For some reason, in the one moment you really wished you weren’t breathing at all, in the one moment it feels like you can’t ever breathe again, that’s when people tell you to focus on your breathing.
His chest hurt, his heart raced and sweat trickled down his back beneath his shirt. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
Focus on your breathing, he reminded himself, sternly as tears fell hard and fast.
It took a few minutes to quell the panic, but the agony and pain wouldn’t let go of his heart. He lay on the sofa and cried. He cried for all the things he’d said to his parents, and he cried for all the things he didn’t. He cried for what had happened to them, and he cried for what had happened to him. He cried until he couldn’t find any more tears to give and when the tears stopped falling, he sobbed, heaving, dry sobs into the cushion on the sofa and he begged for God to take away his pain. Then he begged God to give him his parents back, right before he told God he wasn’t even real and he didn’t believe in him anyway. More tears fell. He’d realized that the thing about grief was that it wasn’t linear. When you were in the depths of its grasp, or you could finally take a deep and cleansing breath, feeling like you could stand up and face the world again, you were often wrong. It could strike wherever, and whenever. He realized that it wasn’t a case of being done with grief, of drying your cheeks and standing up from the floor to face your new normal. In actual fact, it was more a case of grief needing to be done with you, and that was something you had no control over. A second wave hit, then a third and before long he’d cried himself into a restless sleep on the sofa.
When he woke, he felt hungover and dehydrated. He stood up from the sofa and found his soup burned to the bottom of the pot on the stove. Grateful he had managed to avoid burning the entire house down, he left the pot to steep while he took his second shower of the day in a bid to wash the anguish from his skin.
Glancing at the clock while he dried his hair and body he realized he didn’t have as long as he’d thought, but he still had enough time to get things ready in the kitchen. He stared at himself in the mirror before getting dressed, his eyes were bloodshot and heavy from crying, and he hoped they’d right themselves before Chelsea arrived. He didn’t want to see that sad look in her eyes, or feel her sympathy tonight. Tonight, he wanted to enjoy himself with her over a delicious meal.
And maybe even over the dining room table.
He grinned. The moment had passed and he was starting to feel his equilibrium return. Those moments were getting further apart in time, but they still had the ability to completely incapacitate him. He was starting to think that they wouldn’t ever stop, that those moments were just something he’d have to get used to coming up against for the rest of his life. That was the price of losing people you loved with all your heart.
***
He could tell she was nervous when she arrived. She handed over a cake box and a bottle of Moscato. He knew this was her favorite wine from all of the many Moscato wine memes she shared on her Facebook page.
“You bake?” he eyed her suspiciously.
“I can bake. This time, however, I did not bake. I bought.” She half shrugged, walking past him to open random cupboards until she found the glasses. “Wine?” she offered, holding up a glass in each hand.
“Sure.” He smiled and shook his head. “What’s the cake?”
“Dessert,” she answered simply, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes and he could tell from her coy tone she was teasing.
“I meant what kind.” He chuckled. She looked beautiful. Jeans and a shirt that showed off her shoulders, and split halfway up her back, it had caused him to suck in his breath as she walked past him at the door.
“Does it matter? We both know that’s not what you’re having for dessert.” Her eyelashes fluttered and she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, eyeing him hungrily.
If he wasn’t still feeling weak from his breakdown and needing to eat something, he would have suggested skipping dinner altogether and going straight to dessert. But he liked this woman and he wanted things to go right, not quickly. He wanted to date her, to get to know her and savor her. This wasn’t a once and done thing for him and he knew it from the moment he laid eyes on her in the bar, for the first time in a long time Jeremy Lewis wanted more. He smiled, knowing his mom would be squealing in delight and making jokes about him having a crush.
“What? No jokes about skipping straight to dessert?” she challenged.
He flashed her a grin and shook his head. “Too easy.”
She arched her eyebrow.
