Turning my head, I use the tip of my tongue to lick the helix of his ear. The instant my tongue touches his skin, a gravelly, and not so ladylike, sound leaves me. He tastes like citrus and sweat and sex.
“Nate,” I whisper, sounding as desperate as I feel.
He groans, gripping my hip tighter, but makes no other move.
I say it again.
His response is a nip to my shoulder.
My back arches off the pillow as I gasp, causing my body to shift lower.
This gets his attention.
He moves so he’s hovering over me, eyes wild, breathing erratic. Needy.
I tilt my chin up as he lowers his head, and our eyes lock onto each other’s. His mouth opens, as does mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. No. This lothario grazes my bottom lip with his teeth, teasing me - a perfected sport, I’m sure - before disappearing into the crook of my neck, kissing, licking, biting.
This is so, so good.
He kisses across my collarbone, up my throat, across my jaw, then finally – fucking, finally - his fevered lips descend on mine, and -
“Well, this is interesting.”
He curses under his breath, right as I whisper, “So close.”
Mia is dead.
So. Fucking. Dead.
How did I not hear the door?
Nate stands, adjusting his shirt, among other things.
“Mia.” He addresses her with a nod.
“Nate,” she mocks.
And I cover my head with a pillow, trying to come up with one good reason I shouldn’t throw her ass out and get my key back.
“I brought chocolate chip cookies,” she sings, but that is so not enough right now.
I sit up, huffing, my face the picture of rage, I’m sure, fully intending on unleashing it on her, but the little bitch throws the gauntlet.
“The unbaked kind.” She smirks.
Cookie dough, my one true guilty pleasure in life.
Damn her.
I’m assuming my face reverted quickly if her obnoxious laugh is any indicator.
She looks at Nate. “When it comes to Lolli, everyone’s second best next to chocolate chip cookie dough.”
Nate smiles, nodding his head, as if that doesn’t surprise him one bit.
It’s unnerving.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Shawna’s party?” Mia asks him, still standing in the same spot.
I’m waiting for him to make an excuse, dodge the question, and shuffle out at the speed of lighting, but Mr. Monroe is full of surprises.
He walks over to Mia, motions for the bag in her hands - which she gives to him, eyeing him with a bewildered expression - then plops down on the couch, right next to me.
“Nope,” he tells her, not bothering to turn around and look at her. “I’m right where I want to be.”
I look back at Mia, who’s still frozen is the same spot, and shrug, a clear ‘I have no fucking idea’ look on my face.
“Uh, alright then. I...” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m gonna go.”
“Bye, Mia,” he sings.
She doesn’t respond, but locks the door on her way out.
I turn to Nate just as he looks at me and we both double over laughing.
I reach over and snag the bag from his hands, eyeing him suspiciously.
“What?” he quirks a dark brow at me, a playful smile on his lips as he settles into the cushions.
“Gotta say it,” I tilt my head slightly. “I was expecting you to make some excuse about a forgotten assignment or something else as equally lame as to why you’re here.”
He narrows his eyes and gazes at me for a few seconds before turning his attention to the suddenly fascinating pizza box on the coffee table. “Why is that exactly?” he asks the pizza box.
My brows lift. “Well…” Then I think about it and come up with nothing. I watched him parade around at that first party with two different chicks and I see the way he is with girls at school. “Honestly, I have no idea. Guess I jumped the gun on that one. I mean, you clearly have no shame in your game.” I shrug.
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and cuts me an irritated glance over his shoulder. “I don’t play games, Kalani.” When I scoff at him, he turns his massive body toward me. “I don’t.” His voice is adamant. “I always make it clear. They know what it is and what it’s not. That’s how most of ’em prefer it.” He lifts a shoulder. “Bragging rights.” He looks away and I get the feeling he’s a little embarrassed or maybe ashamed. Not that he’d ever admit that.
“Sooo...” It’s clear I don’t believe him. “You’re saying they don’t want to be carried around on your arm?”
“There are always some who want more, but we’ve got to be careful. We’re all viewed as meal tickets at this point.”
“Seriously?” My brows pinch. “Like, Varsity Blues shit?”
His lips smash into a tight line, and he cocks a brow so perfect I could draw that shit on.
“You know.” I roll my wrist. “Star player and cheerleader in ‘love’, he gets hurt, gets dumped, then she goes balls out, trying to get his buddy with a whipped cream bikini?”
He throws his head back, laughing, and I watch as his Adam’s apple bounces up and down. “Yeah, Kalani. Just like that.”
“That sucks. Guess I get it, though.”
He glances back at me, a small smile now tipping his lips. “I may not play games, but if I want something,” his gaze flicks to my mouth, “I make sure I get it.” His eyes are meaningful, his smirk deadly. “I just never found anything I wanted to keep before.”
Before.
Before.
Shit.
I shove the bag of cookie dough into his chest. “Here, have some.”
He leans back and laughs, pulling out a nice big chunk of heaven.
Then, we watch Angels in the Outfield in comfortable silence while eating raw cookie dough.
Beep.
Tired of staring at the blank white walls, I lay my head down on the stupid scratchy blanket.
What? Have these things been washed, like, a gazillion times?
