~ ~ ~
On my drive back to the city, I think about what Lucy said. I’ve thought about telling Aspen about Danny. I’ve thought about it a lot. She’s the only person I’ve ever considered telling. But maybe that’s exactly why I shouldn’t. Then again, maybe if I told her everything, she’d understand why I can’t ever be in a relationship.
Aspen is different now. Ever since I returned from Atlanta last week, it’s like she’s her old self again. She’s not avoiding me anymore. She’s cooking for me again. Well, she never stopped cooking for me, but now she waits until I get home and she eats with me instead of just leaving me a plate in the refrigerator like she did after we came back from Kansas City.
I think I liked it better when she was avoiding me. Everything was easier. We were like ships passing in the night. There was no dinner conversation. No late-night talks. No joking around. No touching.
But the thing is, I missed all of that. I missed it so much it was messing with my head. I used to think having Aspen at games was a jinx. But after Kansas City, not having her there was what screwed up my game.
When I arrive home, Aspen is nowhere to be found despite the incredible smells coming from whatever is cooking in the oven. I decide to get in a workout before dinner, but when I go downstairs, I find Aspen staring at the walls.
“There you are,” I say.
My words startle her and her hand covers her heart. “You scared me.” She looks over at the stairs. “I hate basements. It’s why I’ve never come down before.”
“This is your first time down here?”
She nods as she continues to peruse the room with her eyes.
It makes sense. She’s never asked me about the butterflies and I’ve always wondered why. My basement is split in half, one side is my weight room and the other side is my workshop. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve made butterflies. It started out as something I’d do at night in the weeks after my mother’s funeral. I would draw pictures of them. Then later on, I’d make them out of clay. In high school, I almost got beat up for making one in wood shop. But that was the one I liked the best. So when I moved out of my dad’s house into my own place, one of the first purchases I made was a router and a lathe.
I look around at everything I’ve created over the years. Hundreds of butterflies in all colors, shapes, and sizes hang on the wall. There are wood shavings on the floor. Paint splatters on the table. A pile of various unused wood planks in the corner. And I realize for someone who’s never seen this before, it must raise a lot of questions.
Aspen walks around the room, studying each of my creations. I’ve never shared this room with anyone. Not even my friends know about it. I knew she’d see it when she moved in. I just didn’t realize how fucking sexy she’d look staring at my work. Touching them like I want her to be touching me.
“These are beautiful,” she says, when I walk up and stand next to her.
Then she turns and puts a hand over my rib cage, right on top of my tattoo. It makes me want to wrap her in my arms.
But I don’t.
“Tell me about the butterflies,” she says.
I think about my car ride earlier and how I’ve never told anyone about Danny. I’ve never told anyone about the butterflies either. Or about my mom. Basically, anything about my life.
“My mom really liked butterflies,” I tell her. “She would tell me stories about them.”
“How old were you when she died?” she asks.
I narrow my brows. “How do you know she died?”
“You told me once, right after you found out my parents died. And you just referred to her in the past tense. And you collect butterflies. I collect poems. My mom loved poetry and now I have a scrapbook I keep, and anytime I read a poem that reminds me of my mom, I make a copy of it and stick it in my scrapbook. I’ve almost filled up the entire thing.” She glances around at the numerous wood carvings and then she touches my tattoo again. “We’re more alike than you think, Tom Sawyer.”
“She was the only other person to ever call me that, you know.”
Her smile broadens. “Tell me about her,” she says, picking up one of the butterflies off a shelf and walking over to the couch to sit down.
I follow her over and take a seat. “I was ten.”
Her fingers move carefully across the ridges in the wood. “That must have been very hard for you,” she says.
“You have no idea,” I tell her. Then I realize my comment makes me sound like an inconsiderate prick. “Sorry, I guess you do.”
“No. I don’t. Every person’s experience is different. And you were only ten. I was much older when I lost my parents. Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
She waves her hands around the room. “She loved butterflies and now you have all of these. It’s like she’s watching over you.”
I study her as she continues to appraise the wooden sculpture in her hands. “You don’t think that’s stupid?” I ask.
“Stupid? God, no, Sawyer. I think it’s beautiful. It’s how you remember her.”
I nod my head. “I saw one right after she died.”
“You saw a butterfly?”
“Yeah. I was a mess because she died before I could say goodbye. I was at the hospital and I had just talked to her and she had told me the story of how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly. She loved to tell me that story. Then I went to find my dad and when we came back, she was gone. I ran outside and got sick. I didn’t know what to do. And then I saw the butterfly. It flew around my head like it knew me. It stayed with me far longer than I’d ever seen a butterfly stay in one place.”
“It was her,” she says.
I look at Aspen and see she has tears in her eyes.
“That’s impossible,” I say, not wanting to admit I thought the same thing. But I was ten. I didn’t know any better then.
“It was her,” she says again.
