She plays with the fabric of my shirtsleeve and says, “I love the rose, but the emoji bouquet was far more impressive.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, Gramps is a real smooth guy.”
She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “I think I might need to meet this bouquet-giving legend.”
“God, he would probably eat up the opportunity to meet you.”
“Yeah?” She’s turned toward me, both her legs tucked under her bottom. “Is he handsome? I might like the original version over the twice duplicated.”
“If you’re looking for an old man with arthritis who enjoys a warm blanket over his shoulders and a good montage of fighter pilot videos, then he’s your guy.”
“Oooo, you’re getting me all hot and bothered.” She waves her hand in front of her face.
I take her hand and link it with mine, the feel of her palm molding against mine easing the tension in my shoulders, and I feel relaxed. Being around her does that to me, like she’s a safe place. I don’t have to worry about outside factors. Instead, I can let my guard down and breathe.
“Did you mean it?” I ask, wanting to gauge her reaction. “Did you mean it when you said you couldn’t stay away? Because if you’re not feeling the same thing I am, then—”
She sits up on her knees and covers my mouth with her hand, her eyes searching mine, bouncing back and forth, the green of her irises so goddamn beautiful my stomach flutters, and my chest constricts.
Her soft hair floats over her shoulders as she tilts her head ever so slightly to the side. “I meant everything I said. I know this won’t be easy, but I want to take it one step at a time.” She lowers her hand and scoots even closer. “I spoke with my mom last night about us, and she asked if I would regret not taking the chance at being with you.”
“What did you say?” I ask, waiting with bated breath for her answer.
“I knew I would regret every last minute of it.”
Smiling, I pull her over my lap so her back is leaning against the armrest of the sofa, and her hamstrings are across my legs. Moving in, invading her space, I press my palm against her cheek and lean forward, brushing my lips across hers. Satisfied, she lets out a long sigh and grips the back of my head, pulling me in closer, deepening our kiss, her mouth parting, our tongues colliding.
Sliding my hand down, my thumb presses against the spot below her ear, her skin silky and soft beneath my touch. Before my hand can slide any farther south, I put some distance between us.
Eyes fluttering open, heady with yearning, she gazes at me, a sinister smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Don’t look at me like that,” I say, putting more distance between us.
“Like what?” she asks, sitting up until she’s straddling my lap, her legs draped on either side, her center pressed against mine, her chest just below my eyes.
I kick off my shoes and twist on the couch so I’m the one leaning against the armrest, my legs stretched out, my feet hanging off the end of the cushion. I place both my hands on her legs, keeping her in place, looking up at her beauty, completely in awe that I was able to make this connection with the girl I knew would flip my world upside down.
“Don’t look at me like you’re about to devour me.”
She plays with the fabric of my shirt, dancing her fingers across my chest. “You know, you were a really tough shell to crack.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“What was it about the letters that made you give in?”
I don’t skip a beat when I answer, “The heart and honesty behind them. I was already physically attracted to you and interested, but it was your vulnerability that cracked me.”
“It was all true,” she whispers.
I gently rub my palms against her legs. “I know. Tell me about him, about your brother.”
Looking wistfully off to the side, she smiles the smallest of smiles, true love for her brother clear in her expression. “He’s amazing, Colby. Such a gentle soul, sweet and kind. He loves baseball, a huge Rockies fan. He watches every game with Dad in the basement. They have their little man cave down there, no girls allowed.” I smile at that. “He loves Credence Clearwater Revival and will listen to their greatest hits album on repeat for hours on end.”
“CCR is a good band. Your brother has good taste.”
“The best, but he has his moments, and those tough moments are hard to control.”
“You said he has autism.”
She nods. “He does. Life hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure, especially his meltdowns when I was growing up. It stopped everything we were doing, and it was and still is our duty to ease his anxiety, to help him. At first, it was hard for me to understand and comprehend how I needed to set aside my needs and help my brother, but as I got older, I became more compassionate.” Shifting on top of me, she leans forward and lies down, our bodies flush, her head against my chest. Instinctively I wrap my arms around her and gently rub her back. Even though we’re talking about something hard, I’ve never felt more comfortable around a girl. She . . . fits.
“I remember this one time, we went to Disney World. It was a big deal, because my parents very rarely went on vacation. But Bryan was older and they thought it would be okay.” She pauses. “It wasn’t. We were in line for Space Mountain—the one ride on the top of my must-do list—and we were about to get on the ride when Bryan had a complete sensory overload meltdown. The sounds, the lights, the smells, it was too much for him. He dropped down to the floor and started hitting himself in the face, screaming and scaring everyone around him. They shut down the ride because it took over an hour to get Bryan to calm down, to get up from the floor, and walk back to our hotel.”
“I can’t imagine how that must have been,” I say, kissing the top of her head.
“I was such an ass.” She pauses. “Looking back at it now, I’m ashamed of how I reacted. I was mad at him, I wasn’t helpful, and I cried the entire way back to the hotel begging my parents to stay at the park, but their main focus had been calming Bryan. You should have seen the staring and gossiping families we had to walk past to get back to our hotel. ‘There he is, the boy who freaked out on Space Mountain.’ They weren’t subtle. It was like we were a sideshow people couldn’t get enough of.”
