This Heart of Mine

by C. C. Hunter

  “He cares about you,” Matt adds.

  “Yeah, but you’re not the big bad wolf.” Leah buckles her seat belt.

  No, he isn’t. But he’s still a dog. To prove it, while she’s buckling in, his eyes, with a mind of their own, shift to her breasts, pressing against her royal-blue shirt. It’s a scooped-neck shirt, but she’s wearing a white tank underneath it.

  She looks up, and so does he, albeit guiltily.

  “How’s your mouth?” He drives off.

  “What?”

  “Your mouth?” He glances at her.

  She stares at him as if he’s talking Chinese. “You went to the dentist, right?”

  “Oh. It’s fine.”

  She’s fine. And he’s not the only one who thinks so. He remembers Devon hitting on her. Remembers the hot kiss Matt gave her as a back-off message to the guy. “So no cavities?”

  “Nope. Did I miss anything in math?”

  “We went over some problems. Maybe we can do them tomorrow or Sunday.” He waits to see if she plans on seeing him only once this weekend. After seeing her at school every day, the idea of not seeing her for a whole day gives him an empty feeling. Last weekend had been torture.

  “That’d be good.” She says it like she means it.

  She starts talking about a scary book she’s reading. Matt listens but recalls Eric being attached to the hip with Cassie. Is this what Eric felt for Cassie? Matt’s never experienced this before.

  Not even with Jamie Anderson. She went to Southside, and they dated for six months. They’d been sleeping together for three. He’d even tossed out the L word, but when he started football practice and working at the shop, she said she got lonely and wanted to see someone from her own school. It had hurt, but not bad. And whatever that was he felt for her, it doesn’t compare with this.

  “Did she get away?” he asks about the book.

  “And kicked his ass.” She smiles.

  Spotting the restaurant, he pulls in and parks, then turns to her. “You hungry?”

  “Starving. I barely ate lunch. Did you bring your notebook?”

  “Yeah, but…” He leans over and kisses her. Her mouth is so soft. He doesn’t want it to end. But he knows he can’t take it too far. When he pulls back, he says, “I don’t want the whole night to be about … that. Yes, we need to talk and there’s something I need to tell you, but I want tonight to be about us too.”

  “Good.” Her smile flashes in her eyes and lands right in his heart. “I like us.”

  “Me too.” He kisses her again. When the kiss ends, he keeps his forehead against hers. “You smell like strawberries and vanilla.”

  “My shampoo.” She buries her nose in his neck. “You smell spicy.” She lifts her head up slightly. Their eyes meet again. “We should probably go eat and stop sniffing on each other.” She laughs.

  It’s the sweetest damn sound. She still doesn’t pull away.

  Neither does he. Their eyes remain locked. He feels it. Want. Desire. He knows she feels it too.

  She finally pulls back, but she puts her palm on his chest. He can feel her hand through his shirt. It’s right over his heart. He loves it when she touches him. Too much. That’s what caused the problem in the park. When her hands moved under his shirt …

  She bites down on her lip like she does when she’s nervous.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I learned something too.”

  “About Eric?” He’s shocked.

  She nods.

  “What?”

  “Let’s talk while we wait on the pizza?”

  He grabs his notebook and moves beside her. Something about her tone tells him she doesn’t think he’s going to like this. And there’s only thing she could have done that’d upset him. Gone to Cassie’s house.

  28

  Matt slips his hand in mine.

  I sneak a peek at him. He’s wearing his football jacket, and beneath it, clinging to his abs, is a dusty-green T-shirt. The jeans he has on look worn and soft and mold to his shape. A shape I’m getting fonder of each time I see it.

  “What did you learn?” he asks.

  “Let’s get seated.” Is he going to be mad?

  The tangy scent of pizza sauce and yeasty crust welcomes us inside. A red-haired hostess seats us in a booth in the back.

  Matt settles across from me. “You went there, didn’t you? You went to Cassie’s house.” His brows pinch together. Concern turns his brown eyes a shade darker.