“Not you, Chels. You’re far from easy. Have a seat. I had a disaster with the soup earlier, so I pulled some out of the freezer and it’s warming through on the stove.”
“You failed at something?” She fake-gasped. “Surely not!”
“Oh, it happens. I have epic failing skills. But I’m a quick learner,” he added with a wink.
She rolled her eyes.
“How do you like your meat?”
“Ugh. Is the entire evening going to be innuendo?”
“Would you have it any other way?”
“I like my steak medium...” She paused and licked her lips suggestively. “And we can talk about how I like my meat later.”
They both laughed. “You sure know how to fluster a man, Chelsea Davis. Medium I can do. Let’s have some soup first before we move on to the meat.”
***
“That was some great soup, Jer. Potato and?”
“Italian sausage.”
She groaned. “I feel like every part of this meal was planned so you could make dirty jokes about your meat and sausage.”
“Nah. Just a happy coincidence.” He tried to pick up her soup bowl but she held onto it and insisted she put their dishes in the dishwasher while he worked on the main course. They talked about his school work, hockey and AJ, and she opened up to him about her job, her family and her new online friend in Ireland.
“How can you be instant best friends with someone you’ve never even met? Wait… how do you know she’s not some fifty-five-year-old dude who wants to keep you in a cage in his basement? How do you know he’s not some psycho?”
“Ok, someone needs to lay off the true crime shows, for one, and for two, she is most definitely a psycho, but not the creepy, murderous kind. I dunno if you’ve heard, Jer, but there’s this amazing invention called a phone, there’s another one called a camera. In fact, some phones even have cameras attached. There are even apps where you can call each other – wait for it – with video, so, and I know this might blow your mind, but you can actually see the other person. I have seen her, I know she’s not a fifty-five-year-old dude.”
He chuckled. “Man, sarcasm really is your first language, isn’t it.”
She shrugged and took the plate he was offering. “This… wow… Jer, you really can cook!”
“Don’t sound so surprised! Eat up before it gets cold.”
“Seriously, this looks incredible and it smells divine!” She inhaled and he watched as a deeply gratifying smile appeared on her face.
She put the plate on the table and picked up her silverware. Eyeing him suspiciously she dragged her knife through the center of her steak to reveal a perfectly cooked medium piece of meat. Clearly surprised she sliced off a piece and popped it in her mouth. Jeremy leaned back in his chair, spread his hands in question and waited for her evaluation of his ability to cook a steak.
“Mmmm! Ok, fine. This, this you can do. This steak is perfectly seasoned and perfectly cooked.”
Next, she took a mouthful of his becoming-a-staple Brussel sprouts and moaned again.
“Jesus, woman!” He shifted in his chair. “You’re making this very, eh, hard for me.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had something green that tasted quite so delicious in my mouth before.”
“Now you’re just teasing me.”
He attempted to eat his food, but kept stealing glances at her when she
made a satisfied sound or tried something new.
“What’s in these potatoes, Jer? They’re delicious. I’m going to need seconds.”
He chuckled at how comfortable she seemed, it was as though she’d left her prickly anti-hockey-boy armor at the doorstep and only her warm and fuzzy insides sat facing him at the table. He stood up and refilled their glasses, leaning over her as he did, for no other reason than he wanted to smell her shampoo and be closer to her.
“You’re sniffing me again, aren’t you?” she asked with a mouth full of food.
“Guilty,” he answered. “I can’t say I’m normally in the habit of sniffing women. But you smell good.”
“Thanks, I think.” Color pinkened her cheeks and she smiled. “I can’t say I’ve ever been told that before.”
A contented silence fell over the table as they finished their food. “Can we put some music on?”
“Oh God. Is this where you subject me to those boys with guitars you’re obsessed with?”
“For someone who seems so nonchalant and IDGAF you sure as hell pay close attention to things, don’t you?” She laughed as he asked Alexa to play Matt Nathanson for her.
