The First Time (A Time For Love Book 2)

by Amelia Stone

He shook his head, smiling. “Nope.”

  I swallowed down a wave of nausea. Really, nothing about this scenario made me comfortable. But maybe that was sort of the point.

  “Okay,” I repeated, though I sounded a little less sure this time.

  And then I turned, leaning over the toilet and barfing until I cried.

  I was good at a lot of things. I’d learned to read when I was three, and I’d written and illustrated my first book at the age of six. (It was about a javelina who loved basketball. I was a weird kid.) I’d graduated third in my high school class. I’d gone to all-county and all-state track meets in my senior year, placing second in all three events in which I’d competed. I’d made Phi Beta Kappa as an undergrad at ASU. I’d finished my master’s in only a year, even though my classes were in a language I didn’t speak fluently. I could change my own oil, fix a leaky faucet, and finish the New York Times Sunday crossword in under an hour – in pen. I even had a green thumb.

  But on my first date with Jamy, I discovered one thing for which I did not have much talent. One might even go so far as to say I failed at it spectacularly. And right at that moment, I truly couldn’t care less.

  “In your face, Whitfield!” Jamy hooted as she took her victory lap. Then she stopped abruptly, but only so she could do a celebratory dance in front of me, waving her arms and popping her hips, singing “We Are The Champions” in a robust, melodic alto. I grinned, loving this. I’d forgotten how competitive Jamy was.

  “You are really, really bad at laser tag, Sammy,” she teased, once she’d finished her song. She grinned up at me, her round cheeks flushed and her green eyes happy.

  “It was my first time playing,” I said defensively. But I wasn’t too mad. Jamy’d had a blast tonight, and that was all that really mattered. She’d eaten her fill of the best tacos in Arizona at Elmer’s, then soundly kicked my ass at laser tag. She’d been having so much fun, in fact, that she forgot to be anxious. She’d been relaxed and playful all night.

  Score one for Sammy.

  “Do you know what happened when I played laser tag for the first time?” she asked, her eyes shining mischievously.

  I shook my head. “Tell me.”

  “I took down the opposing team in three straight games. And I even beat the guy who ran the place.”

  I raised an eyebrow, pretending that I didn’t believe her. “Really?” I teased. “I don’t know that I buy that.”

  She squawked indignantly. “I did! He was hiding in the corner, picking off all the kids one by one. I caught him at it during the first game, but he tagged me before I could get him.” She rubbed her hands together, her smile downright devious. “And then, during the second game, I moved in for the kill. He didn’t even bother to play the third game, he was so embarrassed.”

  I chuckled. “Sounds like you took him down hard.”

  She nodded. “And it served him right. What kind of guy takes pleasure in beating a bunch of nine-year-old girls?”

  I laughed. “The kind of guy who gets his ass kicked by a nine-year-old girl, obviously.”

  She threw her head back in a laugh. “You know it!” she cried. “I gave him the fists of fury!” She hopped up and down like a boxer, punching the air and looking completely fucking adorable.

  “Can you really call them ‘the fists of fury’ when you’re using a laser gun?”

  She narrowed her eyes, though she was still grinning. “Sounds like somebody is begging to experience them for himself.” She giggled as she landed the lightest punches ever on my abs and chest, barely even grazing my tee shirt. “Better watch what you say, Whitfield. I’d be happy to give you a matching set of shiners,” she teased, jabbing the air in front of my face.

  I laughed, grabbing her fists and pulling her close. I settled her arms on my shoulders, bending my head until we were nose to nose. “You’re cute when you win,” I told her, my voice going thick with desire.

  She surprised me by closing that last bit of distance between us, giving me a soft peck on the lips. “Lucky for me you’re a cute loser.”

  I laughed softly, the movement brushing our lips together. “You’re just cute, period,” I whispered, right before I captured her mouth in a searing kiss.

