by DM Davis
I try to hide my embarrassment in his shoulder, but he pushes back when he sees my full-body blush.
Shock mars his handsome face. “Has nobody ever…” He sits up, pulling me with him. “Bloody hell, has no man ever kissed you there?”
I’m thankful he refrains from using a graphic description. I shake my head, unable to verbalize my shame that no one ever wanted to.
“Bloody hell.” His jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow. He’s stunned into silence, which stretches between us.
When I can’t take it anymore, fearing the worst, I whisper, “I’m sorry,” feeling like I’ve failed him.
He frowns. “Sorry? What in the world do you have to be sorry for?”
“For not—”
“No.” He cuts me off. “Don’t you dare feel bad about this.” His hand caresses my cheek. “How many men have you slept with?”
I sink into the couch, pulling my legs under me, wrapping my arms around myself. “One.”
The reality is harsh. I’m twenty-six years old, and I’ve only had one lover. I’m sure Theo will think it’s because I’m selective, that I chose to only have one, and that my choice was worthy of my virginity. The truth is, he’s the only one who tried. I’m not that sexy girl. Guys have never pursued me. They don’t see me as a sexual creature but as a gal pal to hang out with.
“I know that look.” He picks me up like I’m a bag of flour, settling me on his lap, my legs on either side of his. Firmly, he grips my sides, ensuring I remain anchored to him. “Don’t shut down on me.”
“You don’t understand—”
His tender caress of my cheek increases the likelihood of tears. “You’re right. I don’t. I don’t understand how you can look like this…” His eyes scan my body, my hair, my face before locking on mine. “And have such low self-esteem.”
“I’m nothing special. Guys don’t—”
“Stop.” His palm comes up as if to block my words. His nose flares. His jaw tightens. “You need to stop. I won’t allow such hateful things to be said about you—even if you’re the one doing the talking.”
I appreciate what he’s trying to do. I’m even touched by it, but he needs to understand. I cross my arms, staring him down. “The fact that you don’t want to hear it doesn’t make it any less true.”
“I—”
I squelch his protest with my hand over his mouth and fight the urge to laugh when his eyes widen, and then he scowls at me. “If you’re seriously interested in a relationship with me, then you need to hear me. It’s part of who I am. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t change my opinion of myself or make it go away.” I remove my hand, waiting to see if he’ll protest or let me continue.
“I’m listening.” He’s not happy, but he’s quiet at least.
“Guys don’t see me like you see me. I’ve never been that girl—the popular one, or the one who attracts men. You’re an anomaly, Theo. You see things that aren’t there, or you have some special vision that allows you to see what is, in fact, there, but invisible to others. I don’t know which it is. But it scares me. One day you’re going to break those special glasses of yours and realize I’m nothing special. And then where will I be? The fall from your love will do more than just break my heart. It’ll shatter me.”
“Dove.” His tender reference breaks the dam of my tears. He catches the first few. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you will,” I manage through the flow of waterworks.
“No.”
“Yes,” I insist. I try to push off his lap, but his firm grip keeps me seated. “Even my father…” Shit. Don’t go there.
“What?” His fingers sink into my hair, his hand palming the back of my head, pulling my forehead to his. “Even your father…?”
“No.” I close my eyes, shutting him out.
“Tell me.” It’s a whisper on a breath of frustration.
“No. It’s prosaic.” I push against his grip, meeting his glare. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did.” His hands bracket my face. “You said it yourself. I need to know these things if I plan on having a relationship with you.” His eyes soften into tender brown orbs as he takes a moment. “I plan on having more than just a relationship with you. I’m staking my heart, my future, my everything on you—on us. Now, tell me what you don’t want me to know.”
I hesitate for only a moment, unwilling to hide my shame any longer. He needs to know. He needs to understand my brokenness, my unworthiness. “How can you possibly love me when my own father didn’t love me enough to stick around?”
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. His hands slide down my arms to capture my hands. “How old were you?”
“I was four when my parents divorced.” He knows this. We touched on it briefly.
He nods, studying my hands in his. “How long before he remarried?”
“I was still four.”
His eyes shoot up, his eyebrows question.
I shrug. “I guess he didn’t like being alone. I remember living with him, my mom and brother. Then I remember staying a few times at his apartment. And then I was at his wedding reception—we weren’t allowed at the wedding. I don’t remember much in between. The next thing I know, he has kids, a boy and a girl—like my brother and me, but not us—newer and improved versions, I guess.”
“You felt replaced?”
I shake my head. “I felt unlovable. Like there was something wrong with me.”
He toys with a lock of my hair. “Because if he can’t love you, no one else can?”
“I wasn’t enough—I wasn’t worthy—of his love, his time, his loyalty.”
“Do you feel unworthy now?” He tips my chin, the pad of his thumb rubbing my bottom lip, his eyes on me.
A tear falls free on a single nod.
“You feel unworthy of me?” His voice cracks with emotion.
The brimming of his emotions is hard to witness. I’m used to the weight of my own anguish. It’s difficult to take on his as well.
“Yes.” He deserves my words, not a silent nod.
