“Those are life skills, Cutie.”
“Stop trying to make that a nickname, Beast.”
“Mom! Abel! It’s time!” Ainsley races out of the room as quickly as she raced in. A glance at the clock indicates she’s right. The ball is about to drop.
I slap the magnet on the dishwasher and quickly wipe my hands before following Elliott into the living room where girls are already counting down.
“Fifteen! Fourteen! Thirteen!”
I watch the three women of the house as they count backward, giant smiles on all their faces. As hard as the first part of the past year was, I’m grateful it ended on such a high note. I find myself looking forward to the coming year and where it’s going to take us all.
“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!”
The crowd in Times Square goes wild, probably for the second time tonight, since we’re an hour behind, and people begin hugging. The camera zooms in on couples who can’t keep their hands off each other, giant confetti falls from the sky, and “Auld Lang Syne” begins playing in the background.
In our living room, however, the girls are jumping up and down, hugging each other tightly.
“Happy New Year, Abel,” Elliott says, and comes in for a hug.
“Happy New Year, Elliott.” We begin to pull away, and I look into her eyes. Suddenly, the air in the room completely shifts. The tension palpable. I watch in what seems like slow motion as Elliott licks her bottom lip, practically in invitation. It’s all the encouragement I need.
Tilting my head down, I press my lips to hers, slowly. When she doesn’t pull away, when she kisses me back, I shift my body to face her fully and bring my hand to her face. Cupping her cheek, I open my mouth a tiny bit to lock our lips more intimately. She reciprocates, so I slowly press my tongue forward, seeking entrance into her mouth.
“Eww…” The sound of giggles snaps me back to reality. Apparently, Elliott has the same issue since she practically jumps away from me.
I look over at the kids, who are still giggling, hands over their mouths as the combination of excitement, shock, and probably residual sugar make them deliriously giddy. I chance a glance back at Elliott who has the same look on her face I’m sure I have on mine: total and utter shock.
Her fingers are pressed against her lips, the same lips I was just gently kissing, and I want so badly to know if she is regretting what happened. Personally, I’m not sure what to think. In three seconds flat, this roommate situation got so much more complicated.
How did that happen? Where do we go from here? And why do I want to do it again so badly?
Chapter Sixteen
ELLIOTT
Plodding down the stairs to make some coffee, I realize I’m going to need an extra cup this morning. I was up all night, thinking. More specifically, I was thinking about that kiss at midnight.
I would be a big, fat liar if I said I wasn’t attracted to Abel. What’s not to lust after? The chiseled jaw? The lush brown hair? Those abs or rock-hard thighs? Yeah. He’s a real ogre, all right.
I guess I’d never expected a man as amazing as Abel would be attracted to me. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not completely sure this attraction isn’t one-sided, and he was just caught up in the moment.
That’s probably more accurate. It happens all the time. Like when someone is in a plane crash with a stranger, and they’re the only survivors, and they end up falling in love on a deserted island while they wait to be found.
Except not at all like that, and I need to lay off the nighttime dramas for a while. It’s messing with my sense of reality.
But still, Abel’s never made a move on me. He doesn’t flirt with me any differently than he flirts with everyone, and I know for a fact he’s not really hitting on Tabitha. It’s the way Abel is. It’s his form of “communication,” if you will. Things just got a little out of hand last night. That’s all. No reason to freak out. No reason to worry. Just ignore it, and it’ll go away.
I triple check the magnet because I have no interest in doing double the dishes again, then satisfied with what is says, pull open the dishwasher while I wait for the coffee to brew and begin the act of putting away all the clean silverware. That’ll keep my mind off of things.
Except these are the bowls we used for our snacks last night. When we put them in the sink to clean up and the countdown began. When we hugged in the New Year and Abel kissed me. On the lips. His tongue snaking out from between his lips, wanting to tangle with mine…
“Good morning, Cutie.”
“Ah!” I yell and lose my grip on one of the spoons, caught totally off guard in my inappropriate daydream.
Abel, being as agile as he is, catches it before it hits the floor. “Whoa! Did I scare you or something?”
Heart racing, I decide to go with his option. “I haven’t had any coffee,” I say, still clutching my hand over my heart. “So, I don’t think my awareness levels are up to par quite yet. But I’m okay.” I wave a hand like my breathing is going to go back to normal at any time, even though with him in the room, I’m lying to myself. Deflect, Elliott. Deflect. “And why are you still trying to make Cutie a thing?”
His lips curl up in amusement, and he grabs a handful of silverware to put away. “Not trying, Cutie. Succeeding. It’s our thing.”
I roll my eyes, knowing I’m never going to win this battle. I might as well join him. “Whatever, Beast. What’s up?”
“We should talk about what happened.”
And here we go. The brush-off conversation that starts with “We got caught up in the moment,” and ends with “Let’s forget it ever happened.” I’m not thrilled about having to kick my fantasy to the curb so quickly, but I do appreciate he’s facing this head-on instead of stringing me along.
Not that I think there’s really a chance we would date anyway, so it’s not really any kind of stringing.
