by L. B. Dunbar
“When my mother died, I saw his true colors. He didn’t even come to the funeral.” My head falls back, and I stare up at the ceiling. It’s hard to admit I mean so little to him.
“Were you close to your mother?”
“You could call it a love-hate relationship. She was one of my best friends, but she constantly had her moments when she didn’t hesitate to remind me she was my mother. Judgment was her middle name, next to bitter and alcohol.”
He nods as if he understands, but by the hints I’ve had of him with his mother and his sisters, I’d say he probably doesn’t. His eyes jump to the bottle next to the bed.
“Sorry about that. I just thought it would help.”
I don’t want to lie. Seeing alcohol sitting next to the bed made me think of Rusty. The constant bottle near his bed and the amount he would consume. But I also appreciate Garrett’s intentions. He really is trying to help me.
“You’re a good man, Garrett Fox.”
A hint of pink covers his cheeks, and he nudges my foot. “Now, don’t go ruining my reputation.”
I chuckle softly. “Somehow, I think you’ve ruined it all on your own.” I look down at the monogram on the thick robe. “Ritz-Carlton? Let me guess. Weekend rendezvous, and you stole it as a souvenir.”
“Ha-ha. I didn’t steal it. They allow you to take them and then charge you a small fortune for one.”
“You left out the weekend rendezvous.”
“She was expensive as well,” he teases, but then he flips onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to share all my escapades with you, though.” His head rolls to the side to face me. “This isn’t about me tonight.” His eyes remain on mine as if he’s digging, as if he’s excavating for my soul. I swallow a lump in my throat.
How many women has he been good to like this?
“Want something to eat?”
“I’m not really hungry.” I stifle a yawn.
“Tired?” he asks, his voice softening. “I’m not judging, but you sleep an awful lot.”
I nod again. “I do. It seems I’m making up for years of not sleeping.”
“Are you depressed?”
“Maybe.” There’s nothing wrong with depression. I know many people suffer from it, and many women my age develop it. I just hadn’t considered it for myself.
“When my dad left, my mom was depressed. She was anxious, too. She thought we were all going to leave her or die. She had to take pills to keep herself on track. It’s not a bad thing,” he adds, leveling his eyes on me. “She’s better with them.”
“I’m just going through something…” My voice drifts off. I’ve actually read about it this week. Adjustment disorder. It’s when a major change in your life occurs—by natural circumstances or unexpectedly—and the body can shut down, or emotions run deeper than regular. I’m not self-diagnosing, but it sounds more likely that I have this condition. I don’t want to blow it off as a phase, but some recommendations include exercise and staying busy—neither of which I have been doing until the past few days.
I’m not certain keeping busy helped.
“How about some mindless television?” Garrett rolls for the remotes on the opposite stand and clicks on the television. The sound comes loud, filling the room.
“Sorry about that. I play Fortnite when I can’t sleep.”
“Isn’t that a video game for kids?”
“I’m a child at heart.”
I stare at the flat screen as he lowers the volume and switches to the guide.
“I heard you through the wall one night.”
He stares back at me. “Playing Fortnite?”
I shake my head. “With Blondie.”
“Alicia?” His eyes widen. “You think…” His voice halts as he chokes. “I don’t have sex in here.” He’s almost appalled at the suggestion.
“What?”
“This is my domain. I don’t share this space with hookups.” His crass explanation startles me, and I blink. He scrolls through the channels as he asks, “What did you hear?”
“Something about get it and go left. Right there, I think.”
He laughs in response. “That was definitely video game speak. No one says go left during sex.”
I’m a bit mortified we’re having this conversation, so I keep my lips clamped shut for a second.
“And for the record, Alicia and I aren’t a thing. We were once upon a time, but not now and never again.”
“So no hookups in here?” I say, looking around the room. He must be lying. I’ve been in here. I’ve even had an orgasm in this bed. Granted, I was alone but still. “What about me?”
“You’re not a hookup, sweetheart,” he says, narrowing his eyes as he glares at me.
Of course not, I think. I’m a hot mess. Why would he possibly want to hook up with me?
12
Gratitude is the attitude
[Garrett]
I can’t get her to eat before she grows drowsy from the warming whiskey. However, I’m starving, plus I need to take Wally out, so I excuse myself to make a quick sandwich and eat it while I walk my dog. When I return to the bedroom, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands gripping the mattress.
“What are you doing?”
“I should go,” she says, her voice groggy and rough. “It’s getting late.” She presses off the bed and stands on wobbly legs. Her hands smooth down the thick terrycloth. Her clothes are ruined, so she’ll have to cross the hall in the robe.
I’m not a cuddler. I don’t hold women after sex. If I spend the night, we separate, each to our own side of the bed. So it’s a shock when I don’t hesitate to step forward and wrap an arm around Dolores’s middle. I speak into her hair at the nape of her neck.
“Don’t leave.” She stills under my embrace. “Just let me hold you tonight.”