With a deep breath, he leans back. His head rests on the high back of the couch while his eyes hold me in place. “Do I look at you like you’re unworthy?”
“No.” I’m adamant.
“Do I treat you like you’re unworthy?”
“God, no.” My voice rises perhaps a little too loudly. I won’t have him thinking he’s the cause of my insecurities.
The tips of his fingers caress my cheek as his eyes beseech me. “Do I touch you like you’re unworthy?”
I lean into his touch, holding his hand to my cheek. “No. This isn’t about you.”
His brows arch. “But it is. Not because I make you feel unworthy, but because you doubt me. You doubt my fortitude, my commitment to you.”
“I doubt my worthiness.”
“Which makes you doubt me, my feelings, my ability to love you in spite of—or perhaps because of—your lack of confidence.”
I shake my head, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. How did me feeling bad about myself turn into doubting him? “I didn’t…I’m not…ugh. I don’t know! I’d never thought of it like that. I believe your feelings are genuine. I don’t think you’re lying to me—if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He nods, contemplative. “How about we eat and think on it?” He’s so calm and patient. And I’m a brewing storm.
I stand and walk to the kitchen, my back to him as I stare at the pots on the stove, making no attempt to get dinner ready.
I feel his presence before he even touches me. He hugs me from behind, burying his face in my neck. I wrap my arms around his, leaning into him, letting him hold me.
“I don’t want to leave it like this.” The sour pit in my stomach ensures my discomfort is both physical and emotional.
“How do you want to leave it?” His lips graze my jaw before he presses a kiss near my ear.
“I feel disconnected. I’
m sick to my stomach like I’ve ruined something between us.”
I gasp as he spins me around, lifts me to the counter, and settles between my legs.
“There’s nothing ruined between us. I learned a lot of things I didn’t know before. I need time to process.” My head tilted up to him, he barely touches his forehead and the bridge of his nose to mine. “But know this, I’m not that easily swayed, Lauren. I’m not going anywhere.” He kisses me tenderly. “Take a breather. Let’s eat. We can finish this discussion when we get back tonight, or we can skip the music thing entirely.”
“I don’t want to miss meeting your friends. Unless…you’re having doubts.”
He chuckles. “Dove, the only doubt I have is my ability to abstain from ravishing every inch of you. And now that I’ve tasted you, it’s bloody near impossible.”
“Tell me about Susan James. How was your conference with her?”
She takes a bite of spaghetti, her eyes clear of the emotions that nearly had me pinning her to her bed and demonstrating exactly how much I’m not leaving her. She has no idea, but she will. Before this night is over, she will have no doubt about my feelings or my intentions.
And damn her father for every making her feel undeserving of love. Just thinking about the way he got inside her head and planted these seeds of insecurity make my hands shake with rage.
“She arrived right on time. Plopped herself down in the chair in front of my desk as if she owned the place. She was quite flirtatious. I was relieved when you called. We hadn’t gotten too far in our discussion. I ignored the fact that she was even there. I’m pretty sure she got the idea I was talking to my girlfriend, but I emphasized the point after we hung up. She was surprised and didn’t stay long after that. She couldn’t leave fast enough, in fact.” I pause, expelling a breath, letting go of the stress of Miss James. “Thank you for that. I hope she’ll back off now.”
“I’m glad it worked—at least for today. I might have to pay you a visit to make my presence more known.” Her smile is devious, and I relish her claim over me.
“You definitely need to wear that dress when you come.” I point to her boots in the corner. “And those, to be sure.” I tip my head, watching her blush as I take a drink. “Maybe I’ll be the one to lay you out on my desk and rip your clothes off. Fair’s fair.”
Her laugh is genuine and further eases the stress of the day. Though, I’m filled with questions from our earlier discussion.
After a few minutes of contemplative consumption of dinner, I give in to my most pressing question. “How is it that only one man has made love to you?”
She cringes and closes her eyes momentarily. “Don’t say it like that. He was not a man.” She points to me. “Not like you. He was a boy in comparison.”
I’m proud she thinks me more of a man than her previous lover, but it pisses me off that he wasn’t the kind of man who deserved her—or the gift of her virginity.
“…And he didn’t make love to me.” She shudders. “Ugh, it’s unbearable to even say it.” Her hands cover her face momentarily. “I’m ashamed I lost my virginity to him. I thought it was more than it was—I thought he was more than he was.”
Her eyes flash to mine before returning to her plate. “You’ve shown me more kindness and respect than he ever did.”
My anger flares. My need to claim her, to show her what making love to a real man feels like surges through me. I reach out, touching her face, turning her towards me. “You deserve better than that. I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. I can hear the argument on her lips before she even verbalizes it. “No. I deserve exactly what I got. It’s not his fault. I’m the one who didn’t stick to my plan to wait. It’s my burden to bear, not his. My talking negatively about him is more about me and my shame, and not really about him. He was nice. He didn’t hurt me or anything. He wasn’t what I wanted, or needed, but I was lonely, and he noticed me when no one else did.”
She’s killing me.
Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders. Her eyes lock with mine. “It was my responsibility to be more—to be better—not his.”
