by Amelia Wilde
He crosses the distance between us and presses his lips against mine, tasting like mints. “Okay. I—” He snaps his mouth closed, like he’s just on the verge of saying something wildly inappropriate, but my heart is already pounding.
There’s a heavy silence now, his arms around my waist, and I break the tension by kissing him on his jawline. “You what?”
“I shouldn’t be too long.”
I smile up at him and kiss him again, pulling his head down so I can explore his lips some more with mine. I’m never going to get tired of this. Not ever. What if you don’t have a choice? The little voice in the back of my mind is a real asshole sometimes.
I head back out the front door, fantasizing about the sweatpants I’m about to put on in place of my work slacks, but as I cross over onto my own driveway, Brett’s door opens again.
“Addi!” he shouts across the lawn, his voice echoing through the darkness of the fall evening.
I spin in place to face him. “Yeah?”
“I love you!” he shouts, and my heart bursts into song. “That’s what I meant to say before. I love you.”
I run back across the lawn and straight into his arms, the two of us connecting with such force that he almost tumbles backward onto the tile floor. Then his mouth is on mine, hot and searching and strong, and I don’t go back home until the next morning.
Thursday flies by in a blur of clients and Brett. I’m practically radiating light, I’m so damn happy. We might be getting ahead of ourselves—we haven’t even had the conversation yet—but what does it matter if he’s willing to shout his love for me across the entire neighborhood?
But when he opens the door that night, something is different about his face. He looks pinched somehow, and there’s something wild in his eyes.
“Hey, Addi,” he says, and it hits me that we haven’t texted each other all day. It’s been pure radio silence. And Brett—he’s obviously been working on something, and hard. His hair is sticking up in crazy directions, like it does when he gets out of bed in the morning. I wonder if he’s eaten.
He leans down and kisses my cheek, then turns away from me and disappears back into the house. For a full thirty seconds, I stand frozen in the entryway. How have we gone from “I love you” to distracted kisses on the cheek overnight?
Something else is happening here.
I find him in the second bedroom, which is completely empty aside from a couple of rumpled drop cloths, a paintbrush balanced in what might be a cup of paint thinner, a paint roller, and a bucket of paint that’s colored something between mint green and blue and is absolutely gorgeous.
Brett is reaching up toward the ceiling trim with a second paintbrush, but it looks like he hasn’t actually started to cut in. I cross the room and put a hand on his wrist.
“Brett.”
“What?”
His look is half irritated, half relieved. “How long have you been working on the house today?”
“Since you left to go run.”
“That’s more than twelve hours.”
He shrugs, as he starts to raise the brush to the wall. “Hey,” I say, keeping my tone as gentle as I possibly can. “Do you want to get some dinner? I’m starving.”
Brett shakes his head, the muscles in his shoulders bunching. “I have to finish this.”
“Brett.”
I wait until his eyes meet mine, and then I give him a big smile. It’s going to take more than dinner to entice him away from whatever this obsession is about, although I am going to work food in there at some point.
“This—” I say, opening my arms wide to gesture to the room, “is a guest room. Are you planning to have guests?”
He presses his lips together. “No.”
“Aside from me?”
“Aside from you.”
“I don’t need a guest room. In fact…”
I tug at the hem of my sweater and pull it over my head, letting it fall to the drop cloth. I don’t give a shit if it gets paint on it. Then I go for my t-shirt, which leaves me standing in my favorite purple bra. Brett’s face is staring to calm, relax. He drops the paintbrush into the tray and puts his hands around my waist, his fingers rough with dried paint.
“I think a shower would be a good place to start.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I’ll help you get that paint off your hands.”
His face breaks into a grin, and for the first time since I arrived, his eyes are shining with anticipation. “I’ve got paint on more than just my hands.”
I take one of his hands in mine and pull him into the hallway, then into his bedroom, and through to the master bath. “I could help with that, too.”
Brett’s hands go to my hair, which is swept back in a ponytail for work, and he tugs at the elastic band until it falls down over my shoulders. “You look like you could use a massage.”
I rise up on tiptoes to kiss him, and it’s like he’s come back all over again.
The shower is just where it starts.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Brett
The house is becoming a shambles, all except the living room, the master bathroom, and the bedroom. Every time I discover something new to fix, it consumes me, and I constantly find myself scribbling down notes on scraps of paper or, in a burst of intelligence, in my phone’s Notes app. By Friday morning, I have a list of shit I need to keep going with the projects. I’ve finished painting the guest bedroom, but there’s an endless list of improvements I want to make to the second bathroom. I also want to talk to the guy at the hardware store—he’s the dad of one of my old high school buddies—about who he’d hire to finish the stripping and sanding for the siding. It’s taking me too damn long to do it myself.
The pressure sits like a collar around my neck until Addison gets home from work. I don’t know what the hell is making me so obsessed with fixing the house. I love her more than the house. I told her I loved her…
Even if it was a mistake to do that.