A tear falls from her eye and I reach over to catch it. My hand doesn’t leave her face after I wipe her tears. I’ve never told anyone that story before. I’ve never felt this connection with anyone. It takes all of my willpower not to kiss her. Because I’ve never wanted to kiss someone as much as I do right now.
I pull away and look back at the wall.
She sighs, and I’m not sure it’s a sigh of relief or disappointment.
“Is that why you don’t like relationships?” she asks. “You saw what losing your mom did to your dad?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s not why.”
She gets up off the couch and puts the butterfly back in its place. “But there is a why,” she says.
I ignore her statement. “Tell me why you don’t like basements. Doesn’t everyone have a basement in the Midwest?”
“Denver locked me in our basement one time. It was hours before anyone found me. And since the light switch was on the outside of the door, I was in the dark.”
I try to cover my laugh. She swats me. “Don’t laugh,” she says. “It was terrifying. I was only five years old.”
“Sorry. So this whole time, for months, you haven’t come down here? Why now?”
“It’s been driving me crazy hearing the noises that come from the basement. I knew you had a weight room down here, but the whirling and buzzing sounds didn’t make sense to me. It didn’t sound like a treadmill or a weight machine. I just had to find out what it was.”
“You could have just asked me.”
She raises her brows. “Oh, right. And the most private man on the planet would have just come out and told me.”
“I just told you a hell of a lot more than I’ve ever told anyone else.”
I see a hint of a smile. “Only because you caught me looking,” she says.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Well, I happen to think it’s amazing that you do this to honor your mom. And I love that I know this about you.”
“Maybe you should tell me something about you that I don’t
know.”
“I’m an open book,” she says. “I don’t try to hide anything.”
“You didn’t tell me about Denver until I read about it in the news.”
“That’s different,” she says. “It just never came up. And besides, I was … am … in your employ, and it’s not exactly the kind of thing you tell your boss.”
“So it seems we all have secrets at one time or another.”
She shrugs. “I guess we do.”
“There is something I want to know about you,” I say.
“What?”
“What do you do all day? I mean, I’m not suggesting you sit around eating bon-bons, but now that school is over and grad school hasn’t started, how do you spend your time?”
She smiles.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s just that you rarely ask about me, I mean except when it has to do with my past boyfriends.”
I snort. “Don’t let it go to your head, Andrews.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”
“So, bon-bons?”
“Hardly,” she says. “I spend a lot of time volunteering.”
“Really? Where?”
“A few different places. Mostly I teach underprivileged kids how to play piano. It’s a program through Juilliard that introduces kids to music.”
“And that takes up all your time?”
She shrugs. “That and a few others.”
“Such as?”
“I help out at a soup kitchen sometimes.”
“Feeding the homeless? That’s admirable.”
“Have you ever tried it?” she asks. “Volunteer work is very rewarding.”
“I think I have enough on my plate.”
“You do now, but in the off-season I’m sure you have plenty of time.”
“Hmmm. Maybe.”
“Maybe meaning no,” she says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Sawyer, underneath your rough and roguish exterior is a nice guy. I know it. I see glimpses of him all the time. That guy wants to come out. Maybe if you did something to help others, that guy will come through and then everyone else will see what I see. What your friends see.”
“You think I’m roguish?” I say with a smirk.
“Rough and roguish. Big difference.”
I smile at her and she rolls her eyes. Damn, I love it when she does that.
“People would see that you’re more than a guy who gets lap dances,” she says.
I shake my head. “It wasn’t a lap dance. She just sat down for a brief second. She sat on every player’s lap. Why doesn’t anyone get in a tizzy about them?”
“Because they aren’t you. People are waiting for you to screw up. They are waiting to prove that an old dog doesn’t learn new tricks. And the women – none of them want you to change, not unless they can be the one to break you.”
“Break me?”
“Settle you down.”
“Is that what you want to do? Settle me down?”
“Settle down Sawyer Mills?” she says with distant eyes. “I’m not sure I would dare to try.”
I stare at her and try to gauge the sincerity of her words. But I’m calling bullshit because her eyes don’t lie. And her eyes are telling me a much different story than her mouth.
I hear the oven timer go off upstairs. Aspen points at the ceiling. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
Chapter Thirty
Aspen
Tears of pride fill my eyes when I look at Bass in his dress blues. He’s graduating from fire school today. He’s fulfilling his life-long dream.
That’s not to say he doesn’t love guitar. He does. He’s very passionate about it and plays almost daily. But ever since he was young, he’s dreamed of fighting fires. However, his parents are both academics who are heavily involved in the arts and they convinced him to go to Juilliard.
I’m glad he did or we’d never have met. Despite the fact that we haven’t been hanging out as much lately, he’s still my very best friend. And despite the fact that he declared his feelings for me, I’m pretty sure I’m still his.
I pull him in for a hug. “I’m so damn proud of you.”
“Don’t smear your girly black eye crap on my nice shirt or white gloves,” he jokes.
I swat his arm. “Shut up.”
“I’m really glad you came, Penny.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You know that. Sawyer’s coming, too, but he had a game so he might not get here before the ceremony.”