  I try finding words in my defense. I come up empty, but then … “You have a cute nose.”

  He frowns.

  I lift my chin defiantly. “That’s what you told me when—”

  “I know,” he says. “But—”

  “And you went anyway.”

  “I never promised I wouldn’t go.”

  “Neither did I,” I say with a touch of attitude that’s new for me. But I like it. New Leah has spunk. Maybe not enough to run over a cop’s toes, but maybe in time …

  “If something happened to you, I…” He grounds out the words.

  “Nothing happened. Almost nothing,” I correct myself.

  “What happened?” he growls.

  “The cop, Mrs. Chambers’s fiancé, Officer Yates, he sort of questioned me.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Okay, he questioned me, but all’s well that ends well.”

  Matt presses his palms on the table and leans in. “Do you realize the trouble you’re in? The cop’s going to call Detective Henderson, and he’ll call your parents and…” He pushes an angry hand through his hair. “Your dad’s not going to let you see me anymore.”

  “Slow down,” I say. “The cop’s not calling my dad. He thinks I was there about Jayden.”

  Matt looks confused. “About who?”

  “Jayden Soprano. That’s the guy who lived next door to Cassie—lived, past tense. He doesn’t live there now. However, his dad and stepmom do. He moved, or ran away, right about the time Eric was killed. And listen to this: he’s already been in prison.”

  Matt’s eyes widen. “How do you know…?”

  I tell him everything from seeing the motorcycle to going to her house. He fills me in on what he learned from Marissa.

  “Why would Cassie not want to go to school bad enough that she’d lie to her mom?” I ask.

  “Because of me.” Matt says. “She knows she’s lying to me. She knows what happened to Eric and she’s scared.”

  “But why turn away from her friends?”

  He slumps back. “That I don’t know.” His gaze takes on a faraway look. “You said Yates mentioned someone calling her all the time. But it’s not me. I stopped after Henderson warned me. So who could it be?”

  “Someone else she’s hiding from. Someone other than you.”

  We both sit there thinking. I pull out my notebook. “We’re missing something. Lets go back to the dreams. You say you see the gun fall, then you feel pain. You don’t mean that … that he dropped the gun and it went off, do you?”

  Matt grabs his soda, gives it a couple turns, and doesn’t look at me. And I see it. Doubt.

  “No. I … I thought about that, but I had the dream again. When he fell, he fell facedown. You can’t shoot yourself in the head like that. And anyway, he was shot at a closer range. I read the police reports. It doesn’t support the gun falling and firing.”

  “What if Eric was holding it close to his head, and it just went off for some reason?”

  “It didn’t just go off,” Matt blurts out. “It would make doing this a waste of time.”

  “Not really,” I say carefully. “You need answers. I think Eric is trying to give them to you. To us. If it was an accident—”

  He shakes his head. “Have you had dreams that make it look like that?”

  “No,” I say honestly.

  “Then why would you think that?”

  I carefully digest his question. “I don’t think it, but anything’s possible.”

 
; He closes his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound…” He looks at me. “I wish I could believe it. Then I could lose this … anger. Or … maybe I’d still be mad at life.”

  I feel his pain. “I remember being angry when my grandmother died.”

  He nods, and after a second he says, “But it’s getting better. I don’t feel like I’m drowning in it anymore. It comes and goes. I find myself thinking about other stuff.” He offers me a sad smile. “Like you, for example.”

  “Good,” I say. “I think about you too.”

  We can only look at each other with puppy-dog eyes for so long. We return to reading as the waitress takes our order. “You know what’s strange?” I say after I read another of his passages. “We both hear shots going off, in different dreams. Did the detective say if more than one shot was fired from the gun?”

  Matt leans back. “No. He said only one bullet was fired. I’m assuming the chamber was full except for one.”

  “Could someone else have fired? Did they look for other bullets in the area?” The moment I ask the question, I realize how much these questions must hurt Matt.