Jesus, my heart aches for her. “People can be dicks when they experience something that’s not part of their norm.”
“I know that now, but at the time, I was so bitter I never got to ride Space Mountain that I couldn’t put everything into perspective. Like I said, I’m ashamed every time I think back to how I acted.”
“You’re human, Rory. You’re allowed to be angry and upset about things. I get wanting to have compassion for your brother, but you’re still allowed to have your own feelings separate from his. Don’t berate yourself for being disappointed.”
“That’s what my mom told me.” She nuzzles herself deeper into my embrace. “Bryan is the reason I’ve had such a hard time having a boyfriend.”
“Why’s that?” I draw small circles on her back with my thumb.
“Because they didn’t understand that my brother comes first. My mom has called me when I’ve been on dates, telling me Bryan needed me. I’ve dropped everything to go see him, to calm him down. After a few dates like that, after being irritated about me leaving, they left me.”
I clench my teeth, my anger almost getting the best of me. Who in their right mind would leave Rory because she’s helping out her brother? To me, that demonstrates their poor quality as humans. Empathy is a sexy quality to have, and to discard such a good quality as a nuisance is disgusting.
“It’s a good thing they left, Rory, because I could never see you with someone who lacks the ability to empathize with your situation. Frankly, it’s despicable that those men weren’t able to set themselves aside for a second and see the whole picture.”
Instead of saying anything, she stays wrapped in my arms, her breathing synching with mine, her fingers playing with the collar of my shirt.
I rela
x into her touch, into the cushions of her couch, into the feel of her body draped over mine. I’ve had intimate moments with women before, but never anything like this, like our souls are connecting on a higher level.
A part of me thinks that maybe it’s because I’ve matured since my last causal relationship, but another part of me believes we simply share a powerful connection.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Ask me anything,” I answer, kissing the top of her head again, as if I’ve been doing it for years.
Pushing up on my chest, her eyes lock with mine. “When we first met, you were short and terse with me. Were you trying to scare me away?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not much of a scaring type, unless I have to shake some sense into my cadets. I was trying to keep you at a distance. Good job I did, huh?”
She smiles softly. “I’m just persistent. I think you had no choice.” She has no clue. I just have no idea why she persisted.
“I really didn’t.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I answer, my stomach growling appropriately.
When she sits up, I instantly mourn the loss of her heat, of her soft body fitting so perfectly over mine. “Want to help me in the kitchen? Make some dinner?”
“Would love to.”
Standing, she holds her hand out to me and without a second thought, I take it, reveling in the invitation to once again be close to her. It makes me realize how much I’ve missed something as simple as handholding. Cuddling. Touch. Touch that’s not meant to hurt . . .
* * *
“So you’re not much of a cook, huh?”
I shake my head, looking over all the ingredients, feeling intimidated. I didn’t spend much time in the kitchen. I wasn’t allowed, because I was mostly locked in my room doing homework or secretly working on my planes, anything to stay away from Ted and keep him happy.
“No.” I rub the back of my neck. “Not from my doing though. Was never given an opportunity to learn.”
She twists her lips to the side, a pinch in her brow, an unhappy look on her face. “Your parents never took you into the kitchen to learn?”
I shake my head, my voice falling soft, sounding just as vulnerable as I feel. “No. By the time I was old enough, my dad was sick and my mom wasn’t the most”—I pause, searching for a good way to put it—“she wasn’t the type of mom who cared about her son.”
“What?” Rory’s expression is downright upset as she moves toward me. “What do you mean?”
I shake my head, not wanting to get into it. “I feel like that’s too heavy of a conversation for now. Don’t want to scare you away right off the bat with my baggage.”
“You could never scare me away.”
“You say that now.” I nod at the ingredients. “What are we making?”
She presses her hand against my chest, a concerned look on her face. “I’m serious, Colby. I want to know everything about you, even your baggage.”
And this is why I had such a hard fucking time staying away from her, because her heart is so big and welcoming. After my dad died, life changed drastically. I not only had to quickly mourn the loss of my father, but I was torn away from my grandpa when our visits were stretched further and further apart. I lived in a cold household, the antithesis of the loving and warmth I’d known prior to my dad getting sick. But it was as if once my dad died, my family, as I knew it, died too.
I was never held when I was upset, I was never loved when I missed my dad, and I sure as hell was never indulged when all I wanted was to spend a day with my grandpa.
I became cold and distant and focused. I wanted out, to never have to step foot in that household again, and once I graduated and went to the academy, I put my things in storage and took off without a goodbye.
I don’t regret a thing.
But being with Rory now reminds me how much I’ve missed out on human touch, on having someone feel compassion for you. And you never know how much you need it in your life until it reappears and consumes you.
“Thank you,” I say softly, not wanting to elaborate anymore.
