I let out a deep breath and scowl at her.
I hate that she’s doing this. I hate that she knows me so well that she’s tapping into different fears of mine—fears of being left behind again, fears of not being important enough, fears of not being taken seriously. I’m already aware of the things I struggle with day to day, but I’ve tried to be rational and not so caught up in myself that I can’t enjoy the moment. I don’t want to get so bogged down by my own insecurities that I’m the reason I possibly miss out on something great—something great meaning him.
“You do realize he can’t play football forever, right?” I toss back at her as she sets her glass down.
“Yes, so then he gets offered some incredible position coaching for another team somewhere far away. What happens then?”
Who cares about then? I just want to enjoy now. I’ve wanted this, him, my entire life. Her trying to sprinkle the seeds of doubt isn’t nice, and she’s hurting my feelings, whether she realizes it or not. Can’t she just be happy for me?
“Why are you pushing this right now?”
She stands up straighter and looks at me, like really looks at me, and that’s when I see it: her fears. This conversation, although it’s leaving its mark on me and the bubble of happiness I’ve been protected by, it isn’t solely about me. She’s worried I will one day soon be leaving not only Firefly Kitchen, but her as well, and the success of this business is just as much hers as it is mine. I wouldn’t be where I am today without her, and vice versa; she wouldn’t be where she is without me.
“I’m not trying to push anything. I was just wondering if you’ve thought about it at all.”
“Maybe a little, but right now I just want to enjoy something I’ve dreamed about my whole life. You know this. You know how I feel about him.”
“I do. I do know how you feel about him.” Sadness drops onto her shoulders as a small frown moves to her lips. She thinks because I’ve finally gotten together with the man of my dreams, I would give all of this up, give her up, and that makes me feel like she doesn’t know me at all.
Then again, I’ve never really felt like people have known me. They don’t understand me or why I do the things I do, and mostly I’m okay with that. I know who I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry.
How could she think I would give up my business, and for a guy? And if she thinks this, does he? Does everyone? Is he expecting me to just close up shop on everything I’ve built to chase after him to his promised land? Because I won’t.
Wanting to end this conversation, I leave the kitchen, walk out the back door through the mudroom, and stare out across the small garden at the oak tree. Confusion and unease have worked their way into my very happy heart, and this causes me to be afraid. I really don’t want to. I want to feel confident that this isn’t one-sided, but knowing him like I do and hearing Marie’s words is forcing me to pull off my blinders, and deep down, I feel fear.
The definition of fear is an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is likely to be dangerous, painful, or threatening, and he is all of these things to my heart.
I hate that she’s suddenly given me a reason to doubt this, to doubt him. I was so happy just a little bit ago. I still am happy, but . . . my mind trails off. While it’s upsetting that she second-guesses my long-term intentions, her questions have grown some roots. I’ve been so caught up in us, the newness, the excitement, the finally, that I’ve kind of stopped thinking about me.
Me—the one he had no problems leaving behind the first time.
Mistletoe Margaritas
NOT EVEN KNOCKING on the door, I pull out the key she gave me the last time we were together, unlock the door, walk straight in, and slam it behind me. I wanted to drive up after last night’s game against the Titans, but it was so late, even I knew better. Instead, I crashed the moment I got home then woke up at my usual time, packed my clothes, and headed out. I told her I’d be coming up today, but I’m certain she wasn’t expecting me this early as I round the corner to the kitchen and find her standing by the window, drinking a cup of coffee, and grinning from ear to ear. Clearly, she heard me coming and saw me hop out of the truck, and steam floats up in the air as she stares at me, frozen with wide surprised eyes and messy unbrushed hair.
“Well, hey there,” she says, turning to lean against the sink. She’s covered from head to toe in red pajamas with white polka dots, and she looks like a present that needs to be unwrapped.
I drop my bag and let my eyes drift shut as the smells take over: butter, roasted pecans, melted brown sugar, and cinnamon. She’s baking already, and all of it is an aphrodisiac that makes me want to bust out of my skin. Instead, I advance toward her, on a mission. She sees the determination in my gaze and gleefully straightens up.
I should say something back—after all, I’m so happy to be here—but I can’t. This need for her has overwhelmed me past the point of civility. Taking her coffee cup from her, I set it on the counter and slide one of my hands around her waist to pull her into me. The other dips under the fall of her hair as I tilt her head and drop my mouth down on hers.
Relief is instant, and she doesn’t waver as she rises up onto her toes and digs her fingers into my shoulders.
Damn. With the hint of coffee floating in her mouth, she tastes exactly like what mornings should taste like, and I want this, her, everything, forever.
Spinning, I lift her, place her on the island, and step between her legs. I can’t get close enough, wrapping my arms around her, holding her to me, never breaking contact from her lips. She smells clean, feels warm and familiar next to me, and as I slow down the internal roaring I’ve dealt with all morning, I suck her bottom lip in between mine and just hold it.
“I take it you missed me.” She smiles against my mouth as her lip pops free, and she drapes her arms over my shoulders.