“I pay close attention to you.”
“I don’t date hockey players, Jer,” she cautioned.
“Can’t you date someone who just so happens to also play hockey?”
“I’m going to make a playlist for you,” she answered, clearly ignoring his question. “I think you’ll like it, they may be boys with guitars but they play good music, and not all sad and sappy stuff, either.”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t you trust me, Mr. Lewis?”
He stood up and picked up their empty plates. As he stacked the dishwasher, he watched Chelsea open the cake box. As she presented a tall, rich-looking chocolate cake his mind turned to thoughts of where he could lick that chocolate frosting from her skin. She found her way around their kitchen without instruction and plated two slabs of cake, rinsed some strawberries, sat them next to the cake and added the final touch with a squirt of cream next to it.
“Et voila!” she announced with a giggle as she turned to hand him a plate. “I feel a little less smug with my small business, locally made cake now that it turns out you’re Gordon Ramsay or some shit, but I know for sure that it tastes good.”
“Is this your friend’s bakery? Stephanie, right?”
She giggled and shook her head. “We really need to get you away from Facebook. Yes, it’s Stephanie’s bakery. She leans towards a more European way of baking, so I figured you’d like it.”
His fork cut through the cake like a hot knife through butter and his taste buds exploded as the cake hit his tongue. It was his turn to moan.
“Oh… my… GOD… Ok, I’m claiming the rest of that cake. It’s mine now.”
“Right?” She waved her fork in his direction. “She’s a goddess in the kitchen.”
“Maybe I’m pursuing the wrong woman,” he mused, savoring another bite.
“She’s taken.”
“I’m not really interested in the cake lady.”
She finished her dessert and stood up again, taking his dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. He could see indecision flickering across her face. She tucked her hands into her butt-pockets and shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, I guess I should be going.”
He knew she was attempting at casual indifference, but he could tell she didn’t want to leave from the look on her face, and the fact she hadn’t made a move towards the door to leave.
“Nice try.” He closed the gap between them and she backed herself away from him a half step at a time until her back found the fridge. “I know you’re scared of realizing you have actual feelings for a hockey boy, Chels, but you can’t just run away from them forever.”
“I can try,” she answered, her voice small and full of pain.
“Is it really so bad? Having feelings for a hockey player?”
“You have no idea—”
She tried to turn away to avoid his piercing stare but he wasn’t going to let her, not right now. If this was the only chance to truly connect with her, beyond the sarcasm and sass, he wasn’t going to let it slip by. He leaned his left elbow on the fridge above her head and gently pinched her chin between the finger and thumb of his right hand, turning her head to face him.
“If you want to leave, clearly I won’t try to stop you. But I don’t want you to go, and, for a change, I’m not even talking sex. I mean, don’t get me wrong, obviously I want to take you to bed.”
She giggled softly and smiled up at him.
“But I’d be quite happy to watch a movie, or play scrabble, or go for a walk or something. Look Chelsea, I don’t know what your ex did to you to make you swear off hockey players forever, and to be honest, it’s really none of my business. But what I can tell you is this, we aren’t all the same, and I know you’ll struggle to believe that, but it’s true. Some of us even have feelings beyond the nerve endings in our dicks.”
She giggled again.
“I like you, Chels. I like you a lot, and I can’t stop thinking about you when you’re in Iowa. When you’re here I want to see you. Can you at least open your heart up, just a tiny little bit, to the idea that I might not be a douche canoe? I mean, I fully admit to the fact I can be a douche canoe, don’t get me wrong, I’m not perfect by any means. But I’m a good guy, and I think if you could set aside your fear of hockey-boy-heartbreak, you might like what you see, and if you don’t, that’s cool. But I’d really like it if you’d think about it.”
“Can it be?” She grinned up at him. “Jeremy Lewis beneath the sarcasm, ego and quick wit might actually have a heart?”
“Are you going to make fun of me, or are you going to kiss me?”
