by Fiona Cole
“What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing. Just excited about our movie.”
“You don’t even know what I picked.”
I didn’t have another excuse ready for why my smirk had gone missing to be replaced by my giddy smile, so I settled on a shrug and tucked in. He thankfully didn’t push.
The movie ended up being the first Avengers, which we soon realized our love of Marvel was another thing we had in common. We talked about our favorite parts and characters and had a few more beers.
“You know, this is nice,” I said when the credits started rolling.
“What?”
“Just…sitting here.” I picked at the label on my beer, the condensation soaking through the leg of my shorts as I thought over my words. “My parents were always gone, either working or at an event for work. I didn’t love being alone all the time, so I hung out with friends, which led to me always having to be…on. I don’t have to be when it’s just Felicity and me, but it’s rarely just us. When everyone else is around, they have these expectations of who you are, and you kind of just fall into it, and the whole time feels superficial and fake. So, it’s nice to just be with someone. I guess I didn’t get enough of it at home.”
“My mom was busy a lot, too. But she always made time for me. And I grew up in a different generation than you. We didn’t have the pressures and influence of social media quite like you do. It definitely adds a layer. Almost like a veneer that protects the outside world from who you really are.”
“Yeah. And I didn’t even get to let that veneer down with my parents. Like, I knew they loved me. Or at least that they wanted to. They just want me to be someone I’m not, and I think it’s hard to love me when they’re also disappointed in who I actually am.” As if the trickling of truth led to a crack that spread wider, the words flooded out. “I don’t know. I guess they just had so many expectations and they forgot to be affectionate parents. You know, the few people I got hugs from was Grandpa and Felicity. But they’re not the same.”
“Nothing is quite like a mom hug,” Willem admitted. “I think it’s the one thing I miss the most about her are her hugs. She had the stereotypical mom hug and there’s nothing like it. And as you get older, a hug is a less common thing to get from someone.”
“You don’t cuddle all your hoes in different area codes?” I joked.
He thankfully laughed, but it held a tinge of sadness with it. “No. I haven’t had a serious girlfriend in a while and hugs are usually quick and impersonal.”
“Exactly.”
We both leaned back on the couch, staring at the black screen, silently lost in what we were missing.
An idea hit me, and maybe it was the three beers, but I didn’t think twice. I jumped from the couch and stood in front of him, my hands reaching for his. “Give me your hands. Stand up.”
His brows furrowed, but he did as I ordered and let me pull him up. The rough scrape of his palms on mine almost shocked me frozen, and I realized it was the first time we’d actually touched. I wanted to stop and take in every new sensation of his hands in mine, but I had a plan, and I didn’t want to stop. If all went well, we’d be touching a lot more than just palms.
“I want to try something.”
“Ummm…okay,” he said slowly.
Stepping in closer, I realized how much shorter I was than him, and I wanted as much contact as possible. Regretfully, I let go of his hands and used his shoulders to steady myself as I climbed onto the couch. I wobbled, and his hands shot out to my hips to steady me. Electricity shot from his grip to my core and up my chest, jolting my heart.
Focus, Bella.
“What are you—”
His words cut off when I jerked him against me and wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing as much of myself against him as I could. His grip tightened, but he stood in my arms like a statue.
“Arabella,” he whispered as if afraid someone would hear and come see. “Wha—”
“Shhh. Just for a little while.”
I hugged him tighter, spreading my hand along his strong back, burying my head against his shoulder. It only took a moment for him to give in. His hands moved from my hips, up my back, pulling me close.
The seconds ticked by, and the hug grew more intense. Our fingers dug into each other’s flesh. Our heads burrowed in each other’s shoulders. We stood chest to chest, legs to legs, every inch we could reach pressed tight as if trying to absorb each other’s strength—as if trying to fortify ourselves for another long stretch of no more hugs.
Somewhere in the moments, the hug shifted and became less about comfort and more heated. His hot breath brushed against the skin of my neck like I wished his lips would. I turned my head into his neck and inhaled his citrus scent, barely holding back from tasting him. His hand coasted up and down my back, still digging in and holding tight, almost pulling a pleasured moan from my lips.
My heart stalled and threatened to plummet to my feet when he pulled back, but instead of stopping, he merely shifted and sat in the corner of the couch, tugging me down with him to his side.
Without a word, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. Unsure of what was happening, but unwilling to ask, I lifted my chin to look up.
His dark eyes locked with mine.
A million words passed between us without mouths even moving.
This isn’t just about a hug.
This isn’t about comfort.
This is wrong.
I’m not ready to stop.
I don’t want to.
Instead of all that, he only said one thing and it was enough.
“Just for a little while.”
Six
Arabella
I strolled down the hall, scrolling the latest on Instagram in one hand and finishing off my popsicle in the other. I was so lost in Todd’s latest eye-roll-worthy post that I missed the key in the lock. So, when the door swung open, I jerked my gaze up in time to take in Willem walking through the door, the sunny day backlighting him like some god.
“Hey,” he greeted, closing the door.