Her breath hitches, and her stomach flinches under my forearm. I don’t want to remind her again, no funny business. I promise myself I won’t touch her below the waist. Though it was nearly impossible not to get a glimpse of her sweet tits in the shower. I’m a man, what can I say? I peeked, but I didn’t react. Okay, I did react, but I didn’t touch. I swallowed back my desire and willed my dick to settle. Keeping my boxers on helped contain my erection from nudging against her naked ass. Her fine naked ass. Her fine heart-shaped ass.
“Okay,” she whispers.
Thank fuck. I give a little internal cheer of victory. I’m convinced her Rusty might be like me. Well, at least in the cuddle category. But tonight, I’m making an exception to many rules. She’s going to stay in my bed, and I’m going to hold her to me all night.
I pull back the duvet, and she climbs under the sheet. She’s still wrapped in the robe, which won’t be comfortable to sleep in, but I don’t want her changing out of it. Heaven help me, she can’t sleep naked. I crawl over her and scoot under the sheets as well. Molding my body along the curve of hers, my knees bend, my arm drapes over her waist, and my face nestles into her hair. She smells like me, from my shampoo and soap, and I find I like the scent on her. I’d like other scents on her—like our bodies mingling and sweat mixing—but not tonight. Tonight, I tug her to my chest and squeeze my arm around her as if I can’t get her close enough. Which I can’t.
She’s fitful in her sleep, muttering and grunting, and I want to settle her dreams. Eventually, she presses my arm off her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as she sits up.
“I’m too warm, and the robe is hard to sleep in.” She rolls her neck near the thick folded material.
“Top drawer. I have T-shirts and boxer shorts if you’d like.”
The room is dark, but I see her nod. She presses off the mattress and stands. I watch her cross my room and then open the dresser drawer. She removes one item and bends at the waist, stepping into my boxer briefs. Suddenly, the robe slips from her shoulders, exposing her back to me like it was in the shower. She’s pear-shaped—bigger hips that taper inward at her waist�
��and I want a bite. Her spine cuts a river up her back, and I want to lick the path. She slips a T-shirt over her head, then pulls her hair free. I could watch her dress for the rest of my life, and the thought startles me.
She spins in my direction, then bends down to pick up the robe and returns to the bed. She folds herself back into the space she left, reaching for my arm to cover her waist. I smile to myself as I breathe her in again.
“I think you’re starting to unrust,” she murmurs.
“What?” I chuckle.
“That heart you say you don’t have? I think I hear it ticking, Tin Man.”
I press a kiss to her covered shoulder and snicker. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Dorothy. It’s only temporary.”
“Good to know,” she says, but then she pauses. “But thank you all the same.”
“Anytime, stunner.” I smile into her back.
“Why do you call me that?” she asks in a sleepy voice.
“Because you’re stunning.”
She chuckles softly. “I’m a hot mess.”
“Hot being the appropriate word,” I mutter. She twists to look at me over her shoulder, causing her backside to press against me. The slight brush of her ass against my lower region causes an immediate reaction, and my hand comes to her hip.
“I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman,” I say, leaning forward to press a kiss to her shoulder. “So stop squirming.”
“What if I don’t want you to be decent with me?” Her voice is hardly a whisper, and I stare at the outline of her body in the darkness. She can’t mean what she asks.
“Dolores. Not like this, sweetheart.” I don’t even know why I say that. I could take her, make her lose herself for a little bit, but I don’t think she needs that. She needs me to prove I can control myself.
I nudge her with my nose at her shoulder, and her body shifts. She turns away from me and stiffens as she tries to settle under my arm.
“Of course not,” she mumbles. I don’t ask. I just want to hold her, which is so unlike me.
+ + +
The next morning, I’m making breakfast when Dolores enters my kitchen. She’s wearing my forest green boxer briefs and an old band T-shirt with the robe open over her. I removed my T-shirt when I woke, not used to sleeping in a shirt, so I’m bare-chested as I cook bacon. Dolores’s eyes catch on my chest, widening as she takes in my skin, my abs, and lower. I try to keep fit for someone fifty. It takes more work than it did when I was younger, but I’m proud of the effort. Apparently, so is Dolores because her eyes linger, especially at the treasure trail leading into my pajama pants.
“Like what you see?” I mock, holding my arms out wide for her to take a better glance. Her face heats, and not for the first time, I want to lick the path blossoming on her skin. She turns away, and her breath hitches as she notices my television.
“It’s Thanksgiving!” she shrieks, and her hand lifts to her lips as if she’s horrified. “How did that happen?”
“It’s typically the fourth Thursday of November,” I deadpan. Her head swings back to me, narrowing her eyes at me. My attention drifts to the Thanksgiving Day parade broadcast on the screen. I was supposed to go home, but I missed my flight this morning. I had scheduled it for six a.m., finding the time easier from LAX to Missouri. As if reading my mind, her eyes widened.
“You aren’t supposed to be here, are you?”
I shrug. I don’t like to spend the holidays alone, so I typically head back home. Sometimes, I spend the time with friends in the area. She steps forward, her hands bracing on the island that separates my kitchen from the living space.
“Oh my God.” She panics. “You need to go. I should go.” She steps for the front door, but I’m quick to round the counter and envelop her from behind. My chest leans against her back.
“Look, it’s not a big deal. I missed my flight. I’ll never get out of here now.”