“He shouldn’t go out of his way,” he says.
“He likes you, Bass. Of course he’s going to come.”
Sometimes I wonder if it hurts Sebastian to see Sawyer and I together. Although he’s one of the few people who knows about our arrangement, he’s also well aware of how I feel about Sawyer.
I’ve often thought about how much easier life would be if I’d fallen in love with Bass instead. There would be no drama. No conflicting feelings. No inevitable heartbreak. He’s such a great guy. A better man than Sawyer by most people’s standards. He’s handsome, funny, and very passionate. Brooke is lucky to have him. I hope she knows that.
Bass introduces me to a few of his fellow graduates and then Brooke joins us. She snakes her arm around Sebastian’s waist, almost as if to mark him. She’s always been suspicious of us, as are most people. Nobody believes that a man and a woman can live together and be best friends without having some kind of sexual relationship.
Brooke is very sweet, but when it comes to Bass, she’s super territorial.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asks, never failing to mention my relationship in front of Bass.
“He’s at a game, but he’s coming over right after. I just hope he makes it.”
“Don’t worry,” Brooke says. “I’m going to get the ceremony on video if he ever wants to see it.”
“Thanks. I’ll let him know. So, Bass, when do you find out what station you get assigned to?”
“Pretty soon. But not tonight. We submitted our top three choices last week.”
“Oh, I hope he gets Brooklyn,” Brooke says. “Don’t you think that would be apropos? You know, because of my name?”
I laugh. “Well, I hope he gets Brooklyn, too. But for an entirely different reason. I know his other two choices were stations in Manhattan and the thought of him having to fight fires in high-rises scares me to death.”
“Brooklyn has high-rise buildings, too, you know,” Brooke says.
“I know, but not nearly as many as Manhattan. And none that are as tall. I don’t want our boy in too much danger.”
“Our boy?” Brooke says with an accusing brow.
Bass laughs at her insecure comment. I know I shouldn’t goad her like that. I knew what I was saying. And maybe I’m a bit territorial when it comes to Bass, but it’s only because I love him like a brother. Just like he doesn’t want to see me hurt, I don’t want to see him hurt, professionally or personally. But quite frankly, I’m more worried about Brooke. She and I have a lot more in common than she realizes. We both love men who are incapable of loving us back. Or unwilling.
Someone makes an announcement over the loudspeaker and the graduates head to the front of the auditorium to take their seats.
I watch with pride as my best friend walks across the stage and gets the certificate he’s worked so hard for.
Sawyer sneaks in from the side, squeezing next to me as I try to make room for him. He leans in and kisses my cheek like it’s a habit. “Good,” he whispers. “I’m glad I didn’t miss it.”
I nod my head, unable to speak because of the happy tears that are falling.
Sawyer chuckles in my ear. “Are you going to cry when they give me my World Series ring, too?”
“That depends. Do they give those out right there at the last game?”
Something changes in his eyes. And the way he looks at me is … different. He shakes his head sadly. “No. It normally takes months to make them
.”
“Oh. Well, that’s too bad. I would have liked to have seen it.”
He cocks his head to the side. “You really think we’ll make it to the Series?”
“Why wouldn’t I? The Nighthawks are a great team. And with you leading them, anything is possible.”
“Thanks,” he says. “It really means a lot to me that you feel that way.”
I turn my head and stare at him. “You had the perfect opportunity to say something cocky just now, yet you said something nice again, Tom Sawyer,” I whisper. “You’d better watch out or you’ll be labeled a good guy before you know it.”
“Shhh,” he whispers back, his hot breath flowing over my ear and neck. “Don’t tell anyone.”
He grabs my hand and entwines it with his. I realize he’s only doing it for show, but it feels nice. And even though I know he’s just playing a part, his thumb rubbing slow circles around my knuckles sends pulses of want and need throughout my body.
Does he know what his touch does to me? Does he even care?
I take a peek at Brooke, who’s on my other side, and notice the smile on her face when she sees our clasped hands. She thinks if I’m off the market, she has a better chance with Bass. But I’m not so sure it’s me who has anything to do with it. I can see it in his eyes, he doesn’t want her like I want Sawyer. But maybe being with somebody is better than being with nobody.
I look back at Sawyer and realize just how different these two men really are.
Bass wants a relationship so badly, he’s willing to accept someone he doesn’t love. Sawyer is so scared of one, he’ll throw away love without giving it a chance.
And then there’s Denver.
Boy, do I have some screwed-up men in my life.
“Come on,” Brooke says, standing up and tugging on my arm after the last graduate crosses the stage. “Let’s head outside for the reception.”
Champagne is flowing freely and Bass quickly gets drunk, making up for lost time after having sworn off alcohol during his training. He grabs two glasses off a nearby tray and hands one to Sawyer after Brooke and I refuse it. “Come on, someone has to keep up with me,” he says.
Sawyer takes the glass, clinking it to Bass’s.
Stealing Sawyer Page 24