If I wasn’t impressed with her warrior’s heart before, I am now. This woman who has been through so much, more than her share, instead of coming out a victim, she owns it. She takes responsibility, not because it’s her fault, but because she’s a fighter, and fighters don’t bow down. They stand tall and take the blows, reinforcing the barricade protecting their tender heart, waiting until it’s time to fight back.
“It’s honorable to take the blame. But you’re too hard on yourself, and I’m still sorry this guy was your first experience.” I stop her protest with a kiss on the lips, and then whisper, “Nothing you say will change my opinion on that.”
We continue eating in silence. She twirls spaghetti on her fork, her brow furrowed, contemplative. As I eat, I’m enthralled by the thoughts that flit across her face. Some I can read. Others are a loss, but no less intriguing.
Her lips quirk as she slips a bite into her mouth. I need to know what brought about that whimsical smile.
Before I can ask, her gaze slides to me, her smile gone and her bright eyes shining with regret. “I wish it had been you.”
She has no idea. “Me too, Dove. Me too.” Lifting her hand, I press a kiss to her knuckles then to each fingertip. “From here forward, it’s you and me. No more regrets.”
On a shy smile, she blushes her agreement.
Full, she pushes her plate away. “I saw your email about the three-day weekend coming up. I sent a note to my boss and put it in as a vacation day. I don’t think it will be a problem, but I’ll let you know when I hear back. Probably tomorrow.”
It’s short notice. Hopefully her boss won’t reject her request if he knows it’s to spend time with me. She may not believe he sees her as more than an employee, but I know differently. I saw the look in his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, and the protective stance he took over my girl. He’s no fool, and neither am I. “Does Tyler know we’re together?”
Her brows disappear under her curly bangs. “No. Why?”
“I was wondering if he’ll approve the request if he knows it’s to spend time with me.”
She laughs, taking her plate to the kitchen. “You almost sound jealous. Tyler and I don’t talk about that kind of stuff. I don’t know who he dates, and he has no idea if I date or not.” Returning to the table, her hands resting on the back of her chair, she pins me with her soul-searching blue-eyed gaze. “He wouldn’t care even if he knew.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.” I stand and kiss her forehead as I pass, taking my plate to the kitchen.
My vision greatly underestimates the impact she has on me. I have no doubt she’s just as oblivious to the effect she has on Tyler and men in general. They may not be beating down her door, but make no mistake, she is not as invisible as she believes. I don’t require special glasses to see the gift that she is.
Even a blind man could feel the heat radiating from her shining essence, and Tyler’s eyes work perfectly fine.
I RUN TO THE BATHROOM, FRESHEN my breath and reapply lip balm. Lipstick is a waste when Theo is around. He’ll only wipe it off before he kisses me again and again.
When I come out, he has his coat on and mine in his hands, holding it up for me. I put my arms in, and he slips it over my shoulders, then untucks my hair, placing a kiss on the sensitive spot behind my ear.
“Ready?” His breath accompanies the goosebumps his lips sent coursing across my skin.
“Yes.” As I’ll ever be.
We lock up and head to his car. I shiver from the chilly night air. The temperature has dropped significantly from when I left work this afternoon. “It definitely feels like snow is comin’.”
He raises his ever-expressive eyebrows and smiles. “I’m staying either way, remember?”
God, how could I forget? “I remember.”
Theo opens the passenger door, holding my hand, as I get in. I e
xpect him to close my door, but instead he reaches over and buckles my seatbelt, his nose buried in my hair. “I may never leave.” His gruff voice is so soft, I’m not sure he even meant for me to hear.
Closing my door, he rounds the car, placing the brownies in the backseat, gets in, and quickly starts the engine and turns up the heat.
We make it to Dan’s a little after seven. It’s a large house near the SMU campus with a circular drive long and wide enough for all the cars to park behind each other and still have room to pass. Which is good, considering the streets are narrow in this part of Highland Park and don’t allow for curbside parking. Having a party here would be a nightmare. Not that I’m a party kinda girl, but it’s a detail, and well, I love the details.
Theo turns the car off, taking my hand. “Nervous?”
Very. “Yes.” I give him a bright smile, not wanting him to worry.
His lips press to our joined hands. “Don’t be. They’ll love you.”
I pray the reception will be warmer than that of the faculty-wives-stick-up-their-asses club. Curious is fine, but downright cold and judgy I can do without.
Releasing me, he grabs the brownies and steps out on a, “Don’t move.”
He opens my door, offering his hand. Once outside, I tuck my collar up under my chin and eye the impressive home. This is the older part of Highland Park where the houses haven’t been knocked down to build new lot-busting mansions that barely fit, like me when I try to squeeze into a pair of jeans two sizes too small—not that I do that anymore. But there was definitely a time when I did regularly.
“Would you mind holding these? I need to get my guitar out of the boot.” He places the brownies in my proffered hands as I stifle my laugh, remembering the British term for trunk.
Opening the boot, he slings his guitar case over his shoulder and takes my hand. Before he knocks, he leans down and gives me a gentle kiss. “You look beautiful. Don’t be nervous. You already know Marcus and heard a bit about Reese. The other guys will love you.” Another Kiss. “Ready?”