No wonder people hate hospitals. It’s nothing but bad food, uncomfortable bedding, and never-ending white walls. Everywhere you look, it’s bleak.
Empty.
Lifting Papa’s hand, I place mine under his, and lace our fingers together. Instantly, I can breathe. I’m safe. Closing my eyes tight, I gently squeeze. “I’m here,” I whisper.
Beep.
His once strong hand lies motionless in mine. “Remember the first College Bowl game you took me to?” I ask softly, knowing he can’t respond. “I got to go down and meet the players before the game.” I smile at the memory.
“I was so scared, Papa,” I whisper, the first tear spilling from my eyes.
“I didn’t want to go,” I remember, biting the inside of my cheek to try and stay strong. “You bent down in front of me and asked me what I was afraid of, and I told you I didn’t want to be alone, and you,” I take in a shuddered breath, “you grabbed my hand, and told me that you had me. That no matter what, you’d always have me. Then you squeezed my hand, like you always did, and told me to be brave.” Tears now fall from my eyes at an unstoppable rate.
“That nurse said I have to say goodbye to you. Doesn’t she know we don’t do goodbyes?” My attempted laugh comes out as a broken whimper and I quickly slam my free hand against my mouth to hide the sound, then force myself to look at his face.
He looks like my Papa, but he doesn’t. His big blue eyes are closed, not shining and bright. His ever-present laugh lines, nowhere to be found. I just want to hear his voice, see him smile. Just one more time.
Beep.
I squeeze his hand.
I’m here.
“I’m…scared, Papa. I don’t know how to be brave.” I nod my head frantically. “But I will be.” I reach up and run my fingers over his silver eyebrows. “For you, I will be. Always.” I let my hand slide dow
n his face.
“You can go to sleep...” More tears stream down my face, but I have to be brave. “Go to sleep, and I’ll wake up for you.”
“Ms. Embers?” a soft, hesitant voice calls from the doorway, and I drop my head back down.
Beep.
“Please, go.” I hear the desperate plea in my voice. When I hear a soft cry, I look up at the nurse standing in the doorway.
Tears fall from her eyes as she shakes her head back and forth, opening her mouth, then closing it.
She says nothing.
Beep.
“Please…can you give me this time?” I say, my voice getting louder, tighter. “I just need more time.”
“Ms. Embers, I’m afraid there’s been an accident…” She trails off, her eyes focusing on the floor.
My body tenses, and I immediately place my other hand on top of Papa’s, caging it. Shielding him.
I’m here.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I jolt up in my bed, gasping for air.
It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus on the room around me.
Teal walls. Not white.
I drop back onto my pillow, but freeze when I still hear the beeping.
My breathing ceases, then I realize my alarm is going off.
Scrambling onto my knees, I rip it from the wall and toss it on the floor.
I hurry off my bed, throw on a sweatshirt and sweats, and storm out of my room.
Once in the entryway, I lace up my sneakers and bolt out the door.
Not bothering to stretch, I take off, full stride. The moment my feet hit the pavement, I can breathe again.
I focus on the leaves’ movements.
I focus on the roll of my foot.
I focus on the chilled air as it stuns my lungs.
I focus on everything around, yet, nothing at all.
Perfection.
In a rush, I burst into the house, slam the door, kick off my shoes, and strip out of my sweatshirt. By the time I make it to the bathroom, I’m naked.
I step into the shower and turn it on, hissing as the cold water hits my skin, but I don’t move.
It only takes a few seconds to heat and I turn, soaking my hair the rest of the way.
With a deep inhale, I lean against the shower wall, eyes closed.
Stop, Kalani.
I curse myself for acting like a little bitch and hurry to finish my shower.
After throwing on a pair of black joggers and a light pink, V-neck t-shirt, I brush my teeth and hair, turn on a random playlist, then head into the kitchen.
Right as I pull the eggs out of the fridge, the doorbell rings.
I glance at the clock on the stove and smirk.
Nine-twenty-nine.
“Good morning, Nathaniel,” I say as I open the door, sweeping my hand out as his permission to enter.
He gives me a bright grin. “Hey.”
I can hear the excitement in his voice, which is ridiculous.
“Hey yourself.” I walk past him and he follows.
Once I get my coffee going, I glance up at him. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”
He shrugs from his spot on the barstool, but does nothing to hide his smile.
It’s a nice smile. The left side rests just a hair higher than the right, but not in a cocky way. Well, not at the moment, anyway.
He has perfect movie star teeth, too.
I roll my eyes.
Of course he does.
“Here.” I hand him a freshly-brewed cup. “I only have Peppermint Mocha creamer. If you don’t like that, well, too damn bad, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders, making him chuckle.
After switching the burner on to heat the pan, I get the mix ready.
“Interesting morning?” he muses.
My brows pull in and I turn to him, wondering what the hell he’s referring to.
He motions to my clothes sporadically thrown around the entrance.
I turn back to the stove. “I went for a run and was in a hurry to get in the shower after.”
He laughs.
It’s fake as shit, but I don’t care to know why.
I place the first few slices in the hot pan, then pick up my coffee cup. Leaning my hip against the counter, I shift to face Nate.
