Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  “Yes. Of course. It has to be your choice. If you don’t want it, I can’t force you.”

  “But you could.” Matt’s signature sincerity usually made my heart melt, but this time it broke my heart instead. His voice was thick, roughened with anguish and a hint of resentment. “If you told me I had to, in order for us to be together, I would.”

  I was shaking my head before he’d finished, whispering because I didn’t trust my voice. “Please don’t. Don’t do that to me.” I lifted my chin to give him a kiss. “Don’t shift your responsibility to me. That’s not fair, and that’s not who you are.”

  Matt studied me, his eyes moving between mine. Eventually, he nodded, releasing his fistfuls of my skirt and sliding his arms around me. As he pulled me to him and we embraced, I felt the tension drain from his body.

  “Thank you,” he said, the words muffled as his mouth was pressed to my shoulder.

  “For what?” I smoothed my hand up and down his back, needing this, needing to hold him. Loving that I could.

  “For being you.” He placed a kiss on my neck, adding roughly, “For loving me.”

  26

  Falcon Heavy and the Dragon Space Capsule

  The rocket and the capsule (respectively) that will be used to take the first two space tourists around the moon. Projected launch 2018.

  Source: SpaceX

  We didn’t make love in every room on Friday night. Instead we stripped naked and cuddled in my bed. I had so many questions. I wanted to know everything, what he’d been thinking over the last few months, when he’d realized he loved me.

  But we didn’t talk. We held each other with touches meant to comfort rather than arouse.

  However, on Saturday, we made love in every room. All day. I didn’t have many surfaces in my apartment, so each was christened a few times by Sunday morning and with wild, abandoned enthusiasm—which left me speechless. I hadn’t expected him to be so . . . so . . . talented at making me come. Every. Single. Time.

  Marcus had been right. Matt was a boss in the bedroom. He was precise and verged on domineering, frequently making me wait until I begged for relief. But his bossiness was an aphrodisiac, as was his dirty talk. Both demolished my brain’s predisposition to worry. He told me how much I pleased him. And since he demanded control, I happily surrendered to his enthusiasm for worshiping my body.

  But, again, we didn’t talk, not about anything substantive. And that was fine with me, because we used the time to settle into the idea of us as an us. It felt necessary, and I got the sense we were both protective of the newness, of the wonder of finally having admitted the truth to each other.

  Early Monday morning, when he left me, Matt pledged to contact me in the afternoon about dinner and plans for the rest of the week. We hadn’t touched on the topic of therapy again after our talk on Friday, so I was surprised to receive a text mid-afternoon Monday.

  Matt: I have an appointment this Wednesday with Thomas. Sandra recommended him.

  I knew of Thomas. Sandra claimed he was a gifted adult psychotherapist and had spoken very highly of him many times. She even had the image of his face on two of her custom-printed T-shirts. Don’t ask.

  I frowned at Matt’s message for several minutes, sorting through my feelings on this announcement—the surprise, then happiness, then apprehension—before messaging him back.

  Marie: I hope you’re doing this for yourself.

  Matt: I am doing this for myself, because myself wants to have more sex with yourself.

  Despite the faulty reasoning of his text, I laughed. As I was typing to tell him he needed to revaluate his priorities, he texted again.

  Matt: And I’m doing this because I suspect you are as wise as you are beautiful.

  Matt: I want to deserve you.

  My heart twisted and I pressed the phone to my chest, sighing. I could almost see him, the heartfelt intensity in his eyes.

  Marie: You *do* deserve me. And I will keep reminding you until you believe me.

  Matt: I look forward to being reminded.

  Matt: Dinner tonight?

  Matt: I’ll cook.

  After I recovered from my shock, I quickly typed,

  Marie: Matt? Cook? Does not compute!

  Matt: I anticipate conducting a system-wide diagnostic on you tonight, AF 709.

  AF 709?

  . . . Hmm.