Regardless, it’s probably best to get this conversation over with. I discreetly take a deep breath, steeling my emotions for the letdown while maintaining my status as a functioning adult. “Yes, we should.”
“We should date.”
“I agree—wait, what?”
“We should try dating.”
I blink once.
Twice.
Three times.
Shake my head, because surely, I heard the right words but put them into the wrong sentence in my head.
No. No, the words keep putting themselves together the same way. But… what?
“I think my brain isn’t, like, wording correctly right now.” I move my hand around about my head, like it’s a jumbled mess. “Did you say you think we should date?”
Abel grabs my hand from the air and pulls it down, wrapping my fingers around a mug. I’m not sure if he wants me to put it away or fill it with coffee. “Your brain is wording fine. Interesting phrase, by the way. And yes, that’s exactly what I suggested.”
Let’s pause for an After-School Special real-life moment. A thirty-something god of the gym, for some unknown reason, has decided this forty-something divorced mom, who refuses to lift anything more than a pound of ground beef, is the best the dating pool has to offer. There are only two explanations for it:
On-line dating truly has hit rock bottom.
Abel is taking steroids just as my mother predicted.
His voice is remarkably low for someone who could break into a ’roid rage at any moment, so I’m going to have to go with option number one. And what a sad day in the life of singlehood, am I right?
Regardless, I can’t tell Abel my thoughts because that would be weird. This whole situation is weird. Dating the guy I’m living with and working with would be weird, wouldn’t it? “Don’t you think that would be weird?”
There. Maybe Abel has the answer for me.
Instead, he shocks the crap out of me by saying, “Why? You aren’t attracted to me?”
My mouth drops open. “What? Why would you ask that?” If he could read my mind, he would know that isn’t
the slightest bit true. Hell, if my daughter wasn’t sleeping in the same room as me, I might have indulged myself with a few of my attraction fantasies and had some “me time,” as my seventh-grade health teacher used to call it. That was a traumatizing story in itself.
“So, you aren’t attracted to me.”
Well, now he’s just being ridiculous. “I didn’t say that.” I give him an eye roll for good measure. “I mean, I’m not unattracted to you.”
Especially when he gives me that smile. You know, the one he flashes right before he says something ornery. It’s kind of my favorite. “So, you aren’t repulsed by me. That’s step one of every solid relationship.”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Again with the damn fish references. I haven’t had enough caffeine to figure out how to twist the conversation into a more neutral territory. And I certainly can’t tell Abel the truth—that I think he’s mature beyond his years and will be an amazing boyfriend to someone. I just don’t see how that can possibly be me. The problems it would cause the girls alone don’t make it worth it.
“Think about it,” he finally says when I don’t respond, and hands me the last clean mug before turning to walk away.
Oh, don’t worry, Abel, I think to myself. This is the only thing I’m going to be thinking about for days. I can already feel it.
Chapter Seventeen
ABEL
She doesn’t think I noticed, but I saw the surprise and confusion in Elliott’s eyes when I told her I wanted to see her on a more intimate level. I wasn’t trying to screw with her, but she acted surprised and then gave me that deer in the headlights look; I couldn’t help but keep going. She’s fun to mess with. Realistically, she likes to joke around with me too, so I don’t feel bad about it.
But I also recognized she needed time to process the idea of taking our relationship to the next level. So, I left her alone about it and acted normal. Slowly but surely, her guard has come back down.
At this point, I know she thinks we aren’t going to have this conversation, but we absolutely are. She is a hot-blooded woman, and I’m a hot-blooded man. My divorce is final, so there is no piece of paper standing in my way. The only thing I need to do is convince her that we’re good together and can be even better if we take this next step.
I’m not worried. I can be a convincing guy. I just have to find the way to prove I’m right, and doing so means I’m going to have to take this really slow.
“I still think we should date,” I announce as I storm into the dining room like a man on a mission.
Well, not that slow. I need to make progress forward.
Elliott’s fork stops, halfway to her mouth. Lowering it slowly, she licks her lips. She’s not fooling me. She’s buying time to come up with her next argument. “Didn’t you call me your best friend the other day when you were talking to your mom on the phone?”
I was hoping she’d overheard that.
“Yeah. So?”
Leaning forward on her elbows, I already know which direction she’s going with this one, and she’s wrong.
“Dating your best friend is a terrible idea.”
I lean forward as well. “It’s a great idea. Aren’t the best relationships founded on friendship?”
She purses her lips, and backs up, picking up her fork again to continue eating her Sunday breakfast. “I’m not having this conversation.”
I back off as well, but only temporarily. She can’t hide her smirk from me.
Two weeks later, while cooking dinner:
“You know, dating is just friends who are committed to having benefits with only each other.” I chance a glance at her as I slice the zucchini for the “noodles” I’m making for dinner.
Elliott snickers while stirring the alfredo sauce she’s making from scratch. “So, what you’re saying is you could see yourself having sex with me?”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it.” I close my eyes and realize I am way better at imagery than I knew. Seriously. And if I thought Elliott was beautiful with clothes on, when she’s naked in my mind, she’s practically a goddess. I better open my eyes before she sees the physical effects of my lust. “Just thought about it,” I say, going back to my chopping. “Not bad. Definitely worth doing again.”