His brows pinch together as he stares at me. “You alright?”
I straighten my spine and turn back to the task at hand. “’Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
It sounds strange, but I can feel the weight of his stare on me. “You seem, I don’t know, upset.” He lets out a deep breath.
I steady my breathing before glancing back to him, giving him a sideways smile. “I’m good, Monroe.” Last names are much less personal.
His deep brown eyes narrow, searching my face, before he nods.
I watch as he rolls his broad shoulders, taking a drink of his coffee.
“You sore?” I ask.
“A little bit, but nothing out of the norm.”
“How do you treat it?” Reaching up to get the plates out of the cupboard, I glance at him when he doesn’t answer.
His eyes are eating up my midriff that’s now exposed. When my feet are once again flat on the tile, his eyes raise to mine and an unapologetic smirk plays on his lips.
I roll my eyes, making him chuckle.
God, that sound…
Get a grip, Kalani.
I place the syrup, powdered sugar, butter, and bacon on the bar.
“I don’t usually do much. Ice packs, for sure. If it’s hurting continuously, I’ll throw a heat pack on it. It’ll be fine come Monday.”
I put the French toast on a platter and walk over, sitting down next to Nate. “So, you just deal with it all weekend? That’s hella dumb.”
He laughs. “I guess, but not much you can do. It’s the name of the game.”
“Uh-huh. Here.” I push the pile toward him. “Grab what you want.”
I place a slice of French toast on my plate, spread on the butter, shake on a yummy amount of powdered sugar, and top it off with a layer of syrup. I bring my first bite to my lips when I realize he hasn’t moved.
I look up at him and he’s staring at me with a strange expression on his face. “What?”
“Nothing.” He grins.
I drop my fork to my plate and turn toward him. “Spill it.”
“You’re just full of surprises, that’s all.”
“You said you liked French toast and bacon. I said I’d make you some. You said yes. What the hell is surprising about that?” I’m agitated because he’s…I don’t even know what he is, but I don’t think I like it. “You were well-aware I was making breakfast. So, stop being weird and eat.” I turn back to my food and take a huge bite, my eyes rolling back at the deliciousness.
Nate makes his plate and begins eating next to me.
“What I meant was, you’re a breath of fresh air,” he mutters between bites.
I look over at him and flutter my eyelashes. “That’s because I’m shiny and new,” I say with a mouth full, making us both laugh.
“Nah, you’re just…different, that’s all.”
What a line.
I grab another slice and add all my goods.
“You’ll be high on sugar by the time you’re done,” he teases.
I smile. “My grandpa always said I’d be bouncing off the walls in no time.” He laughs and I freeze.
I jump off the stool and turn toward the hallway. “Be right back.”
I hold my breath until I step into my room. Shutting the door behind me, I lean against it.
What the fuck?
Why did I just say that?
I never, and I mean ne-ver, talk about…stuff.
I’m like a Starbucks menu. What you see is what you get, however, the true connoisseur, or those closest to you, know about the secret menu; things others don’t know about. But that shit’s never advertised, and it sure as shit isn’t volunteered information.
So, yeah…what the fuck?
<
br /> Closing my eyes, I place my palms against my temples and give my head a little shake. When I open them, I see it.
The cord to the alarm.
You!
Of course. The dream, or flashback, has me all jacked up in the head right now.
That’s all it is.
Okay. Okay. Rolling my shoulders, I release a deep breath.
That being the reason for my word vomit I can handle.
I walk into the kitchen, my head held high, and take my seat next to Nate.
“So, did you have fun at the game on Friday?” Nate asks, his attention on his plate.
I look up at him, and he glances at me briefly and winks.
Why he’s giving me the out, I don’t know, but I take it.
“It was fun. You guys played great. A few quirks here and there that need fine-tuning, but I’m sure Coach P. will handle it.”
His face is a mixture of shock and amusement.
I can’t help but smirk. “You thought I was going to sit here and gush over how well you played, and how good you looked doing it?”
“I figured, yeah,” he replies honestly, leaning back in his stool.
“And that, bucko, was your first mistake.”
His eyes me. “I’m beginning to understand that assumptions are not the way to go when it comes to you.”
“Correct you are.” I set my fork down and turn toward him. “If there is one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I’m honest, Nate.” His brows are pulled in, like he’s completely focused on what I’m saying, his eyes holding mine.
“If you ever need to know something, ask me.” I shrug my shoulders.
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why are you always honest?” His eyes roam my face.
“I don’t see the point of being any other way. Dishonesty is a pointless trait. All it does is cause problems and distrust.” I hold his dark gaze.
I really should just shut up, but I’m already right there. “I may not care what others think about me, but I refuse to give anyone a reason to doubt me. Honesty is the only way to avoid that. Plus, if you’re honest, people know what to expect. No one gets caught off guard.”
He breaks eye contact, clearing his throat in the process. “Good to know.”
I hop off the stool and start cleaning up.
“Do you have plans today?” Nate asks, his voice straining for indifference, but when I glance at him, I find him moving imaginary food around on his plate.
Fumbled Hearts (A Tender Hearts Novel) Page 9