by Sara H Ney
Matthew is the first to speak, setting down his Grande, nonfat, half-calf, mocha latte before adjusting in his seat, twisting his large body so he can face me properly.
“Okay, fine. I admit it. This evening with the boys might have been a teensy-weensy bit of fun.” He holds his fingers up in measurement, thumb and middle finger indicating our level of fun.
It’s about three inches worth.
Ha ha.
I lean back and smack my thigh gleefully, the slap sound echoing off my jeans, then point at him like he’s a witch at the Salem trial. “See! Didn’t I tell you?” He regards me then with a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners, I study him for a few heartbeats; note the stubble of a day’s growth at his jaw, and way his green eyes watch me. Always, always watching me. “The way those little boys’ look at you...”
...is the same way you look at me.
The words almost pass my lips.
I want to say it.
But I don’t.
Instead, I avoid his questing gaze and take a sip from my cup of the frothy Hazelnut Chai latte steaming from my cup, clutching it with both hands as if I’m out in the cold and need to stay warm.
“How do they look at me?” Matthew asks, cocking his head at me like a curious puppy.
“You know - they look up to you. They watch you like you’re Captain America, wielding a golden hockey stick and covered in video games.”
A pretty lame analogy, but it does manage to have the desired effect.
“No shit. Really?” I nod. “Huh, I guess hadn’t realized...”
“Well, it’s like you said that day I was at the boys practice - they don’t have many positive role models where they come from. But I also don’t think, when you were telling me that, you realize you are that positive influence they need. You and Weston. You’re their role models.”
“That’s some scary ass shit,” he jokes then gets quiet. Matthew shifts in his seat and I can see the wheels turning in his head. Slowly he begins,”I know that being - you know - a professional athlete, people look up to us. We get hounded and some of us even get stalked - not me, but I’ve heard stories.” He takes a drag from his latte before continuing, and I watch the muscles in his throat contract as he swallows. “Anyway, the team’s public relations people and our agents handle most of the public image and community service stuff. So it’s easy to forget about the little kids you actually build a relationship with giving you a hero complex. Because everyone else... they don’t even know you. They just see you on television and assume you’re decent. When, you know - some of the guys aren’t.”
I nod for him to continue.
“It’s not easy, you know. Having the public watching everything we do. That’s why I come home - I can’t stand being in Los Angeles - no offense to LA, of course... but... it’s turned me into a total homebody. I don’t go out, I don’t really know anyone besides my teammates. And a bunch of them are, you know, married. So when I hang out with John Tamaso, for example, it’s at his house with his wife and four kids. Or Brady Chandler will bring his family over, and it’s them and me barbequing by the pool at the Tamaso’s rental house.” Matthew rests his head back against the leather chair and sighs. “You don’t even want to know how the single guys on the team act on our off days. It’s a wonder we win any games.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, closing his eyes. “I already let my agent know I’m looking for a trade. Any place is better than Anaheim.”
He sits like this for another eight minutes or so - head back, eyes closed - and you know me... ogling him every chance I get without being obvious. I look my fill, staring intently at his lips (my favorite part of his face), trying to remember what they felt like pressed against mine.
I study the shape of them, and the way he has them pursed. The sharp indent at the bow, well defined and full, his lower lip slightly pouty.
Without thinking, I touch the tips of my fingers to my mouth, running my index finger back and forth across the bottom of my lip, as my gaze moves lower to the gap at the collar of his shirt where he’s left the top unbuttoned.
I imagine trailing my hands across the cords of his neck, slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt down to his navel, and running my soft hands across his pecs. I wonder briefly if he has a hairy chest, or if it’s bare - then my mind (and eyes) wanders further south to his ‘happy trail’... and just as I’m getting a visual of what it looks like in my mind —
“Are you staring at me?” Matthew opens one eye and looks over at me.
“Um, no. Pfft, why would you ask that?” I fidget with the plastic cover on my latte and glance up at the ceiling, puckering my lips in a move that has gotten me busted numerous times in the past. My face heats up considerably, the shade: fuchsia. “I had something in my eye.”
He opens both eyes and stretches out, feet splayed broadly apart, hands going up behind his head, as if inviting me to gawk. “Go ahead, look your fill. Really, I don’t mind.” He spreads his legs wider still, the denim of his jeans pulling taunt against his impressive... um... you know.
Oh my god - I’ll be twenty three in May and I can’t even say it.
“Thanks, I’m good.”
“Cecelia, you were staring so hard I could feel it, even with my eyes closed. Admit it, you were undressing me in your mind.” He extracts himself from the chair and bends forward, resting his elbows on his knees and chin in his hands. “I could even feel it in my...” his eyes cast downward, back-and-forth a few times, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
I lean over, giving him a playful shove, letting my now sexually charged fingers linger on his solid bicep. He grabs that hand, then the other, dragging me and the chair I’m sitting in to the apex of his thighs until we’re face-to-face. Inches apart.
Matthew raises my hands to his mouth, turning them both over and planting open mouth kisses to my sensitive palms and up my exposed wrists. His nose inhales the smell of my perfume, and as he nuzzles my wrists I shamelessly watch, spellbound.