When he turned, our eyes met, and I stood frozen, letting him take me in from my head to my teal toenail polish. My cut-off shorts and over-sized tank top, sans bra, covered not enough and too much all at once.
He’d left early for work this morning, so we hadn’t talked since the quiet, strained goodnight we gave in the hallway after our hug. We’d both said just for a little while, but we didn’t give a limit on how many, and taking in his broad chest straining the limits of his black polo, all I could think about was getting my arms around him again.
Testing the waters, I walked over, setting my phone and popsicle stick on the entryway table before facing him. The quiet hum of cars driving by and birds chirping crept in from outside, but it was almost impossible to hear over the silence screaming around us. We both stood still, like two gun-slingers before a duel, until I cracked and closed the gap. As soon as my arms cleared his shoulders, he dropped his bag with a thud and held me close.
I wanted to sigh in relief that he hadn’t turned me away. I’d started the hug last night for him, but once his arms surrounded me, I knew I needed it too.
Two large palms splayed across my back, pulling me almost too tight, and yet, I took my first deep breath of the day. I raised as high as I could on my toes and buried my head in his neck.
“Welcome home,” I whispered.
His fingers flexed, and a thrill of excitement shot through me. I loved that I affected him—that I could tell I affected him.
“Damn, you give good hugs for such a tiny girl,” he rumbled, the words vibrating against my chest.
I inched back enough to meet his eyes, and he loosened his grip, lowering me back to the ground. My brow cocked at the tiny girl comment.
“How about a petite woman?” I corrected, smiling, dying a little when he smiled back.
“Fair enough.”
His hands relaxed from around my back, slowly sli
ding down only to grip my hips while I left my hands on his shoulders. We looked like a couple of grade-school kids at a dance, and I’d take every second of it.
Deciding to push my luck, I asked, “Do you want to watch TV for a bit?”
He looked down to his bag on the floor, probably filled with paperwork needing to be done. In fact, I remembered him mentioning how bogged down he was with prepping for a new course, and I cringed, wanting to take it back to save me the misery of being turned down.
Digging my teeth into my bottom lip, I braced for the impact of rejection when instead he said, “Just for a little while.”
And that’s how almost every day over the next week progressed—when either of us walked through the door, we greeted each other with a hug that became more natural each day. Sometimes we’d watch TV on the couch. Sometimes I’d even curl up close to him—every time with the simple promise of just for a little while.
But on Saturday, neither of us had to work, and Mother Nature made staying inside much more preferable than going out into the storms. We lounged in shorts and T-shirts, blasting the air conditioning to combat the humidity seeping into the house. When that still didn’t work, we decided to say fuck it and do a little day-drinking. He ordered a pizza, and I grabbed the beers.
“Just one,” he muttered.
“Okay, I’ll remind you of that later when you want another.” I played dumb, smiling innocently.
He gave a deadpanned stare with narrowed eyes, and I laughed. “Okay, Dad. I’ll try not to get trashed on your couch.”
With a roll of his eyes, he plopped down beside me, flipping open a delicious box of mushroom, onion, and sausage pizza.
“Since you got to pick the pizza, I get to pick the show,” he declared.
“Ugh, fine,” I said around my too-big-bite. Not that I really minded, because he always picked something good.
In the end, he settled on a documentary about ancient Rome.
“Did you ever see Rome?” he asked.
“No. I wanted to, but the only time it worked out was in peak tourist season, and I’d rather wait than fight through the crowds in the heat.”
“It’s a beautiful city, but less enjoyable in the heat. I went twice, and visiting in the spring was much better than summer.”
“Duly noted.” I pretended to jot it down on an imaginary paper and shove it in my pocket. He laughed at my antics before turning to the show, leaving me to stare at him. His smile really transformed him and called to me. I rarely smirked at him anymore, instead offering up genuine happiness.
Eventually, the show pulled my attention away from him—at least a little. When he grabbed another beer, he brought another back for me with a look that said any smart comment would result in said beer being taken away. I mimed zipping my lips, but as the alcohol worked its way through my veins, I relaxed and decided to push my limits.
Slowly, I adjusted, inching my way closer to close the barely-there gap between us. Resituating this way and that until I leaned over enough to rest my head on his shoulder. He stiffened for less than a second before shifting, allowing me access to fully curl into his side.
As if to add normalcy to the situation, he started quizzing me on my opinions of each historical fact the show shared. We debated the pros and cons of Rome’s society as a whole and moved on to Greece when those episodes played next. All of it held a platonic vibe—minus the way my side was pressed to his. Or the way our eyes dropped to each other’s lips when I turned to face him, only to be inches away.
I found myself searching for the most absurd questions just for the excuse to turn and look up at him and burn under his eyes on my mouth. My lips tingled, and each time I shifted, I imagined it was the time I’d give in to the desire to find out what the beer tasted like from his lips—on his tongue. I imagined it’d be the time he gave in and took what I so obviously offered.