My father’s words still echo in my mind, even after all these years. “Don’t drag that girl down with you.”
If I can’t get this house done on time…
On time for what, I’m not fucking sure. Just on time.
The parking lot in front of the hardware store—it has to be one of the few family-owned joints left in the entire country—is practically empty on a Friday morning. There are only two other cars.
Joe’s standing at the counter when I walk in, ringing up the purchases of an older man.
“What’s up, Joe?” I call out on my way back to the section with the trim.
“Brett.”
The way he says it isn’t in his usual congenial tone, and it makes me stop in my tracks. That’s when the man at the counter turns around.
It’s my father.
Looking at him is like looking into a fucked-up mirror. We look exactly alike, only he’s thirty years older. I joined the Air Force and got back out again, but he put in most of his years at Williams’, a factory in town that went out of business two years after he retired. He’d worked his way up from a lineman to one of the head supervisors, but that didn’t repair the damage to his back caused from hunching over the assembly line ten or twelve hours a day for so many years on his climb up the ladder.
My cheeks burn at the sight of him, my throat closing up. He did all of that for my mom and me. What did I join the Air Force for?
Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter. He was so concerned about me not “taking anyone else down with me that”—
“Hey, Brett,” he says, his voice gravelly, like he’s been overworking it for years. He didn’t give it a fucking rest when I was a kid, that’s for damn sure.
I don’t know what the hell to say to him. Am I supposed to act like this is some happy reunion? I’m not happy to see him. I don’t know what the fuck I am or how the fuck I feel.
“Hey.”
The word comes out choked and labored
. I have to force it.
My dad clutches the plastic bag containing whatever it is he bought in his gnarled hands and presses his lips together. He takes one step away from the counter, toward me, and then stops again, eyes flying over my face.
He doesn’t know what to do, either. I have to look away. I hate the sick flash of satisfaction that races through my chest, but it’s short-lived and pales in comparison to everything else I’ve felt since I came back to Lockton.
Disappearing for ten years just to prove a point was a teenager’s idea of revenge, so why can’t I just let it all go? Why does it still seem so fucking fresh?
“How’ve you been, son?” He swallows hard, and there’s a sheen in his eyes. He won’t cry—I’ve never seen him cry—but damn if he’s not close.
“All right.”
“Good,” he says, nodding, like I’ve just told him my entire life story. “That’s good to hear. You—” He stops, carefully choosing his words. “You in town for a while?”
“Yeah.”
This is an excruciating conversation to have in front of Joe, who bustles back behind the counter and pretends to be doing something with receipts before disappearing down one of the far aisles. I dart my eyes to the parking lot—no new cars—and then back to my father. My jaw clenches. My heart twists and thuds in my chest, unable to make up its fucking mind about whether to be excited or pissed.
“You got a good job?”
There’s a hitch in his voice, and I know we’re seconds away from ending this conversation completely. But something about the way he says it makes me think that this is the question he’s been dying to ask me for ten years.
“I will soon.”
The corners of his mouth twitch downward, but he just nods again, saying nothing. Then, quickly, like he’s on some sneak attack, he closes the distance between us and puts his hand on my shoulder, patting it with almost enough force to make it a slap. Then he wraps that arm around me and pulls me in toward him for a split second, just long enough for my entire body to tense.
“Great to see you, Brett. Really great.”
Then he turns and hustles out of the store, leaving me standing there with my mouth dropped open. He gets into one of the cars in the lot—a little blue Ford—and drives away without another look back.
My mind freezes, along with the rest of my body, until Joe comes back up to the counter carrying a box from the back—nails, or something—to unpack and shelve.
I turn away and go back out through the door, get in my car, and drive into the sunlight. I’ll come back when I’ve got myself together again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Addison
Something is bothering Brett.
I stop at home first on Friday night. I’m confident he won’t be going anywhere soon—the lights are blazing from every room in his house. He must be working on a project. Several projects, probably. For some reason, this house has absolutely taken over his life. He spends every waking hour working on it.
While I stand in the shower washing the stress of the day from my skin, I wonder if he’s going to put up a fight when I try to coax him out of working the rest of the evening. I probably shouldn’t do that. If he wants to work on his house all night, who am I to stop him?
But my heart beats hard in my chest, aching with the need to be near him, to be touching him. Maybe it’s pathetic, but after all these years, I just have the sense that there’s no time to waste. That our time together might not be as endless as we hope it will be.
I step out of the shower and towel off, then reach for the blow dryer. I’ll give him some extra time before I show up on his doorstep.
The hair dryer whines, the heat pleasant against my head and shoulders. I won’t bother him if he doesn’t want to be bothered. I’ve lived this long without him. I can spend nights by myself. What’s one more?