  That sent me to Wikipedia, which had me looking at a picture of Julie Newmar playing the role of AF 709—Rhoda the Robot—a very, very sexy life-sized android in the short-lived TV show My Living Doll.

  Ahh, the 1960s. So astonishingly sexist.

  And yet, overflowing with splendid role-playing ideas.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No.”

  “Marie . . .” Matt shook his head, his mouth moving with no sound emerging, his expression one of extreme confusion and disbelief. “You friend-zoned me.”

  He said friend-zoned like I’d reported him to the IRS for a tax audit.

  “Matt. Come on.” I shook my head, rolling my eyes before taking a sip of my wine. “I invited you over here to cuddle. On. My. Bed.”

  It was Monday night. Matt was standing in my kitchen, chopping vegetables for homemade tomato sauce. He claimed he only knew how to make three dinners: lasagna, meatloaf, and grilled anything.

  I was sitting at the countertop, enjoying the view, and had finally broached the topic of why it had taken him so long to make a move.

  “What was I supposed to do? Force my lascivious attentions upon you? Send dick pics? Hope the sight of my cock would bring you to your senses?” With each question his irritation eased into good-natured teasing. “And, as data collection for future seducing efforts, will that work?”

  I had to take a deep breath before responding, because Matt said the word cock so easily. He didn’t say it often. In fact, this was the first time he’d said it outside of sexy times, but I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to it coming from his mouth.

  I hadn’t grown accustomed to his dirty talk during sex either. Though I hadn’t yet told him how much I enjoyed his skill in this area, I got the impression he knew anyway.

  “How much more obvious should I have been?” I challenged.

  “No, no, no. There is no obvious. Not after a friend-zone maneuver. A friend-zone maneuver is the end of a book, not the end of a chapter. It’s the nuclear weapon of maneuvers. Short of flat-out telling me you wanted to change the nature of things between us, or stripping naked and ordering me to pleasure you, I wasn’t ever going to catch on to any hints.”

  “You seriously had no idea? How is that possible?”

  “Friend zone. Friend. Zone. Otherwise known as The Scoreless End Zone.”

  “I only did that because you said you weren’t interested in long-term relationships.”

  He gave me another look of incredulity. “What?”

  “You said you were finished with long-term relationships. You said you’d read that book, blah, blah, blah. In fact, when I asked you if you ever wanted to get married again, you said hell no.”

  “That’s the reason? That’s why you friend-zoned me?”

  “Yes. I even told you that, if you recall, that night I saw you at Sandra and Alex’s and you walked me to the hospital so I could visit Quinn.”

  He blinked at me. “I thought that was just an excuse.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because. You weren’t that into me. I thought you were lying to spare my feelings.”

  I choked on air. “Is that a joke?”

  “No. Not a joke.” His attention moved back to the mushrooms he was chopping, and he laughed.

  “Matt, you said you didn’t want anything long-term with anyone.”

  “We’re now stuck in a recursive loop. I am the chicken, you are the egg.” He scooped up the mushrooms and added them to the big stockpot, stirring a few times with a wooden spoon, then replacing the lid, letting the contents simmer.

  I huffed, feeling enormously fr
ustrated by my inadvertent—though well-meaning—self-sabotage. “Do you mean to tell me, you’ve been open to a relationship with me all this time?”

  He hesitated, coming around the counter and standing next to me, stealing a sip of my wine. “Define relationship.”

  “Falling in love. Being together. Long-term.”

  “No.” He shook his head once. “You are correct. I wasn’t open to that. Not when we met.”

  “Oh. Really.” I crossed my arms, lifting my chin. “So what did you have in mind when we first met?”

  “So many things.” He wagged his eyebrows, grinning wickedly around another sip of wine, then added more seriously, “To be honest, I thought you were a long shot. I wasn’t open to a relationship with anyone and I couldn’t imagine a scenario—even before you friend-zoned me—where you would want something like that with me.”

