  Her front door opens, and she leans against the doorway with one hand on her hip. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and yoga pants, which leads me to believe she was painting again. I can’t help smiling. She looks so much more relaxed than she did yesterday. I’m not sure if she’s come to terms with the fact that she’s done all she can to sway the school board and the rest is up to fate, or if our day together really did help ease her tension. I’d like to think it’s both. Though it really doesn’t matter because I’m about to bring that tension right back.

  I get out of the car, and she cocks her head. “I thought you were going to sit there and stare at me.”

  I shut the door and approach her. “I admit I was enjoying the view.” I step up to her and kiss her lightly on the lips. “This is better, though.”

  She smiles and places a palm to my chest. “It is, but it’s even better inside away from the cold.” She takes two steps back, allowing me to come in.

  “It smells incredible in here,” I say, sniffing like a dog looking for a treat.

  “I made cinnamon bread.” She gestures over her shoulder to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

  “If you’re offering,” I say, following her to the kitchen. The bread is on the stove, and I can tell it’s still warm from the way the air around it seems to shimmer from the steam.

  “I slept in this morning,” she says, grabbing two small plates from the cabinet over the stove. “After eating a late breakfast, I wasn’t in the mood for lunch. So I made this instead.”

  “Did I keep you up too late last night?” I ask, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around her from behind and have a repeat of our afternoon activity yesterday that resulted in me staying well past dinner.

  She turns around at the same time that she opens a drawer and removes a knife.

  “Whoa,” I say, holding my hands up.

  She smirks. “You know I wouldn’t use a knife on you. If I did, who would come to my rescue the next time I get myself into a predicament? The day is young. I’m sure I’ll get into some sort of trouble before sundown.”

  I lower my hands. “About that.”

  Her face falls. “What now?”

  “I was actually at work before I came here.”

  “On a Sunday? Don’t you newspaper people ever take a day off?”

  “The news doesn’t, so there are always people at the office. We tend to rotate which weekends we work, though.” I gesture to the cinnamon bread. “Want me to cut that?” I’m stalling, and very badly at that.

  She waves the knife in the air. “You keep talking. I’ve got this.” She turns to slice the bread, which makes saying this a little easier since I can’t see the expression on her face.

  “My boss told me to write about the incident with Oliver Strauss yesterday.”

  She stops cutting the bread but doesn’t turn to face me. “Are you saying you’re here for work purposes?”

  “Yes, but also because I want to see you.”

  “What’s the point of writing it if I’m not pressing charges?” She still won’t look at me.

  “I don’t really have a choice here, Whitney.”

  She turns to face me, the knife clutched in her fist. “You always have a choice. I had a choice when I painted those murals. I had a choice when I confessed to Officer Rodriguez. And I have a choice as to whether or not I want to go public with the way Oliver Strauss behaved yesterday.”

  I nod. “You do. If you don’t want to be interviewed, I’ll state that in the article.”

  “Thank you,” she says, turning back to the bread and continuing to slice it.

  “The problem is if you don’t tell your side, people will think it’s because of the murals. That
you’re avoiding it to save face.”

  “I am. I failed, Alex.” She puts the knife down and walks out of the kitchen without looking at me.

  I follow her, but I don’t press. She’ll talk to me when she’s ready.

  She starts for the door, and for a moment I think she’s trying to get rid of me, but then she stops at a door under the stairs. It must be a coat closet or something. She opens it, and I see the space is larger than I thought. It’s a small room, probably intended to be a pantry closet. She has an easel set up and a stool in front of it. The floor is littered with newspapers, I’m assuming to catch spills. She walks over to a few canvases lined up against one wall and flips through them. She removes one and turns it so it’s facing me. It’s a woman who looks a lot like Whitney, but she’s older with wrinkles in the corners of her eyes.

  “It’s my mother,” she says. “I painted this from memory the day I found out about the proposed budget cuts. I can’t help but think the reason why I painted this on that day was because she was trying to tell me something. Like she was trying to tell me to fight, because that’s what she would have done.”

  “You did fight,” I say, moving toward her.

  She holds up her hand. “Not hard enough. Nothing I did made any difference. The superintendent of schools already informed the principal that the cuts will go through on Tuesday night. The meeting is nothing more than a formality.” She laughs, which isn’t expected at all. “It’s true what they say about teachers. We teach because we aren’t good enough to do what we really want. I can’t become a starving artist, Alex.”

  I’m not sure if my next suggestion will be met with appreciation or if it will result in Whitney ending things between us completely, but I don’t know what else to offer her right now. “There’s a position as a staff writer at the paper if you want it.”

  “Wow.” She inhales sharply. “That’s your answer. Give up my art and become a writer.” She nods. “You know, as bad as Oliver Strauss was yesterday, at least he didn’t suggest I don’t have the talent to make it as an artist.”