His hands work their way up my arms, grazing my shoulders briefly before resting around the column of my slim neck. Matthew’s thumbs caress the underside of my jaw softly, the calloused pads branding me.
Involuntarily, my lips part. He leans forward, brushing his mouth against mine, our eyes closing. I breathe him in before our tongues mingle, my teeth nipping his pouty lower lip.
“Stop it Matt, we can’t do this here.”
“Do what? This?” He buries his nose in my temple, and I chuckle softly when he kisses the tender skin at the corner of each eye. “Why not?”
“You’re insane. People are starting to stare.”
“Fine. Then come home with me so we can be alone.”
May-day, May-day!!!! Code Red!
I hesitate, panicking a little.
This is only our first date and I am soooo not a hussy. I swear the guy is a mind reader because he says, “Cecelia, I... This might be our first official date, but... I’ve been courting you for weeks. Admit it. We’ve been dating since the day I stole your shitty, generic trail mix.”
Love and loathing.
“We’re both adults, and I think it’s safe to say...” he doesn’t finish his sentence.
“Safe to say... what?”
Matthew clears his throat, mildly uncomfortable with whatever it is he’s about to say. Actually, he looks slightly pale and constipated. “That we’re, um... going to be, um... committed to each other. Or am I reading you wrong?”
Committed; did he just say that out loud...?
Although my heart is beating wildly in my chest, I still manage to eye him skeptically, brows raised. “Are you just saying that to get in my pants?” Because it’s working.
He looks affronted, clutching his chest. “Why do you always ask me that?”
“Oh come on, I’ve only ever asked you that twice...”
“Okay... but - why are you asking me to begin with? I think you’d know me well enough by now.”
Honestly, we know ther
e are several good reasons I’m not hastening to hop into Matthews’s truck and ride off into the sunset with him, and they are:
1. He’s leaving for California soon.
2. Technically, we just started “dating.”
3. He’s leaving for California soon.
That’s my nickel version, in a nut shell (but I have a sneaking suspicion he already knows this). In any case, it would be foolish of me to jump feet first into a physical relationship that’s only going to end in heartache - namely: mine.
We watch each other, my face still cradled in his hands, his thumbs still stroking the underside of chin. I tip my head to the side, marveling at the delicate touches his strong hands are capable of and the feel of them on my skin.
We probably look like love sick fools... and perhaps maybe we are.
“Cecelia. Tell me what’s wrong... and don’t say nothing.” Matthew’s sharp gaze searches my face for a sign of... something; this giant guy’s guy who, weeks ago, I didn’t think was even capable of human feelings let alone talking about them. Quite honestly it’s freaking me out a bit, this bizarre parallel universe we’ve entered where the guy is throwing out words like committed and voluntarily talking about his feelings... On. Purpose.
Macho.
Stubborn.
Conceited.
Arrogant. Prideful. Sarcastic. All words I’d use to categorize Matthew Wakefield. I’ve had them filed away for so long - using them as an excuse so I don’t get attached - that sensitive, caring, and faithful haven’t registered with me.
Until now.
“Hello, earth to Cecelia.” His head dips. “Babe. Cece?”
Startled, the sound of my nickname slipping off his tongue causes me to blink rapidly and refocus. “Sorry, I was thinking.”
“You know what sweetie, forget I said anything. Let’s just sit here for a bit and enjoy the fire. Okay?” He says it softly - reassuringly - as he presses his full lips down on mine one last time, softly but firmly, before releasing my face and settling back into his seat.
Oh shit. He used an endearment - and not just one, but two.
Babe. Sweetie.
Now, I know there are a lot of girls out there who cannot stand endearments or nicknames. The sound of an endearment, to some, is like nails on a chalk board, and not to be tolerated. I, however, am not one of those people. The inner romantic inside me freaking loves it. Sweetheart, baby, honey... Shit, I’d even settle for being called ‘Muffin.’
Yup. I said it.
Muffin.
Disgusting, right?
If my heart was locked and protected before this moment, Matthew just unknowingly produced the key.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Matthew
“I found the key to my own happiness: stay the hell away from assholes.” - Wisdom that’s easier said than done...
Holy crap.
Cecelia is in my condo.
In the bathroom, if you want to get technical.
Have you ever read a romance novel, and the main male lead says some lame bullshit line to the heroine that goes something like this: ‘trust me, you’re the first girl I’ve ever brought back to my place.’ Um yeah, that hasn’t been the case for me. I have brought random hook ups back to my place, I won’t lie. Random women. Random faces. Not all of them were classically beautiful in the way you’re probably thinking - nor has beauty ever been a prerequisite. In fact, it’s more accurate to say... I don’t really have a type. You don’t have to be a size two blonde bombshell with silicon breasts to turn me on.
You can be flat chested for all I care.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying I haven’t had my fair share of plastic, made-up Barbie doll types - a lot of them have been total skanks (for example: the prostitute Kevin hired for my birthday). But I’ve also bagged my share of nice girls, probably from nice decent families. Educated even.
In fact, one chick I banged was a Harvard Law student.
I’ve never been a saint.
And I sure as hell ain’t ever been a monk.