  “Why? What made you think I was a long shot?”

  His head reared back. “Have you met yourself? You’re . . . intimidating.”

  “What? No I’m not.”

  “You are. Your confidence is intimidating, because it’s entirely valid. And your goodness. And,” his gaze blazed over my body, “the rest of you.”

  That had me smiling, so I forgave him for stealing my wine. “When did you change your mind?”

  He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he finished my glass while he shifted his eyes up and to the left. Abruptly, his gaze cut back to mine and I got the sense he was bracing himself for my reaction.

  “I changed my mind when I came home and found you and Jack in the hallway. Last month.”

  I stiffened, my heart giving a twinge of protest at the memory, and I dropped my eyes.

  Crap.

  “Marie.”

  I really didn’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to be reminded of him with another woman, not when my feelings for him had been so strong, even then. It felt like he’d cheated on me, on us. Rationally, I knew he hadn’t, but once again, believing and knowing were two different things.

  “I don’t want to talk about this.” I shook my head.

  “Too bad.” His hands came to my shoulders, pulling me up from my stool. “Look at me.”

  I didn’t look at him. “I was so mad. And hurt.” My heart gave another painful lurch.

  “I love you.”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head, more resolutely. “I don’t think I can talk about this.”

  “We have to.”

  “Why?” I glared at him. “Why do I have to talk about the night I found out you’d been sleeping with other women?”

  “Because I don’t need therapy to know not discussing things that bother you is a terrible idea.” The set of his jaw struck me as remarkably stubborn.

  Damn his pushing! Why can’t he just let me be the dehydrated horse this time?

  “We can discuss it later.” I shrugged out of his hold and walked the pithy distance to my living room.

  “Or we can discuss it now, and have make-up sex after.”

  That earned him another glare.

  He glared back, not looking contrite.

  “Fine. I’m angry that you slept with someone else when we were spending so much time together.”

  Aaaand I was yelling. But once I started, I couldn’t stop.

  “I rented a car and drove to my parents’ house three hours away,” I pointed in the general direction of where they lived, “and cried on my mother’s shoulder for fifteen minutes. Do you know how much that pissed me off? I haven’t cried to my mother about anything since I was in elementary school and Rhena Davis said I smelled like a dumpster.”

  Matt twisted his lips to the side. “That bitch. Rhena Davis is the one that smells like a dumpster.”

  “I’m serious,” I raged. I was then unable to keep the hurt out of my voice as I added, “You slept with someone else and it hurt. A lot. Exorbitant hurt. Don’t make a joke out of this.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That wasn’t a joke?”

  “No, I mean—” he crossed to me and lifted his hands to touch me but I flinched away, causing him to release a frustrated sigh and pull his fingers through his hair, “I mean, I didn’t have sex with her. We kissed, but that’s it. I haven’t been with anyone since the crazy lady two years ago. There’s been no one until you.”

  Startled, my mouth fell open and I blinked at him for several seconds as this information permeated my brain. “You didn’t?”

  “No. I didn’t. But,” he reached for me again and I let him hold my arms, “yes. That was my plan. I’m not going to lie. Being with you all the time and not being able to . . .” He ground his teeth. “Not being able to touch you, be close to you, not in the way I wanted, was extremely frustrating. As much as I loved being with you, I hated how I felt after we spent time together.”

  “How did you feel?” I asked numbly, trying to keep up.

  “Not good.” He released a humorless laugh. “Like I wasn’t good enough, for you to—”

  I cut him off with a kiss, unable to bear the rest of his words, and wrapped him in a tight hug. His hands came around me, immediately sliding to my bottom and squeezing, pressing my hips to his. But then in the next moment he’d ended the kiss, cradling my jaw in his palms.

  “I’m not finished.”

  “This is difficult to hear.” My stomach hurt, thinking that I’d caused him misery simply by being with him. “I want to make it up to you.”

  “Then listen.”