His hands on my body, though…I shiver at the thought of him running his rough palms over the smooth skin at my waist, gripping tightly to my hips. My pulse flutters. I want to run my own fingertips over his skin—over his shoulders, his chest, his cut abs, and right down to—
I turn off the hair dryer with a snap, then reach for my makeup bag. I doubt we’ll be going out tonight—Brett has seemed stretched thin lately, and the idea of putting on anything but yoga pants makes my skin crawl—but I still want to take it up a notch from my regular lounge uniform of absolutely no makeup and probably no bra either, just because I’m that into him.
Six minutes later, I’m grabbing my purse and heading out into the cool September night.
At his door, I knock twice. No answer. My heart picks up the pace and I take a deep breath. He’s just busy, that’s all. If I was working on home repairs all day, I’d probably have some music playing, too, although I don’t hear anything coming from behind the door.
On the third try, he yanks the door open and looks at me, eyebrows pulled together, frowning.
I hold both my hands up. “If you’re too busy, I can go right back across the driveway.” I smile widely at him, warmth spreading through my chest. Damn, I want to be with him. Damn, I love him, even when he’s…well, like this, distracted and…I don’t know what else.
He finally seems to recognize me, reaching over the threshold and pulling me into him. He smells like fresh paint and sandpaper.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he says into my shoulder, but I don’t quite believe him.
“Good.” I look past him into the house. Several visible walls have been painted since yesterday, and I would bet that if I walked into the kitchen right now, a good portion would be covered in tarps and plastic. Brett is throwing himself into this like I’ve never seen anyone take on a project.
He straightens up out of the hug and turns around, squaring his shoulders, like he’s trying to make up his mind about what to do next.
“Are you done for the day?”
He turns back around, cocking his head, and I dip my chin a little, giving him a wicked grin. The corners of his mouth turn up in response, but there’s still some tension lingering around his eyes that makes me think all is not right in paradise. The distracted look follows him even as I lead him to the shower, turn on the water, and push him inside, telling him I’ll order some food that we can both enjoy…either before or after we spend some time in bed.
He laughs, but the sound is hollow. The cold, anxious worry I felt the other night grows a little more in the pit of my stomach. Nobody is the same after ten years apart—it would be ridiculous to even hope for that. But what if something has fundamentally changed Brett? What if, more often than not, he won’t have that wicked, driving energy about him that made me fall in love with him in the first place, made me so intoxicated by being in his presence that it was all I could do to spend my nights away from him, in my own bedroom?
What will I do then?
The answer comes to me even as I dial the number for one of the two decent pizza places in town and flip on the oven to preheat. If we go to bed before dinner, I want the food to be the perfect temperature when we get out, as no doubt we’ll be ravenous.
I won’t leave him again.
Of course, the argument that comes hard on its heels: he left you the first time.
I shake my head as I rattle off my credit card number, jarring the thoughts away. Then I go back out into the living room and collect an armful of cardboard packages from the couch, shoving them into a bag with other building detritus in the corner, before wiping off the coffee table with a damp paper towel. Highly romantic. I blush anyway. We don’t need anything fancy to make this a memorable night.
There’s a sudden silence when the shower stops running, and I’m on the move, dropping the paper towel in the trash and making a beeline for the bedroom. I can’t wait to be with Brett any longer. Not one second.
Chapter Thirty
Brett
Fucking Addison, on a day like today, when I’ve been working so hard that it’s like bein
g underwater, is like finally breaking the surface into the blinding sun and taking a deep breath of sweet, sweet air.
She rides me with total abandon, swirling her hips around and around and pressing deeper into me with every stroke. She smells like shampoo and body wash, fresh and clean, and her body is a goddamn masterpiece as she writhes and grinds, tiny moans escaping her in rhythm with my thrusts. I’ll never need anyone again. I’ll never need anything again.
Addison’s whole body tenses and she throws her head back. I’m so deep in her that I feel every movement of her muscles, every single spasm, as she comes hard against me, fingernails buried in my chest, holding on for dear life. Her face is contorted into an expression that’s something between total peace and total ecstasy, and the sight of it, combined with her muscles clenching around me, sends me over the edge.
It’s never going to get better than this.
We’re frozen together for a short eternity that comes to a crashing halt when there’s a thundering knock at the door, followed by the doorbell. My body tenses, instantly on edge, and my mind goes blank before Addison scrambles off of me, grinning. She leaps over to my dresser and tugs her clothes off the top of it, where she abandoned them to greet me when I came out of the shower, and darts into the bathroom. Water runs briefly and then she’s running back through the room, signaling me to stay where I am.
“It’s okay!” she shouts. “I’ll be right back.”
Her muffled voice carries through the house, along with someone else’s, and a minute later she reappears at the bedroom door holding two pizza boxes. From how good it smells, I might literally be starving to death. Did I even eat lunch? Breakfast, yes, but then there were two trips to the hardware store, and then meeting my father, that has somehow clouded the rest of my day.
It was fucking cordial, yeah, but what else am I supposed to say about it? It feels like something unresolved, not unlike the last ten years of my goddamn life, but I don’t want to look it in the face. Resolution with him is not my top priority.