After a few bouts of silence, understanding falls over her and she moves past the heavy conversation, clapping her hands together and peering over the ingredients. “Well, since you’re a newbie, I’ll be easy on you. Want to make some spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Homemade meatballs?”
“The only way to eat them is if they’re homemade.”
“You’re really going to teach me?” I sound wistful, more so than I intended, but fuck, this very well might be my first demonstration in the kitchen.
“Of course. Now, fill that pot up with water first, and we’ll get to the balls in a second.” With a wink, she starts gathering everything while I fill up the pot.
My first cooking lesson with the first girl I really care about. This could be more than I bargained for when it comes to meeting someone, but right now, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Chapter Nineteen
RORY
“And pour the Parmesan cheese all over. Yeah, just like that.”
I feel . . . content.
I think that’s the only way I can really describe this feeling—absolute contentment.
My heart is full from the way Colby brightens each time he does something right, my eyes sparkle with every smile that comes my way, and my soul feels fulfilled with the opportunity to enrich this man’s life, a life that seems broken and battered.
And I’m glad he didn’t open up to me right then, because even though I want to support him and will listen to anything he wants to tell me, I’m not sure I could take it. Yet. I’m not sure the story behind why his parents never taught him how to cook would settle well with me, and my heart feels incredibly heavy as it is.
I want to enjoy tonight, not feel sick to my stomach from being upset.
“Okay, are you ready for this part?” I ask, Colby standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. “We’re going to mix everything up, but we’re going to use our hands, because it’s the best way to do it.”
“Just stick them right in there?”
“Yup, like this.” I stick my hands in the bowl and start squishing around the meat, egg, cheese, seasonings, and breadcrumbs.
Like the smooth man he is, he comes up behind me, his broad chest to my slender back, and reaches around me, sliding his hands down my arms until they’re mixing with the meat as well. He’s tentative at first, testing out the consistency, but once he’s comfortable, he really starts smashing the ingredients together.
Meat oozes through our fingers, and our laughs mingle with the sounds of raw meat being squished.
“I shouldn’t find this relaxing, because it almost looks like we’re squishing brains, but for some reason, this almost seems therapeutic.”
“It’s why my mom cooks. It’s like therapy for her, and meatballs are her favorite to make.”
“I think meatballs are my favorite to make too.”
I chuckle and look over my shoulder, his expression playful and sweet. “I’m making a mental note that you are now in charge of squishing all things in the kitchen.”
“Bring it on. This shit is a good time.” He gathers another chunk of ground beef and crushes it between his fingers.
Pulling my hands from the bowl, I duck under his arms and wash my hands while he continues to mix—or more accurately—play.
The Colby I met at first was an older, weathered man, like he’d been seasoned too much for his age. He was volatile and closed off, but this man standing at my counter, squishing meat between his fingers with a smile on his face? He’s different. It almost seems like a part of him has been repressed for years, and when we have moments like this—when he feels he’s allowed—he comes out to play.
And I like his playful side a lot, just as much as I like the serious and romantic sides of him.
Oh, and the romantic side? Easily my favorite. Although I am really starting to lik
e this playful Colby too.
I take out a baking sheet, spray it, and set it on top of the pre-heated oven. “Ready to make some balls?”
He looks at the meat mixture and says, “I’m not sure this is mixed enough. Give me a few more hours.”
Rolling my eyes, laughter erupting from me, I stop his hands from doing any more damage to the poor meat. “It’s time to roll, Colby, or you might be here all night.”
His gaze darkens, his eyes narrowing. “I see nothing wrong with that.”
I swallow . . . hard. Yes, I see nothing wrong with that either. “I meant, we wouldn’t eat until really late,” I say awkwardly.
Stepping away from the bowl, Colby, hands covered in meat, comes closer and rests his forearms on my shoulders, keeping his contaminated hands as far away from me as possible. Leaning forward, he presses a sweet kiss across my lips but pulls away quickly before I can even open my mouth and make it deeper.
“You’re fucking cute, you know that?”
I scrunch my nose. “You know, some girls take ‘cute’ as an insult.”
Smiling, his body shifting against mine, he replies, “Cute, as in the way you get nervous around me. If we’re talking about your physical appearance, I wouldn’t necessary call you cute, not when you parade around in these tight sweaters, showing off everything I wish I could see . . . and touch.” My stomach flips, my skin tingles, my sweater becoming heavy and cumbersome as my body begs for it to come off. “Cute is a far too tame way to describe you.” He shakes his head, bringing his lips closer to mine again. A breath away, he says, “If I had to describe you to anyone, I’d call you stunningly beautiful.” Lightly, he kisses my lips, sending off a wave of butterflies in my stomach.
When he pulls away, I blink a few times, catching my breath. “Um . . . thank you.”
Chuckling, he says, “You’re welcome, Rory.” He turns toward the bowl, leaving me in a state of shock from his compliment and my awkward “thank you.”
“So we just roll these up?” He takes a huge pile of meat and begins to put it into a ball shape, his demeanor casual, as if he hadn’t just rocked my world.
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