  My chest aches, and I want to do something, anything, to make this right for him.

  “I don’t remember them saying they looked. But they found his body right outside the woods. According to both of our dreams, he was running for a while. So … if he was fired at, those bullets could be anywhere along that walking path. Or off of it, for that matter.” He points to my book. “You wrote that he was running in the brush.”

  I cautiously ask my next question. “Is there any reason we can’t go there? To the roadside park? Or do you … not want to? I understand if—”

  “No,” he says. “For a while I went there every day.”

  “I only went there once,” I confess. “I didn’t even get out of the car. That was the day I saw Cassie. It scared me. But I think I’d be fine if you were there.”

  He touches my hand. “We could do it this weekend.”

  Our waitress shows up with the pizza. Matt pulls away.

  “Sorry, it’s gotten busy.” The waitress moves to put down our pizza, but her foot catches on the table and she jerks. The pizza flies right toward Matt and falls, cheese and sauce side down, on his light-green T-shirt.

  * * *

  “Come on in,” Matt says as he pulls up to his house. “Mom’s not here. It’ll just take a second to change my shirt.”

  I follow him inside, curious to see where he lives. I’m imagining seeing all of the trophies he’s earned in all the different sports he’s played over the years.

  Right before I step inside, I imagine the home feeling depressing since two people who lived and loved here have died. But as I walk into the living room, I make a complete circle and soak in the bright colors. Yellows, greens, and even some reds.

  “Wow.”

  “What?” Matt asks.

  “It’s bold. I like it.”

  “Yeah. I’m kind of blind to it now. After Dad died, my aunt told my mom she needed to repaint with cheery colors so it wouldn’t feel sad.”

  “Did it work?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “She didn’t start getting better until a few months ago. Thanks to my aunt again.”

  “What did she do?” I ask.

  “She gave my mom a come-to-Jesus talk. Basically, she told her she had to get her shit together … for me.” His tone holds echoes of sadness.

  I hug him. “Your aunt was right.”

  “Yeah.” He rests his hand on my waist. “I’m just glad she’s getting better. She told me she’s going back to work.”

  “What kind of work does she do?”

  “Real estate.”

  I look around the house. “So where are your trophies?”

  “My trophies?” He makes a funny face.

  “Yeah. Every week I read in the school newsletter that you’d won another trophy.”

  He grins. “I remember reading the article about you starting the book club. I was actually going to join, but it conflicted with another class.”

  “Seriously?” I laugh.

  “Yeah. Isn’t it crazy that we both had crushes on each other all these years?”

  “Yeah.” I’m smiling again.

  “Okay, come see my trophies.” He takes my hand. He leads me down a hall and into a bedroom. His bedroom. I know because it smells like him. Spicy, male, and warm. One entire wall is bookshelves filled with trophies.

  “Holy shit!” I start reading the inscriptions. Matt walks up behind me and wraps his arm around my middle.

  “You should see Eric’s. He has more than I do. Oh!” He jerks back. “I don’t want to get pizza grease on you.”

  I continue reading. “Bowling?” I turn around. “You…” My words dissolve on my tongue. He’s taking off his shirt. His muscles roll as he pulls it up. He’s facing to the side and doesn’t see me … seeing him.

  My mouth is still open, words sit on my tongue, but I don’t even remember what those words were. All I can do is stare. At Matt. At Matt shirtless. At Matt perfect.

  His abs are so tight.

  His chest so sculpted.

  His skin so golden.

  When he pulls the shirt over his head, the muscles in his biceps roll. My palms itch to feel those warm muscles move under my hands.

  I’m breathless. Gawking is rude.

  So I’m rude.

  He even has a treasure trail of hair—which I learned about in romance novels—that starts right below his navel and dips down behind his jeans zipper and leads to his … treasure.

  He’s busy tossing his shirt into a basket. He’s going to turn around any second and catch me.

  I swing around and stare at the trophies.

