by BJ Harvey
A small smile curves my lips. “I was hopeful.”
“And now?”
We stare at each other, and I watch her fingers nervously tap on the tabletop, her shoulders held tight and tense. “Now it’s less hopeful, more sure.”
That at least has her letting out a soft sigh of relief. “So after this ‘pile of sticks’ is done, what happens then?”
“We don’t have to worry about that just yet,” I say, knowing it’s noncommittal, but we’re only five weeks into a twelve-week flip, and an impromptu marriage. It’s too soon to plan for forever, as much as I’d love to do precisely that.
“But we’ll talk about it when the time comes?” She sounds unsure, and I hate it. She’s not the only one.
I reach over and take her hand, looking her straight in the eye, so she knows I’m telling the truth. “We’ll talk about where we’re going next when it gets closer to a time when a decision needs to be made, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, a gentle smile appearing, and the fist that had wrapped itself around my heart releases its grip. It’s not that I’m unsure about my feelings for Faith, or even her feelings for me. It’s that once burned, twice shy, and I know I’d never be able to stand in the way if she was to get another opportunity to work somewhere other than Chicago and wanted to leave again.
Lost in my thoughts, I belatedly realize Faith has stood up and is reaching out for my plate. Instead, I push out of my seat and grab hers out of her hand, stacking it on top of mine.
“Why don’t you sit on the couch and put a movie on, and I’ll just clear the table and quickly do the dishes?” I ask.
“Oh no, I can help.”
“No. You can go sit your pretty ass on the couch and pick something for us to watch, or do anything else you feel like doing as long as your feet are up and that wine glass stays in your hand. You’re not doing the dishes with me. New rule—whenever you cook me a meal that makes me want to marry you all over again, I’ll do the cleaning up, and I’ll do whatever you want to say thank you.”
A slow-growing smile curves her lips, and her eyes dip to my mouth, unmissable heat filling them. “Whatever I want?” she asks, her voice a rough whisper.
“Yep,” I say slowly, enunciating the P under her focused stare.
“How about a foot rub then?” she says with a slow-growing coquettish grin.
Oh, hell yes. That I can do.
17
Faith
For thirty minutes I’ve been staring at the television, pretending to watch a movie about Egyptian mummies coming to life. My mind has been focused on Bryant’s rough hands cradling my feet, one at a time, as he strokes his thumbs deep into my arches. I’ve almost fallen into a foot-rub coma twice already. I’m lost in sensation when his warm palms slide over my ankles, moving up to my calves.
Our gazes lock, and I physically feel the change in the air.
His touch is the same—soft, firm, caressing, reassuring, intentional, calming, goddamn mind-bending caresses moving up my calves.
But before this goes in the direction I want it to go in, we need to kick that old elephant out of the room.
When Bry’s palm runs over my knee, I reach out and cover his hand with mine. He slowly lifts his head to look at my face.
“So you know I went to see the moms last weekend and learned how to make that dinner?”
“Yeah, and it was damn good, too.”
“Well… your mom said something that’s kind of stuck with me during the week, and I think we need to talk about it.”
His fingers flex against my leg, but he doesn’t look away. His jaw flexes, and while past Faith might have shied away from the potential consequences of this kind of discussion, the Faith I am now—the Faith Bryant has encouraged me to be since I got back—wants to face it head-on.
“Whatever you need, Faith.” His caramel eyes are soft yet intense, the power behind them—the love I see in them—making my heart swell so big it could easily choke me.
We sit there staring at each other, the air in the room growing thick and heavy like a weight on my shoulders that could flatten me if I let it. Yet, I know it won’t bury me because I want this—want Bryant—and I swore to myself the minute I stepped off the plane at O’Hare that I’d stop at nothing to get the future Bryant I deserve.
“What did Mom say?” he asks, his arms wrapped around my legs, holding me close.
“She said you knew why I left,” I say quietly, almost a whisper.
His eyes flash, their intensity spearing through me. “It took a little while but getting scraps of information from Ez, and knowing you almost better than I knew myself back then, it didn’t take me long.”
I move closer, needing more of him—more Bryant, more everything. “I’m sorry. I’ve never said it, and I didn’t because I was a coward.”
“You wanna explain that?”
“I always knew I’d marry you. You have been the only boy—then, man—I’ve ever loved. The only one I’ve ever wanted.”
“But not at twenty-two…”
I nod. “We were such a certainty, such a forgone conclusion. I lost myself in our relationship, and if I’d said yes that night, I knew I’d never get to find myself.”
He leans in, his eyes so soft yet conflicted, so full of everything yet also lost. He’s a contradictory mixture of confusion, understanding, love and hurt, all of it summing up the lifespan of our relationship—the good, the bad, and the stupid.
He lifts a hand to cup my cheek, his gaze roaming my face. “I get that, babycakes, I really do. I didn’t at the time, but once I got past the hurt, and the bruised ego, and the shock that you were there one minute then suddenly you were on the other side of the world, I realized that you did what you felt you had to do. And I respected that, it’s just…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath and I see every emotion I’m feeling reflected back at me.