Her shocked face makes her eyes and mouth the same size before she blurts out, “Ohmygod, I don’t want to talk about this.”
Liar. She’s smiling again.
Ten days later:
“You know I’m eight years older than you, right?”
I look over at Elliott, who is sitting next to me on a park bench. It’s still cold outside, but for January, “cold” is a huge step up from “bone-chilling, breath freezes on contact with the air.” When the girls asked to play outside, we decided to take advantage of the weather before we’re stuck inside again.
But that’s not the part that’s important right now. What I’m excited to focus on is how I knew I was right. I haven’t brought up one conversation in close to two weeks about dating, but Elliott’s been thinking about it. I knew my plan would work.
“Yeah. So?” I don’t say anything else. I want Elliott to do the talking this time. If I’m going to ease her fears, I need to know what they are.
“If relationships are just friends committed to benefits, you should know an additional eight years of life and a child means I come with saggy boobs.”
That’s all she’s worried about? Her boobs?
I furrow my brow and shake my head. “So what? I have a beer gut.”
She rolls her eyes, which I have learned is her go-to response to most of my humorous antidotes. “You have no gut. You have washboard abs.”
“Give me eight years. I’m aging too, ya know.”
“Ohmygod, I’m not talking to you.”
You don’t need to, Cutie. Just keep thinking.
Eight days later, while sharing a bowl of popcorn in front of the TV:
“They’re not just saggy. These boobs are small too.”
I pause briefly from my chewing as an image of a topless Elliott rolls through my brain. It’s not my fault—I didn’t bring up her boobs. I’m just a guy having a normal response to the topic at hand.
Obviously, the look on my face gives me away because she smacks my arm, snapping me out of my daze.
“I don’t think your boobs are small, Elliott. I think they’re perfect because they’re yours. Besides, my penis isn’t ginormous like the men in your books.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but suddenly processes my last sentence. “Are you saying you have a micropeen?”
Taking a page out of her book, I roll my eyes. “No. I’m average in length and girth. And even if I wasn’t, I’m not opposed to letting my fingers do the walking.”
Her jaw drops momentarily before she turns back to the TV, grumbling, “I don’t want to talk about this.”
Yes, you do.
A week later:
“I’m not the girl who initiates sex,” Elliott announces, as she comes barreling into the kitchen while I’m doing dishes. She’s wild and animated, talking with her hands. I have to work really hard to not look up from the soapy pot I’m scrubbing. I don’t want to scare her off. “I mean, sometimes. But, most of the time, it has to be the guy.”
“No problem,” I say nonchalantly. Don’t spook her, Abel.
“No, really. I’m game for it if you get me going. But you have to start it. It’s not even a libido thing.” She keeps trying to convince me, but actually, I’m pretty sure she’s trying to convince herself. “It’s a personality thing.”
“Okay.”
“I feel like you aren’t taking this seriously.”
I finally look up and meet her eye. “I’m not.”
“But I thought you wanted to have sex with me.”
“Who says I have to take sex seriously? It can be fun too. Just wait until you find out the things I can do with some whipped cream.” I waggle my eyebrows, hoping to make her laugh.
She doesn’t. But she does blink rapidly a few times, frozen in place, before storming out of the room muttering, “We’re not talking about this.”
Maybe not. But I’m starting to think we don’t have to. It’s only a matter of Elliott wrapping her brain around the inevitable. And that makes me excited.
Three days later:
“What do you think of oral?”
I choke on my bite of ice cream, completely caught off guard by Elliot’s candor. “What kind of question is that?”
She looks at me innocently, but I’m not fooled. She’s trying to set me up. “You want to date. It’s an honest question. We need to be on the same page.”
She forgets two can play this game. And I am very, very good at games.
Turning back to the TV, pretending not to be affected, I say, “Make sure to eat some pineapple.”
“Are you kidding me?” she sneers. “That’s so sexist.”
“You’re right. I’m kidding. Want a bite of my ice cream?” I grab a small scoop and hold it out to her, knowing she can’t resist sweets. “It’s this new healthy kind I found at the store.”
“Sure. What kind is it?” Elliott opens her mouth wide and closes her lips around the spoon.
“Pineapple. So I taste good for you too.”
Elliott immediately starts choking.
Mission accomplished, I think, as I pat her on the back.
The next day:
“I don’t understand.”
The look on Elliott’s face tells me she’s finally ready to talk about this for real. No more games. No more dancing around the topic. A real, adult conversation about the state of our relationship.
Wiping my hand on a dish towel, I toss it to the side and lean back against the sink. “What’s there to understand?”
“It’s just…” She looks up at the ceiling and bites her lip. “You could have anyone in the world. Anyone. But for some reason, you’re propositioning me. An average, everyday woman who is old enough to be…”
Cutie and the Beast: A Roommates to Lovers Single Dad Romance (Cipher Office Book 3) Page 13