  “My mom loved to bowl. We were twelve when Mom signed us up to a league.”

  “Oh,” I manage to say.

  His footsteps ease in, and I feel his arms come back around me. His bare arms. Oh, heck, he hasn’t put on a shirt yet.

  His naked chest presses against my back. I swear I can smell his skin.

  “Have you ever bowled?” he asks.

  “Not … in years. My … grandma bowled.” I’m pretty sure my words sound empty, or incoherent, because I’m fixated on him. Him practically naked.

  One of his hands releases around me and he brushes my hair up. His lips press gently to the curve of my neck. Sweet tingles flow through my body.

  I wish … I want … Why not? I turn around.

  Boldly, I lift my hand and put it on his chest. He’s so warm. I lift up on my tiptoes and my lips meet his. I don’t wait for him to deepen the kiss, I go in deep, I go in with tongue, I go for it.

  He pulls me close. I don’t know how it happened, but we are suddenly on his bed. On our sides.

  Still kissing.

  I’m still touching his chest.

  He pulls back and frowns. “We should … stop.”

  I don’t want to stop. I don’t want words. I want more of this.

  I almost died without knowing this. I want this now.

  29

  I go in for another kiss. I shift closer. My leg slips between his. I hear him moan, and his right hand moves up under my shirt to touch my back. All over my back. It sweeps around to the front, and he cups my breast. I feel his touch through the thin lacy bra.

  I remember. The scars. I freeze.

  He pulls back. His deep breath spills against my cheek. I force my eyes open. His eyes are wide, filled with heat, and an apology.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean … I didn’t bring you here for this. I swear.”

  “I know.” I shift my legs out from between his. “I started it. I should be the one apologizing.”

  He brushes a few strands of hair off my cheek. “I want this so bad, but I don’t want to rush you. I’m not just after that.”

  “I know.” I must sound disappointed.

  “Not that I don’t want it. I do. I really do. And if you’re ready…”

&
nbsp; “A little later,” I say. “Not too much later,” I add.

  “Thank God,” he says, then looks embarrassed.

  I chuckle.

  He flinches. “I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s okay. I feel the same way.” That smile, the one that comes from so deep inside, shows up on his lips again.

  The uncomfortable look in his eyes fades. He brushes a hand over my abdomen and fits it in the curve of my waist. He’s careful not to touch my breasts this time, but he’s close enough I wish he would.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Have you looked at yourself lately?” I say.

  His brows knit together. “I wouldn’t describe myself as beautiful.”

  I grin. “Okay, let’s go with hot.”

  His eyes light up with playfulness. “You think I’m hot?”

  I’m suddenly feeling extra bold. “Why do you think I literally threw myself at you? You took your shirt off.” I give his chest a light slap.

  He drops off his elbow onto his back, laughs, and turns his head to me. “You threw yourself at me?”

  “Practically.”

  He kisses me again. It’s sweet, sexy, but he stops before it becomes too seductive. “For the record, anytime you want to throw yourself at me, I’ll catch you.”

  “Deal.” I rest my head on his bare shoulder.

  His hand moves over my back. Up. Down. I love the way he touches me.

  “Thank you,” I say with complete sincerity.

  “For what?” His words brush against my temple.

  I lift up and meet his eyes. “For not pushing me. You’re not like other guys.”

  “I don’t think you’re like other girls either. I don’t want to mess this up.”

  “Me either. My gaze suddenly catches on his bedside table. I blink, unsure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. “Is that … a romance novel?”

  His cheeks turn pink. “I … Isn’t that one of the authors you said you read?”

  “Yes. You read it?”

  “I went to find a book to read on our bookshelf and I saw it. I was curious.”

  “Did you read it?”

  He smiles. “I’m afraid so.”

  “And it was good, right?”

  “Yeah, I enjoyed it. It was … uh, very interesting in some parts.”

  I laugh. “Hey, I’ll bet there’s not more than six pages of sex scenes and there’s more than three hundred pages in the book.”