“But it’s a holiday. You should be with your family.”
“What about you?” I ask, still speaking to the back of her head. Her hands grip my forearm around her waist.
“What about me? I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
She stills, straightening from her bent position. “I need to go,” she whispers.
“Or you could stay,” I suggest. “We’ll make a day of it. We can watch movies, hang out. I’ll cook.”
“You don’t have a turkey,” she snorts, looking over her shoulder at me.
“I’ll get one. There has to be a store open or a delivery service running.”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” she screeches again as if this wasn’t the reason for our crazy conversation in the first place.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say, standing taller and forcing her to spin and face me. “Just don’t leave.” I’m starting to sound desperate as I almost beg her not to go.
“Let me cook then,” she says, her arms trapped at her sides as mine wrap around her body, holding her flush to me.
“Deal,” I say, and I can’t help myself as my lips quickly brush hers. I don’t linger like I want. I don’t devour like I crave. Just swipe and step back, leaving her stunned.
“I need to head home for some clothes.” She looks down at her attire and tugs the robe closed.
“We could make it casual Thanksgiving. You don’t need to change.” I wiggle my brows at her, allowing my eyes to roam her body. I like her in that robe, in my boxers, in my condo.
“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, stepping toward the kitchen island.
“Undeniable is what I prefer,” I say, passing her and swatting her ass. My hand wants to grip the tight globes and then press her to the cabinets, but I don’t. I’ll behave, I promise myself. “I need to take Wally out. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
I turn back to her, walking backward down the hall toward my room. “Can I trust you not to leave me?”
Her mouth curves, a genuine smile hinting behind her lips. “You can trust me.”
13
An act of appreciation
[Dolores]
He can trust me, but I want a real shower that will leave me smelling like myself and not the scent of him. The fragrance is too much because it makes me crave him. My body hums from his swat to my backside and the too-quick kiss. Waking in his bed seemed surreal and a bit déjà vu. When I woke a week ago after dog sitting, I’d had the same restful sleep and peaceful comfort—something I hardly experience alone.
We agree I should change clothes. I can’t spend the day in his underwear. I’ve already moistened the center because of the soft, worn material rubbing against my core. I need a rub myself, or I’m not going to make it through the next few hours without throwing myself at him.
When I return to his place, I find him unpacking grocery bags. A small turkey. Boxed stuffing. Potatoes. Cornbread mix. I typically wouldn’t use products from a package, preferring to make things from scratch, but I won’t complain. Again, I feel guilty he missed his flight home.
“I’m sorry about you missing your family.”
He spins to face me. “I’m not.” The sentiment shocks me, but he’s smiling as he speaks.
“How can I help?” I ask, wanting to make myself useful. Then I pause. “Are those Target bags?”
“Yeah, there’s one a few blocks from here.”
Silence falls between us as he realizes what he’s said.
“You liar.” I laugh. Stepping toward him, I reach for a spatula on the counter and wield it like a weapon as I approach him. Raising his hands in defense, he laughs as he steps around his kitchen island. “You said you didn’t know of a Target within fifty miles.”
I’m still chasing him as he jumps over the back of his couch. Wally joins in, yipping and barking at the chaos in his space. Garrett is full-on laughing as we shift left and then right with the couch as a barrier.
“You didn’t need Target. You needed an overhaul.”
“Ah,” I gasp, attempting
to head over the couch like he did, but I don’t have the same stretch as him nor are my legs as long. One leg gets stuck over the back of the furniture before Garrett reaches for my arm. He yanks me forward, my back falling until I hit the cushions, and then he’s over me, straddling my stomach. My wrists are cuffed above my head as Garrett leans forward.
Kiss me, he said when we went to the movie.
Kiss me, I beg.
But he stops himself like he did last night.
“Are you saying I look drab?” I mock.
“I’m saying you had potential.”
“That’s so mean,” I pout.
“Yet look at you now.” His eyes roam over my body. Flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, unbuttoned enough to reveal a cami underneath. A pair of skinny jeans. Flip-flops because we’ll remain inside. “You’re stunning.”
“I’m a mess, remember?” I snark, losing steam.
“A beautiful mess,” he says, his voice catching on the comment.
Kiss me.
He’s lowering, and I swallow, my mouth watering for another taste of him. A real taste of him. His hold on my wrists above my head no longer seems playful but seductive. His thumbs stroke over the sensitive skin. I want him to keep me like this—his captive.
Instead, a loud buzzer beeps, drowning out our panting breaths.
“Oven’s hot,” he mutters, pressing off my arms and shifting off my body.
Me too, I think, but it’s probably for the best I not mention it. He’s allowing me the honor of spending the day with him, and I shouldn’t mess it up by adding anything sexual to the mix.
He lowers a hand, offering to help me stand, and I reach for his. As he tugs me upward, our eyes meet in the way they do, where we seem to be looking, searching, digging for something inside. Then he releases me and scrubs at the back of his neck as he walks toward the oven.
It’s better like this, I remind myself again as I follow him.
We spend the remainder of the day preparing food, sipping wine, and watching a combination of football and movies.
“What’s something you’d really like to do while you’re in California?”