  I nodded, covering his hands with mine, bracing myself. “Okay. Okay. Tell me.”

  “When I spotted you in the hall, I was happy to see you, as always. But then, you looked upset. Really upset. And surprised. And that confused me. But it also gave me hope.”

  “Oh.” I blinked some more, processing his words and trying to figure out how I felt about them.

  “You were who I wanted, and you were also unobtainable, off limits. But when I saw how upset you were, I made her coffee, apologized for wasting her time—admitted I was hung up on someone else—and sent her home. I texted you about coming over. You told me not to.”

  “That’s what made you change your mind about long-term commitment? Seeing me hurt?”

  “No. Not just seeing you hurt. I considered what it would feel like to see you with someone else.” Matt released another harsh laugh. “And, I have to tell you, it made me feel like shit. I hypothesized there existed a possibility that you were thinking about me the same way I’d been thinking about you, given the way you reacted. And if that was the case, if you were even a modicum as infatuated with me as I was with you—”

  “Infatuated?”

  “Besotted.”

  “Besotted is better.” I nodded encouragingly.

  “If you were besotted with me, even a very little, or were willing to give me a chance at something real, then I’d be an idiot not to try.” Tilting my chin up, he brushed a soft kiss against my lips, his tongue darting out at the last moment to taste me. “I had to do everything in my power to convince you to love me back.”

  “Oh, Matt.” My fingers slid to his wrists, my heart fluttering. “Why didn’t you say something? When we went for coffee that Monday? Why not tell me all this then?”

  He gathered a deep breath, his hands falling from my face, responding flatly, “You asked me to set you up with Dr. Merek.”

  I winced. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot about that.”

  He shook his head at me, giving me a look of teasing disgust. “How could you?”

  “What? He’s cute. I like his beard,” I teased back.

  Matt’s mouth fell open with more teasing disgust. “He’s a psychologist, Marie.” Then, whispering loudly, he added accusingly, “It’s one of the soft sciences.”

  I scoff-snorted. “Kerry was right. You are a snob.”

  He smiled, I smiled, we smiled at each other, and then I released a sigh. Even though I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying around this burden of frozen feelings, with the exhaled breath I
felt myself thaw.

  “See? Aren’t you glad we talked about it?”

  “Yes. You were right. I’m glad we . . . resolved that.”

  “Is it resolved?” he asked imploringly, his expression turning stern. “We have to do things in order. I don’t want to have make-up sex until all the arguments are done.”

  “But if we save some arguments for later, we get to make up more than once.” I reached for the waist of his jeans, widening my grin.

  Still frowning down at me, although now it looked more like a suppressed smile than a frown, Matt’s hands lowered to my thighs, skimming his fingertips up the back of my legs. “You’re brilliant.”

  “I know.”

  He placed a featherlight kiss on my neck. “I love you.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Talk to me, Marie.” His arms came around me once more, squeezing. “You have to talk to me, even when it hurts. Nothing will be right between us if you don’t.”

  I nodded, returning his embrace. “I will,” I said, knowing that not every argument would have a happy ending. Yet, I trusted his goodness. I trusted he’d never knowingly hurt me, and I hoped he likewise knew I would never knowingly hurt him. That trust meant we had to give each other every opportunity to prove the other right.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t take Quinn up on his offer to hire a cleaning service.” Greg was holding his youngest daughter, now eleven days old, while helping his son sort through the materials list for middle school and order the items online.

  “Because, Mr. Fiona, it’s more meaningful if we clean the apartment, because we do so with love. And Quinn and Janie will have to suffer through our love tomorrow.” Sandra was at the kitchen sink, washing the refrigerator’s crisper drawers. All the perishables were on the counter and Alex had bagged up the spoiled or old food for the trash.

  Meanwhile, I was wiping out the inside of the fridge, scowling at a very stubborn, crystalized bit of goo. “What is this? I’m going to need a jackhammer.”