My point is: having Cecelia in my house for the first time somehow feels infinitely different than all the others that have been here before her. I’m not going to put a label on it, but if the way my stomach is doing back flips is any indication, I would definitely say I’m nervous.
Huh. Who would have thought?
Not me.
I take my shoes off by the front entry, putter to the kitchen while I wait for Cecelia to finish up in the bathroom, and pour us both a glass of a 2010 Moscato Riesling mix. Setting the bottle on the granite kitchen counter, I walk the glasses into the living room and....
Stand there.
Glancing around my condo, I’m not really sure what to do now or how to proceed. Do I sit on the couch, casually chilling with my arm up on the backrest? Should I stay standing and lean against the doorframe to the kitchen instead? Do I turn on the stereo; get a little Marvin Gaye action going? You know, set the mood...
Shit. I can’t just stand here awkwardly holding these two wine glasses in the middle of the room, that’s for damn sure. I look like the fucking butler.
I hear the powder room sink turn off down the hall, and decide to walk back into the kitchen, wait a few moments, then walk back out into the living room. It’s all so very amateurish, but my timing is perfect; Cecelia is just coming out of the bathroom. I extend my arm, offering her a wine glass with a “Wanna sit?”
She smiles demurely and takes the glass, our fingers touching in a proverbial ‘two hands in the popcorn bucket’ moment, the chemistry between us tangible and sizzling in the air. Cecelia has removed her puffy vest, and after resting her Moscato on the coffee table, begins undoing the few buttons on her plaid shirt that are done up, letting it fall open.
Standing in her flannel and gray capped sleeve tee shirt, she gives me another shy smile before plopping down on the couch, careful not to spill any wine.
I study her there, on my couch, like she’s a foreign object that’s been plucked from obscurity and dropped there.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing. It’s just...”
“Just what?”
“It’s just... you look so damn good sitting in my living room.”
“I... it feels good being in your living room,” she laughs nervously and pats the cushioned seat next to her, staring up at me and giving her head a little shake. “You’re so cute.”
“I’m cute? Wait. Did you somehow become drunk?”
**Cecelia**
Did I somehow become drunk?
Wait. What?
Matthew looks so confused that I just called him cute that he glances around the room, as if expecting someone else to pop out of the shadows and join us. Great, just great. Now I actually feel guilty that I’ve never sincerely complimented him before. How terrible is that? Sure, I flirt with him regularly, but that’s not really the same thing. I mean - aren’t compliments fuel for the male ego?
Do you have a pen, because you might want to write down these words of advice: the way to a guy’s heart is not through his stomach, it’s through his ego. Inflate it with praise and you, my friend, are golden.
That. Is. A. Fact.
Trust me on this.
I gulp down a large sip of wine (call it “liquid courage” if you want) finishing the glass in one, long chug (classy, I know) and set the now empty glass down on the coffee table, dab at my moist upper lip, and smile convincingly as Matthew stands in the middle of the room, staring at me like I’ve gone and lost my mind.
“Are you going to come sit by me, or did you only lure me here and ply me with alcohol so you could gape at me without any distractions,” I tease.
“Sounds about right,” Matthew volleys back cheerfully, making his way around the coffee table with a smug smile on his face and settling onto the sofa. His right arm goes up behind my head, on the back of the couch; the hairs on the back of my neck prickle from his close proximity. “Any chance to ogle you is a
lright with me. Plus, you smell amazing; an intoxicating blend of hockey ice and perfume.” To illustrate his point, he leans in and sniffs my neck, loudly inhaling and coming away with a satisfied ‘ahhhhhh.’
I give him a smack on the arm, giggling nervously. “Ha ha, very funny.”
“Truthfully though, you could smell like shit from a barn and I’d still be attracted to you,” Matthew jokes as he casually brushes his fingers through my long hair.
I lean in towards him and tenderly but firmly brush my smiling lips against his. “That was such a sweet thing to say.”
“I know how to charm the ladies,” he grins, leaning in for another kiss. We stay like this for a good fifteen minutes; softly kissing each other - lavishing each other with affection in the most primal yet innocent of ways.
It makes me feel thirteen again - back when I was young, innocent and still thought boys were good and honest and decent. Back when I had no idea about erections and “bases” and sex stuff.
Right now, at this moment, we have all the time in the world. There is no rush to talk of our next date, nor is there a rush to Matthew’s bedroom, which is just down the hall across from the bathroom (and I would know, because I peeked into it when I was using the powder room earlier).
There is just us and our lips, and it’s... amazing.
A faint buzzing from inside Matthew’s front jeans pocket interrupts us.
“You can see who that is,” I say, wiping my mouth when the phone begins buzzing for a second time. “It could be important.”
“Or it could be my nosey sister,” he deadpans as he pulls his phone out, swiping the screen. He holds it up for me to see; he’s right, it is Molly. “See? Told you.”
“How come she isn’t text bombing me?” I ask indignantly, pretending to be insulted.
“Because you’re way meaner than I am,” he teases. “Should we send her a selfie?”
I bounce up and down. “Yeah! Good idea.”
“Should I have my hands on your boobs?”