  Fuck. I could kiss this woman all day, every day, for the rest of my life. Her lips just felt so right. So soft, and sweet, and perfectly shaped, like they were just for me. And she was so fucking responsive. Whatever was going on in her head, whatever was holding her back from enjoying life, it never showed in her kiss. She gave me everything she had, every single time.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” she whispered, tightening her arms around my neck. Her fingers curled into my too-long hair, and she tugged hard, pulling me down to her.

  I groaned softly, gripping her hips tight enough to bruise. She pressed herself against me, kissing me with enough passion to ignite a damn wildfire.

  God damn. This woman. She was killing me. I was going to die any second now. And what a fucking way to go.

  “Get a room!”

  Jamy pulled back at the intrusion, blinking. Her eyes widened, her mouth going slack in horror. Fuck.

  I looked around, but I couldn’t tell who’d shouted at us. There were people everywhere, since we were standing in a crowded parking lot on a Friday night. We were surrounded by restaurants, a bowling alley, and a couple of bars. It could have been anyone.

  She dropped her arms, stepping away from me. “We should go,” she mumbled, looking down.

  I blew out a frustrated breath as I pulled her back into my arms. “Forget that guy,” I said, putting a hand under her chin and tipping her head up to look at me. Her cheeks were on fire, her eyes wide and scared. She was ready to bolt. “Hey. Talk to me.”

  She shook her head. “Can you just take me home?” she whispered. Her good mood of a minute ago seemed to have disappeared.

  I frowned. I’d worried all day that this could happen. Jamy wasn’t big on surprises or crowds. I’d known that about her for years, and if anything, those fears seemed to have deepened with age. I knew I was taking a risk with my choice of activities tonight.

  Not to mention, we’d had a rough morning. She’d woken up hungover and unexpectedly naked, and things had only gone downhill from there. Sure, we’d cleared the air, finally talked out some of the things standing between us. But the conversation had taken an emotional toll on both of us. I’d hoped I could take her mind off things with this date, give her a chance to let her hair down and just relax. But I was well aware that there was also a good chance she’d retreat further into her shell.

  That’s why I’d been pleasantly surprised when I picked her up earlier to see that her game face was firmly in place. She’d seemed nervous, but excited. And with each stop that night, her smile had grown. It made me feel like a fucking superhero to see her letting go, to see her having a good time. And all because of me.

  That’s why it was so goddamn frustrating to see that smile wiped off her face so quickly, thanks to one heedless comment from a drunken douchebag.

  I took a deep breath. I was going to salvage this date somehow. I would not let one little pebble on the track derail the whole damn night.

  “Tell you what,” I countered. “I’ll take you home – after we stop for ice cream.”

  She bit her lip, clearly debating whether or not to say yes. She took another look around, and I followed her gaze. No one was looking at us anymore.

  She took a deep breath. “Make it frozen custard,” she said, a slight smile creeping over her lips, “and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  I grinned, barely holding back a triumphant whoop. “Culver’s it is.”

  ***

  “You have something in your soupcatcher.”

  I nearly choked on a mouthful of my death-by-chocolate concoction. “In my what?” I asked, after I’d swallowed.

  She smiled slyly, dropping her spoon in her cup. She grabbed a napkin and leaned across the table, swiping at my chin. “You hav
e something in your soupcatcher,” she repeated, tugging lightly on my beard.

  I laughed as she continued to wipe up my mess. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know that I buy that,” she said, teasing me with my own words from earlier. “It’s Brian’s favorite beard synonym.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, but he’s very careful with food puns now that he’s with my sister.” I grabbed her wrist just before she pulled her hand back, pressing a light kiss to her palm.

  She smiled, her eyes going soft and warm. “She is kind of weird about that stuff, huh?”

  I laughed. “There are very few things Hannah is not weird about,” I pointed out.

  She laughed, too, and I leaned forward, reveling in it. God, I loved that sound, and I loved it even more when I was the cause of it. I was egotistical like that.

  She leaned back in her chair, picking up her cup and taking another spoonful of her turtle sundae. A flash of green and yellow caught my eye as she brought the spoon to her mouth.