My head drops to her neck, that place just above her collarbone, and I breathe her in. “You have no idea.”
She giggles. “It’s been two weeks, and we’ve talked every day—several times a day.”
“Longest two weeks of my life,” I mumble, tightening my hold.
Her legs wrap around my waist, and one hand moves to the back of my head. Her fingers dip into my hair, and I swear my eyes roll back in my head.
“I’m happy you’re here,” she says softly, the sound of her voice vibrating her throat against my face.
“Not more than me.”
Time passes as we stay wrapped in each other’s arms, and quickly my need for her changes from one kind to another, which she acknowledges by rotating her hips against mine. A groan leaves me as I sink my teeth into her neck and drag them up to her jaw. Fingertips press into my back and she tilts her head even more. I could feast on every inch of her; I’m starved for her.
Pulling on her shirt, I lift it slowly, making my intentions known. She leans back, and her moss-colored eyes spark as she lifts her arms, allowing me to remove it. She’s not wearing a bra, and I’m temporarily blinded by how beautiful she is. After dropping the shirt on the floor, my hands slide up her ribcage, settle over her breasts, and squeeze the weight of them. Her head tips back at the sensation, and a deep rumble moves through me as I lean forward and take her in my mouth.
Her skin is hot, so hot the red marks I’m leaving across her chest and up her neck fit right in.
Man, do I want this girl. I feel crazed and insatiable, and some primal part of me wants to mark her and claim her over and over again so she and everyone else knows she’s mine.
Dropping her hands, she places them behind her on the counter to brace herself and hold her body up. I lift my head, and as my eyes connect with hers, I run my hand straight down the middle of her stomach to the top of her pants.
There’s no question about what she wants from me, the pink in her cheeks and the short breaths puffing between her lips saying it all.
Quickly, I untie the drawstring, and she lifts her hips as I slide her pajama p
ants and her underwear down so they can drop to the floor. Both of us pause as I trail my eyes over the vision before me. She’s gorgeous, open, and bared just for me.
“Not fair,” she whispers, looking me over, her eyes stopping just below my waist.
There’s no hiding what she does to me. I think I’m the hardest I’ve ever been in my life, and I even the playing field by yanking my shirt over my head, kicking off my flip-flops, and dropping my pants.
Her eyes widen.
“You are so perfect,” she says, reaching up and running the tips of her fingers down my chest and slowly over each indentation of my abdominal muscles. Chills break out across my skin as it begs for her to touch me more.
I should offer her some type of poetic confirmation of her beauty in return, but at this moment, I can’t speak. Instead, I lay her back across the counter, reach behind her knees, and slide her forward, leaving her hips just barely on the edge. Bracing her legs over my shoulders, I bend so my forehead hits the center of her chest, and with my heart racing in anticipation, I kiss my way down her body, breathing her in and tasting her. She’s so perfect. She’s the perfect flavor for me.
“Bryan,” she moans while arching her back, and I take from her. I take everything she has to give using my mouth, my tongue, my teeth, this morning’s stubble, my fingers—all of it. I take her taste, I take her sounds, I take her trembling, I take her release. I take it, because it’s mine and mine alone, and only then do I lower her legs and give. In one complete thrust, I give her what she wants from me. I give her my all.
I give her everything I have.
It isn’t until sometime later, after I damn near pass out on her and both of our heartbeats have slowed, that I lift my body from lying on top of hers and the words tumble out, “You are perfect, too. Beautiful. Just beautiful.”
She rewards me with a smile that makes my breath catch, and I know this is going to be the best Christmas ever.
“You okay?” I ask her, standing up and pulling away.
“Better than okay,” she says, sitting up and looking completely blissed out.
Satisfaction rolls through me, and I run my hand through my hair, silently telling myself it’s too soon to do it again, and that’s when I spot it over her shoulder. The rest of the house is covered in red and green decorations, but she forgot the most important one.
“Why didn’t you decorate your tree?”
She twists around to see what I see and then looks back at me. “I thought we could decorate it together.”
Staring at her, the emotions I feel for her start burning at my toes, and they climb until they’ve reached every square inch of me. I knew I was falling for her, but I never expected it to feel like this.
When we were kids, Christmas was my favorite time of the year, because it was the only time Cole allowed me to sleep at GiGi’s house. She made sure to include me, and some of my favorite memories are of us watching Christmas movies, stringing popcorn, and decorating the tree. It was the one time of the year I truly felt like I belonged to a family, even though I didn’t.
“That sounds nice.” The effect of her thoughtfulness is thick in my throat. I don’t even care if she hears it.
“Right? I thought we could lounge around all day, be lazy, watch old movies, and decorate the tree.”
I didn’t bother to put up a tree at my house. I never have, so it didn’t even cross my mind. In fact, other than a poinsettia the clubhouse handed each of us to support a local high school fundraiser, there is nothing festive at my house. It may as well just be another day.
“Can we be naked while we’re lounging?” I grin while not so subtly sneaking another peek and appreciating her nakedness.
She laughs, pushes me out of the way, and jumps down off the counter.