This moment is hard. It’s raw. It’s everything we’ve been avoiding but everything we’ve needed to say in order to move forward. I still can’t deny the existence of that small sliver of fear locked away deep inside, the part of me that still worries Bry won’t be able to ever fully trust me not to leave again.
I cover his hand on my face with my own, anchoring him to me. “Just what?”
His eyes move over my shoulder, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard then slowly drags his gaze back to mine.
“You were able to make a complete break. Clean. Harsh. Totally fucking heartbreaking, and it made me so angry. I’d never contemplated hating you but for those months after you left when you wouldn’t answer my e-mails, wouldn’t call me? I really wanted to. It was so easy for you to walk away, I doubted everything we had. Fourteen years of friendship, eight years of more. All of it, and I let that feeling of rejection distort me.” His eyes glisten with tears, and that is the final straw, my own tears falling freely down my face, over our hands.
That pain I felt before is no longer a spear. It’s a fucking big-ass meat cleaver, slashing me open.
“I was always coming back to you, but that clean break? It was a rough, barely-held-together rip. There was nothing clean about it.”
“I had no way of knowing that, Faith,” he says roughly, his voice full of emotion.
“I have never stopped loving you, not for twenty-six years. Not once. I tried. I failed. But in going out on my own, outside of the Faith and Bryant fairy-tale, I discovered finding myself and fulfilling my life goals don’t mean the same if my soul mate isn’t by my side while I do it.”
“Baby…”
“I’m so damn sorry, Bry. The past six weeks with you have proven what I already knew.”
“What’s that?” he rasps.
“That I really, really fucked up,” I say, a sob escaping my throat when I lean in and bury my face in his neck. His arms come around my shoulders, and I’m shifted sideways into his lap.
“I think we both did,” he murmurs.
His hands stroke up and down my back as
I burrow in closer, soaking up his warmth, relief, and just the feeling of release coursing through me. He hasn’t pushed me away, he hasn’t yelled or laid into me. He’s Bryant.
This talk had to come now. It couldn’t have happened the day we first saw each other again; it couldn’t have been when I was half a world away and finding myself—although there were so many times I picked up my phone, wanting to hear his voice while I told him about my day, my research achievements, everything I always used to tell him about first.
I lift my head, looking down between us to see I’m now sitting on top of him, his hands framing my hips.
I flatten my hands over his heart, flexing my fingers and meeting his eyes. “How can you get past that? Get past me doing that to us?”
“Because you’re Faith Baker—who was always going to be Faith Cook—and I knew I needed to be ready for you when you were ready for that to happen.”
My mouth drops open. “You planned for it?”
“Yep. I knew that when you came back, I had to make sure you knew my intentions for you hadn’t changed. If you gave me an in, I was going to pounce on that and run with it.”
“Oh my God!” I breathe. Then a snort escapes my lips. I cover my mouth to try and hide it but fail miserably. “You totally played me as soon as I walked through that bedroom door.”
His lips twitch, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Maybe… well, I hoped like hell you hadn’t turned up with a man on your arm because then I would’ve had to fight him, and that would’ve ruined my suit.”
Tears sting my eyes again, but this time, they’re relieved happy tears.
“You… you made me… I’m so confused…” I say.
“I love you. I’ll always love you. I’m always going to love you. And I made damn sure I put my ring on your finger before you had a chance to run away from me again.”
There it is.
Now I know what my husband needs to hear. That last giant wall we need to scale. It’s not about cooking or cleaning or being everything I think he needs me to be.
I cradle his jaw in my hands and lean in close so he’s all I can see. “You have me, Bry. I love you more now than I did back then, and I’ve never stopped. I’ve always been yours, I always will be yours, and I don’t ever want to be anywhere else other than by your side, in your arms, and in your bed.”
His eyes flare, and before I can even blink, his hand is tugging my head down, and his mouth is slamming into mine.
It’s hands and fingers, my hips rolling in his lap as our tongues wage war against each other. Both of us are fighting to get closer, deeper, to get everything from each other. I tear my mouth free and drop my hands to the hem of my T-shirt, ripping it up over my head. Bryant’s gaze drops to my red lace bra, and for a moment, time stands still. With a feral growl, he launches at me again, his palm cupping one of my breasts and his thumb and finger rolling across my nipple in a move that has my back arching into him as I let loose a deep, guttural moan.
In a move that would impress even the most accomplished lothario, I’m lifted and shifted, and find myself flat on my back with Bryant’s body covering me, his weight pressing me into the couch cushions, our mouths still patched together.
He hovers over me, his body moving up and down, mimicking exactly what I want to do… what we need to do. I want to feel his skin against mine. I want him laid out on our bed so I can take my time exploring every single inch of him… and there are a lot of inches, so it’ll take a lot of time. I want him buried deep inside me, his mouth on mine, breathing me in as I do the same to him, and I want it now.
My hands scramble to tug his top up his back. Taking the hint, he braces himself on one arm beside my head and pulls his T-shirt over his head, making my breath catch and my thighs clench.
I grab hold of his head and tighten my grip, desperate to have his lips on mine again, loving the feel of skin on skin, wishing I could snap my fingers and have us naked already.