Need coiled around every muscle, and when the next show discussed the sexuality in Athens, I was sure I’d explode. Each mention of dominance and the open freedom of the culture pushed me closer and closer to the edge. His questions stopped, and he became stoically quiet, making me want to poke and prod to see if I could get a reaction out of him—hopefully, one that led to his mouth on mine.
When the show talked about how uncommon it was to kiss your partner in Athens, I found my opening. “I could never imagine not kissing.”
He cleared his throat before responding. “Why’s that?”
I smirked at his graveled tone, imagining him struggling like me. Because this couldn’t be one-sided. I refused to believe I was the only one standing on this precipice.
“It’s just too good. The connection. The passion.”
I looked up, disappointed when I didn’t find him staring back like he had all the other times I’d asked him anything. But I didn’t fall back. Instead, I traced the sharp line of his brow and cheek, visible even under his scruff. I mapped every visible inch before he finally—slowly—turned to face me.
His eyes dropped to my lips, and I slid my tongue across, flicking my gaze to his mouth before looking back to meet his deep blue eyes.
In my imagination, he stood on the cliff with me, staring out over the abyss. I wanted to jump, but I wanted him to jump with me.
“What’s your favorite kind of kiss? A peck?” I offered, throwing out more suggestions. “Long and lingering? Sweet?”
“Aggressive,” he growled like a promise. “Tasting. Controlling.”
Oh, God. I almost moaned—almost climbed onto his lap and demanded he show me. Somehow, I managed to hold back—at least a little. I approached with caution, holding my breath and flexing my muscles to shift a fraction of an inch closer.
I stood on the cliff, him by my side, and I held out my hand for him to take what he wanted.
He leaned down, preparing to take my hand and jump with me.
Only one more inch—one more breath.
Until the loud ring of the doorbell brought reality crashing all around us. As if a bucket of cold water slapped him back to reality, he froze and literally jumped at the chance to put distance between us.
Dammit. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fling myself back against the couch, stomp my feet, and punch my fists against the sofa in frustration.
So close, only to be stopped by some solicitor, probably.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to pull myself together for when he came back. We had all night, and I’d use every second to get us to where we were.
At least until Willem greeted our visitor and a whole fucking tidal wave of cold water dumped over me.
“Harry. Hey. What are you doing here?” Willem asked.
Freaking Harry.
AKA—my dad.
Seven
Willem
I looked into the familiar brown eyes I’d known for years. Harry smiled, bringing a light to his gaze that reminded me of the light that had sparked in Arabella’s moments ago.
I gripped the door handle, hating myself because while this man I looked up to and owed so much to greeted me like family, all I could think about was how seconds ago I’d almost taught his daughter how a man like me kissed and what that kissing led to afterward.
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
“Sorry,” I sputtered, shaking the thoughts from my head and stepping back. “Where are my manners? Come in.”
Harry waved my apology away and walked inside from the rain. “No need to apologize. I’m sure your brother from across the country showing up randomly would throw anyone.”
I took his dripping coat and turned just in time to find Arabella standing there with a towel stretched out for her father. I said a silent prayer of thanks when I noticed she put on a T-shirt that covered her a lot more than the tank top from earlier.
Not that we had anything to hide.
Because nothing had happened.
Or would have happened.
Yeah, right. Like you weren’t less than a second away from finally feasting from h
er mouth.
“Hey, Dad. Long time no see. You could have just called rather than flown here to check on me.”
“Well, here’s the thing about phones, Arabella,” he said, taking the towel. “In order for them to work, someone needs to pick up.”
Arabella’s jaw dropped, giving a look of false wonder. “Ohhhh. See, I never knew that. They must have forgot to teach me that in school. Thankfully, I’m going to college for that kind of knowledge.”
Harry huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Still so snarky,” he muttered, pulling her in for an awkward side hug. “Thank goodness I love you.”
She gave him a pat on the back in return but pulled back quickly.
“Anyway, I was on my way to a conference in New York when we hit this storm, and we had to land. As luck would have it, we landed here, but we’re delayed until tomorrow morning.”
“You could have called me. I would have come get you.”
“Well, here’s the thing about phones, Willem…” he started with a smirk that let me know where Arabella got it from.
“I pick up my phone,” I grumbled, patting my pockets and coming up empty. “At least when I have it on me.” I rolled my eyes and went to grab my phone from where it fell out of my pocket into the couch cushions. Sure enough, one missed call.
“So, how are things going?” Harry asked, looking between Arabella and me. “Has her bitterness over coming to college drove you insane yet? Do I need to take her home with me?”
Arabella forced a smile, crossing her arms like she was trying to defend herself against his barbed joke. When she dropped her gaze to her bare feet, I saw the girl who avoided phone calls from her parents, not because she was bratty, but because their disapproval hurt.
“It’s actually been great. She’s a phenomenal house guest.”
Harry’s brows shot up, looking to me like I told him she wore fifties dresses and packed my lunch every day. His gaze shot to Arabella, but she was too busy looking at me. I offered a small smile, trying to hide how much the way her jaw relaxed into a soft curve of wonder affected me. Had no one stood up for her before?