“Maybe later, while lying under a blanket on the couch. But for now, your shirt will do.” Eyeing me mischievously, she snatches it off the floor and slips it on before I can protest. What she doesn’t realize is I would gladly hand over my entire wardrobe if it meant she would walk around in front of me wearing my clothes.
“It smells delicious in here.” I grab my pants and slip them on.
“Thanks. I thought you might come early, so last night I made an overnight French toast casserole, and all I had to do was pop it in when I woke up.”
She cracks open the oven door and bends over to look inside. A groan escapes me, and not because of the breakfast. She jerks upright with her cheeks flaring pink, and she starts laughing.
“Whoops.” She tugs on my shirt.
If I died today, I’d die a happy man.
After breakfast and enjoying a cup of coffee together, she turns on some Christmas music and I suggest lighting the fire. She eyes it skeptically, but Danny assured her it was fixed and ready to go, so I feel a holiday redemption is due. December can be unpredictable when it comes to the weather, but fortunately for us and all the dreaming little kids out there, it’s rather cold. There’s another frost warning, which means, although we don’t get snow in this part of Florida, the ground will still be white tomorrow morning.
A white Christmas.
If someone had told me just a few months ago I would be spending Christmas here with her, I would have thought they were crazy. But, here I am, truly feeling like it’s the most wonderful time of the year.
“So, what will you do when the season is over?” she asks, not looking at me, focused on hanging an ugly reindeer on the tree.
“Sleep.” I chuckle, but she tucks her head down and moves to pick up another ornament. We haven’t talked about what’s happening next, but it is around the corner, so I can see why she’s wondering. I just need to remain focused on these next few games. That’s what’s most important, and then I can think about other things.
“Hey . . .” I say, reaching over and gently grabbing her arm. She stops to look at me, but her emotions are in check. She’s keeping her cards close, so I have no idea what she’s thinking. “I have six weeks left. I can’t plan for after because it feels superstitious. I need to take things one week at a time right now to get me to February third. Okay?”
Her eyes roam over my face before landing back on mine. I feel my brows lower just a bit, because I don’t understand where this is coming from or where she’s hoping to take it, but eventually, her lips tip up just a little and she says, “Okay.”
She’s quiet as we finish decorating, the music filling the space between us, and as we step back to admire what we’ve done, we both start laughing. The tree looks bipolar. Much like myself, my side is very thought out with organized placement and an even distribution of the colored balls, whereas her side looks like she threw the ornaments at the tree and hoped they’d stick. It’s colorful, expressive, and a lot chaotic.
The sides are very different, but we are different, which is why I love it, and this has officially become my favorite tree ever.
They say opposites attract, and well, I’m about as attracted to her as I can be.
Overnight French Toast Casserole
THE CROWD ROARS to a deafening level as the clock runs down and hits zero. The Tarpons have done it, finishing the season undefeated, although they just barely scraped by in today’s game, one in which they should have crushed the other team instead of barely hanging on.
People all around me start packing up and moving, but I can’t stop staring at Bryan down on the field. To any regular outsider, he looks happy—they did just win—but I can see he’s not in the way his shoulders are pulled back, the stiffness in the way he walks.
He did not play well today, and I know tonight I’m about to experience a different Bryan.
Earlier in the week, on the show NFL Insider, there was a thirty-minute discussion about Bryan, how his playing has changed over the season, and how that might impact the team in the postseason. It wasn’t favorable, and in many ways it’s like they were doubting his ability to lead his team to the Super Bowl, which is complete and utter nonsense in my opinion. No
one is as prepared to lead that team as he is.
He asked me if I watched it, I asked him if I should, and he very adamantly told me no. Secretly I already had, but I didn’t want to upset him more, so I let it go. He didn’t mention it again, but I know it’s impacted him. He hates the media as it is, so them all of a sudden questioning his abilities when he’s committed his life to his team and to being the best he can be—I know it’s rattled him.
Then, to make matters worse, others picked up on the discussion, and it’s taken off like wildfire. Speculation is rampant, and all they can hang their hat on is that his playing is distracted and it’s because of me. Me. They’re calling it the Jarvie jinx. I’ll admit it’s catchy, but not in a good way. Even I’m not immune to how it’s affecting me emotionally, and at this point, my biggest fear is that it will somehow resonate with him and I’ll be out. He’s always made it known that nothing distracts him when it comes to the game, and if he thinks I am, then what?
Not surprisingly, because it comes with the territory of being with someone in the spotlight, my business email has been flooded with hate mail from fans. Marie is horrified and worried about my safety, but I’ve assured her that’s ridiculous and this will all blow over in a few weeks.
At least I hope it will.
I even asked him if I should stay home today, and he told me I was being ridiculous and he wasn’t going to give their speculations or unwarranted opinions any weight. Now, though, I wish I had. I have a feeling things are going to get worse for him, and I know they’ll use my presence here today against him.
“You okay?” I ask him as we make our way out of the stadium. He’s holding my hand, but it feels distant. I know he’s processing, but I hate it. Just like last game I came to, he rode in with Jack, so I’m driving us home.
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 15