That thought is interrupted by a knock on the front door. We both freeze, Bry’s eyes widening before narrowing in obvious frustration.
“Wait here. Just like that. Don’t you dare move, Faith, because I’m liking where this is going, and nothing is going to stop us from getting there.”
“Hurry up and get back already,” I say with a smirk, before lifting my head, giving him a hard and fast kiss, and then pushing him off, missing him as soon as his weight leaves me.
What I don’t miss is the opportunity to admire my toned-as-hell husband in all his shirtless wonder as he bends down to grab his discarded tee off the floor and tugs it back over his head. When he catches me ogling, he shoots me the most panty-melting grin, and I swear my vagina is ready to self-combust.
Then he gives my arm a gentle squeeze just as another, louder and longer knock echoes around the house.
“This better be a life-or-death emergency. I’ve been waiting twelve long fucking years to have you again,” he mutters before stalking out of the living room towards the front door.
I’m giggling and swooning, and definitely agreeing about it being long overdue, when a slurred “hey” sounds from the entryway.
“Is it a bad time?” I hear Cohen ask—by all accounts, a very drunk Cohen at that.
“What the fuck, dude? How did you get here?” Bry asks, sounding frustrated but also resigned. I quickly sit up and scramble to find my own top draped over the back of the couch. After a quick re-dress, and checking that everything is back where it should be, I get up and move towards the kitchen and the coffee-maker.
My decision is proven right the second Bry walks back into the room, a goofily grinning yet not-as-happy-as-you’d-expect Cohen stumbling behind him.
“New plan, babycakes. Coffees all-round and we’ll press pause on those previously anticipated activities until later, yeah?”
I purse my lips, trying not to laugh as Cohen’s head snaps from his brother to me, then back again. “Finally, I get to cock block Bryant. I could’ve sworn he’d been living like a monk.”
Bryant shoots him a filthy look. “How about I cock block you for life, you drunken idiot?”
Cohen flops down on the couch. “Yeah, that might solve all my problems. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about anything like meeting someone, falling in love, any of that shit.”
My eyes widen as I look at Bryant, who just shrugs and shakes his head. I make quick work of the coffee, and carry two mugs over to them.
“Thanks, baby,” Bryant says from his seat next to Cohen. He tips his head back, and I give him a quick kiss before straightening, feeling Cohen’s gaze on us.
“How can it be so easy for everyone else? Twelve years apart and what, six weeks later, it’s like you never left,” Cohen says, but I know he’s not expecting an answer.
There’s must be a story there; I can feel it. “Let me guess. Skye?” I ask.
Cohen’s head jerks, “No?” Cohen says, sounding almost offended. “We’re just friends. We work together, and her brothers would bury me alive if I even touched her like that.”
“Okay… So what gives?” Bryant asks.
“I’m just sick of my life being at a standstill.” He slowly lifts his gaze. “I’m sick of watching everyone get on with their lives, and here I am, living at home, working the same job. Just…stuck.”
I close the distance and squat down beside my brother-in-law, reaching out to rest my hand on his arm. With a quick look at my husband’s furrowed brow, I know this night is not going to end the way we wanted. But family comes first, always. “Co, take it from someone who knows. You can—and will—get past this. If I can, then you can, and if you want help getting there, Bry and I will help you in any way we can. Let’s start with coffee and a couch for you to sleep it off. Tomorrow, we’ll talk. Okay?”
Cohen closes his eyes slowly and nods, covering my hand with his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s good to have you back, Bakes.”
I look straight at him, knowing my words are for my
husband as much as they are for my drunken—probably won’t remember it in the morning—brother-in-law. Funnily enough, it also serves to bring the night full circle.
“That’s good to hear, Co because I’m not planning on going anywhere ever again.”
18
Bryant
Having gotten up early to drop Cohen home, I walk through our door expecting to find a still sleeping Faith lying in bed. Instead, I’m met with mussed blankets and empty sheets, and the sound of her adorably tone-deaf singing coming from the master bathroom.
Two birds, one stone—or in this case, shower. I don’t question walking in, and that’s because she’s left the door wide open whereas usually, she closes it. This is how it used to be when we were living together. Open means go, closed means no.
Bending down, I kick my shoes away and pull off my socks. I’ve shrugged my tee over my head by the time I’m through the bathroom door. The glass in the new shower we finished on Friday is steamed up, but I can still make out Faith’s curvy silhouette.
Anticipation fills me. It’s not just that this will be the first time making love to my wife, but also the first time I’ve taken her in twelve long years.
My pants and boxers are gone when I reach for the shower door, the singing now a low hum. I open it and catch the unadulterated, mouthwatering sight of Faith’s naked body. Water sluices down over her skin, clinging to her curves. Her hands are in her hair, foaming shampoo covering the strands.
“Good morning, hubby,” she whispers without turning around. Her low, seductive tone shoots straight to my already straining dick.
She turns slowly, her hooded eyes meeting mine for barely a second before she tips her head back and massages her scalp with her fingers, washing the suds free. I follow their path down her body, over her apple-shaped ass, and to her legs that I can’t wait to have wrapped around my back.