“Are those my only two options?”
He tilted his head in curiosity.
“What if I don’t want to stop at kissing?”
He didn’t hesitate as his lips crashed against hers, or as he picked her up by her hips and wrapped her legs around his waist. Their kiss was hungry, desperate and wild. He poured every urge he’d ever had to kiss her…
“Wait!”
“What?” she demanded, clearly frustrated and agitated that he’d stopped kissing her.
He chuckled. “Sorry, m’lady, but I was simply going to ask if you wanted our first time to be right here against my fridge or if you had a preference for somewhere a little more… comfortable?”
“Why… the fuck… are you still talking right now?” she rasped, her chest heaving. “Take off your goddamn clothes!”
“Protection is upstairs, Chels.” He managed between frantic kisses.
“I appreciate the consideration, Jer, but I’m on the pill.” She pulled back for a moment. “Unless there’s a chance I’m going to catch something from you?”
“Dang, Chels. Don’t hold back. No. I’m clean.”
“Then get naked. Do it now.”
Her neediness and near desperation was all the indication he needed to spur him on. He stood her up, held her gaze and kissed her again as they both unbuttoned their jeans. He pushed his down just enough to have the freedom to do what he needed while Chelsea stepped out of the pile of denim and underwear on the floor and looked up at him expectantly.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” she challenged.
“Yes ma’am,” he answered as he picked her up and pressed her against the door of the fridge.
***
By the time they made it to the bedroom he’d had his way with her on just about every surface downstairs. After the fridge, it was the dining room table, then the sofa, and somehow, they’d even made it work on the stairs, because neither of them could wait the extra thirty seconds to get to the top of the stairs.
Their chemistry was undeniable, they fit so well together, so much so, that had he believed in the phrase ‘made for each other’, Chelsea Davis was absolutely made for him. He loved everything about her
, her sass, her spunk, her quick tongue and every single one of her curves. But he also loved her vulnerability, her laugh and the fierce determination with which she faced everything head on.
As she slept on his chest, her hair a tangled mess across his skin and her breathing quiet, he wondered if she felt any of what he felt, or if she still only saw his Hockey DB profile every time she looked at him.
He kissed her forehead and squeezed her against him, running his hand along the bare skin of her arm and hoping that somehow, somewhere in her heart she felt a flicker of something more than casual. He hoped he’d done enough to convince her of the simple truth that not all hockey players were asshats, and, given the chance, he would do his very best not to hurt her like her ex clearly had.
Closing his eyes, he felt relaxed and at ease for the first time in a long time. While he knew getting laid played a big part in this change in mood, he also knew that Chelsea, specifically, played a part in that too. As he fell asleep, he resolved to talk to her in the morning about seeing her again and perhaps making whatever had sparked between them a little more permanent. Before he drifted off to sleep, he smiled and wished his parents were around to see this. In the silence, he realized that AJ was right, he was starting to develop four-letter-feelings for the beautiful woman in his arms and he’d do whatever it took to keep her there.
***
For a split second, when he woke up, he thought the previous night had all been a dream. The bed next to him was empty and he lay for a moment straining to hear if he could hear her in the bathroom or downstairs.
Propping himself up on his elbow, he rubbed his chin in confusion.
She was here, right? I didn’t dream it all.
He knew she’d been there, while sleeping naked wasn’t a tell-tale sign that he’d had company the night before, the unmistakable scent of vanilla beans and clementines lingered in the linens.
“Chels?” he called out. “Are you here?”
As he threw back the blankets, he found a folded piece of paper sitting on top of the book he’d bought her on his pillow. For a moment he wondered where she’d even found a notebook and pen in his house. Then he wondered how she’d made her way back upstairs with the book he’d left out for her on the counter in the kitchen without waking him, but his stomach sank at the prospect of what lay inside the note.
Four Letter Feelings (The Jeremy Lewis Series Book 1) Page 21