  “Can I see your nails?” I asked, holding my hand out. She obliged, resting her fingertips against my palm. “Wow.” She’d painted the Packers’ logo, a helmet, a cheese head hat, and Aaron Rodger’s number, one on each finger. I raised an eyebrow as I looked back up at her. “You really love Aaron Rodgers, huh?”

  She shrugged nonchalantly. “I mean, I won’t even have to change my name when we get married.” She flashed me that cheeky grin that I loved.

  I laughed. I’d let her think she could marry some other dude. For now. “There is that.”

  “But he’s a great player, too.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not just some jersey chaser. I really think he’s the best quarterback in the league right now.”

  I smiled at her. “I know that. Anyone who’s ever seen you scream at the TV any given Sunday knows you love the game.”

  She grinned. “Training camp starts this week. That’s why I painted this.” She wiggled her fingers against my palm. “I can’t wait for football season.”

  I took another long look at her nails, feeling awed by her artistic abilities. But then, there wasn’t much about her that wasn’t awe-inspiring. “It really is amazing.”

  She shrugged, her smile fading. “Thanks,” she said, her tone suddenly flat and lifeless.

  I frowned, studying her for a moment. “You don’t like compliments, do you?”

  She bit her lip. “I’m trying to be better about it.” She took a deep breath, like she was gathering her courage. “My therapist says I deflect them too often. So I’m working on just saying ‘thank you.’”

  I nodded my head in understanding. “But it’s not that easy,” I guessed.

  She nodded fervently. “It really isn’t. It’s like I’ve been conditioned my whole life to think I wasn’t worthy of getting compliments.”

  “Conditioned by whom?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Not really anyone specifically. I mean, maybe society? Like, I read this article that said women, especially, have a hard time accepting compliments. We’re more prone to downplay them, because we’re taught that our accomplishments are not as important, or that we shouldn’t be so obviously proud of ourselves, so we don’t come across as stuck up or vain.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably it’s more just my brain, telling me I don’t deserve the praise.”

  I frowned. The idea that any woman shouldn’t be proud of her accomplishments was a bunch of bullshit, but that was especially true of Jamy. If there was anyone who deserved praise, it was the vibrant, kind, funny, talented, gorgeous woman sitting in front of me. She deserved all the praise, and I was more than happy to give it to her.

  “So yeah,” she continued. “I have a hard time taking a compliment.”

  “Sounds to me like you need more practice.” I smiled at her.

  She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

  My smile widened. “Not ominous. Just a promise. I will give you all the compliments, all the time.”

  She looked a little apprehensive as she went back to eating her dessert. “Like what?” she asked, her tone casual. But her forehead was creased with worry.

  “Like, I think your talent with nail art is truly extraordinary. To paint so precisely and pack so much detail into such a small canvas is really something.”

  She frowned, but the flush in her cheeks told me she was secretly pleased. “Thanks.”

  “And you look beautiful in blue,” I added, pointing to her shirt.

  “It’s teal,” she corrected in a soft voice, staring at the spoon she was now twirling between her fingers.

  “It brings out your eyes,” I countered. “Which I love, by the way.”

  She peeked at me through her lashes. “I love your eyes, too,” she whispered.

  I grinned. “I guess I can let the deflection slide if you return a compliment with a compliment.” I took a bite of my ice cream. “But I’m still going to make sure the scales ultimately tip in your favor.”

  She frowned, looking thoughtful. “This doesn’t freak you out?”

  “What doesn’t freak me out?” I thought I knew what she was getting at, but I wanted her to explain it in her own words.

  She exhaled noisily. “My issues.” She hissed the word, like it was dirty and shameful. “I mean, I see a therapist, Sam. Twice a week. That doesn’t scare you?”

  I leaned forward, capturing her free hand with mine again, and I laced our fingers together. “No. It means you want to feel better, that you’re working on being the best version of yourself that you can be.” I locked eyes with her. “It means you care about yourself, deep down inside.”

  She snorted. “Very deep down.”

  I leaned across the table, giving her a light kiss. “It’s enough that you’re trying, Jamy. No one is perfect.” I grinned. “Look at me. I can’t even remember my own birthday. I’d be screwed if I didn’t have a twin.” I dug in my pocket for a second, grabbing my phone. “And look at this.” I swiped through my apps, bringing up my calendar.

  “That’s a lot of reminders.” She squinted. “I can’t even see the dates.”

  I nodded. “I have to remind myself of everything. Birthdays, appointments, emails I have to send, places I need to go, things I have to buy.” I stopped there, since I didn’t want to go on for another half an hour. “Only half the time I dismiss the reminder before I’ve done it, so I forget anyway.”

  She laughed softly. “You are kind of a mess, huh?”

  I nodded. “So you see, I need someone to take care of me.”

  Her eyes watered, and she looked down at her now-melted sundae. “But I can barely take care of myself most of the time,” she argued, her voice barely above a whisper.

  I sat back, still gripping her hand. I gave it a gentle squeeze. “How about we take care of each other, then?”

  She stared at me for a long moment, so long that I thought she wouldn’t answer. “Okay,” she said at last. “I’ll try.”

  “So do I at least get a goodnight kiss?”

  We were standing in front of my apartment door, facing each other in that classic rom-com pose. Will they or won’t they? Stay tuned after the commercial break, et cetera, et cetera.

  Tonight had been hands down the best date I’d ever had. I’d laughed, eaten some of my favorite food, and buried Sam under a mountain of crushing defeat at laser tag. And even though the conversation had gotten a little heavy over dessert, I felt like we understood each other a little better because of it. We’d agreed to try the whole relationship thing. I wasn’t entirely convinced I could do it, and I was still about seventy-three percent sure Sam would get tired of my shit at some point in the not-too-distant future and break up with me. But overall, I was feeling good.

  So good that I was about to make an unprecedented-for-me move and proposition a man.

  Sam grinned at me in a roguish kind of way, one of those smiles that showed off his teeth and emphasized the laugh lines
around his eyes. One of those smiles that I’d never been able to resist. And the whole thing was amplified by his black eye, oddly. The swelling had gone down, and the bruises were a livid purple now, clashing horribly with his beard. But the whole effect was almost dangerous, and weirdly sexy. Really, really sexy.

  Or maybe it was just Sam who was sexy.

  I took a deep breath, steeling my nerves. “How about you come inside instead?” I asked, the words coming out rushed.

  His eyes widened, and he inhaled sharply. “Jamy.” His voice was like gravel, and his eyes darkened as he searched my face. “We don’t have to do anything tonight.”

  I bit my lip, and his eyes tracked the movement. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Oh. He liked that. Okay. I could work with that.

  “I know that,” I replied. “I want to.”

  He narrowed his eyes, taking a step closer. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’ll still want to see you again, even if you don’t put out on the first date.” His tone was light, almost teasing. But his gaze was intense, telling me he meant every word.

  “I know.” I nodded, trying to take deep, calming breaths. My heart was beating erratically, and my brain was going a mile a minute, cycling through everything that could go wrong here. I could drool all over his face when we kissed. I could trip and fall while trying to take off my pants. I could shout the wrong name during orgasm. I could be so far inside my own head that I wouldn’t even have an orgasm.

  He could take one look at my naked body and decide he didn’t want me anymore.

  I closed my eyes, taking a shaky breath. I wanted this. I tried to remember what my therapist had said about moments like this, when the intrusive thoughts were almost too much to handle. I was supposed to repeat a mantra to myself. They’re just thoughts. I decide if they’re important. I decide how much power they have.

  Right now, I decided that the only thoughts that had any power over me were the ones that made me feel sexy. Like remembering all the time I’d taken to pamper myself this afternoon. I’d washed and dried my hair until it hung in soft waves around my face. I’d shaved everything that needed to be shaved, exfoliated and moisturized all my skin until it was baby soft, and worn my prettiest underwear. I’d chosen a top that looked best with my coloring, and worn the jeans that hugged my butt perfectly. (Which was no easy feat. I had a lot of junk in the trunk.) I’d even convinced myself that I looked hot in my glasses. I was a sexy goddamn librarian, and no one could tell me otherwise – especially not my asshole brain.