chapter twenty
I SHOULD NOT BE in public like this.
It looks like I’ve done years of hard time in solitary confinement. My eyes are bloodshot. My skin is pale, practically translucent. I’m dehydrated and my hair is so matted I’m surely going to require scissors to remedy the situation. All night, I tossed and turned, kicking my duvet on and off, unable to stop my mind from churning out scenarios, none of which boded well for me.
Did Scott actually receive a call? Or did he sense what I was about to say about forgoing the three-month rule, change his name, and defect to a remote desert island?
Maybe he was disappointed by our kiss in the fire truck yesterday, which has yet to be acknowledged by either of us. I’d assumed he’d make some sort of cocky remark about it last night on the phone. But he didn’t, which is off-brand for him.
And if there was a real call, who would be contacting him at two in the morning? After my time on Tinder, I’ve learned any call or text after ten-thirty at night is to be considered a booty call, or an emergency. He’d just completed a twelve-hour shift, so I doubt he’d be getting called back in. Could it have been Diana? He’d literally brought her up in conversation minutes before.
Or could it have been another girl? He’d told me he would wait until the wedding, implying he wasn’t going to date anyone else. But maybe that long a dry spell is a tall order, especially for a guy who looks like an A-list action movie star masquerading as a normal dude to avoid the paparazzi. I’m reminded of this every time we’re in public. Women do quadruple-takes, either flirting or freezing upon sight of him, no in-between. One lady even slipped him her number in the line at the pharmacy while he was temporarily holding my purse. If he wanted to get laid, he’d hardly have to lift a finger.
It doesn’t help that he hasn’t texted me back all morning. My heart sinks as I re-analyze my ignored text from earlier to ensure it can’t be misinterpreted out of context. I’d teased him about the Blackhawks loss—our usual banter—nothing to be personally offended by. So why is he suddenly ignoring me?
Tara is quick to remind me of how Neil would ghost me for days, claiming he was “so busy” when realistically, he was an unemployed, struggling musician, getting high on his couch. In her humble opinion, I’m overreacting. “Scott’s probably just adulting,” she told me confidently before I left for the gym. But given he’s texted me nonstop for the past month, reporting the most mundane of things, like the fact that he’s pouring a glass of milk, it strikes me as uncharacteristic. Something feels wrong. I feel it in my gut.
Just as I finish my cooldown on the treadmill, Scott finally texts.
SCOTT: You’re coming over tonight.
He hasn’t fled the country after all. Maybe things are fine. Maybe he hasn’t been intentionally ignoring my very existence.
CRYSTAL: Um, I don’t remember you inviting me. Nor do I remember accepting an invitation.
SCOTT: I have snacks.
CRYSTAL: . . . Fine.
On the promise of snacks, I head to Scott’s after dinner after editing a new workout video tutorial. The entire way there, I find myself nervously picking my nails to stubs in anticipation of an explanation. I have no idea how to play this. Should I pretend to be chill about it? Or should I pounce and ask him about the call immediately?
By the time I arrive, I’m still undecided. When his door opens, a massive ball of beige, curly fluff bounds toward me, leaping at my face. After all of two seconds, Albus Doodledore has managed to coat my hands entirely with slobber. He flops his gangly body onto the floor, hyperventilating, tongue out, over the moon to see me.
“Hello, hello, nice to see you again.” I laugh, returning Albus’s nearly human smile. His bushy tail sways back and forth like windshield wipers at full speed. I kneel down to give him a generous belly rub, which he takes full advantage of, rolling onto his back. It’s become our ritual whenever I come over.
“Nice to see you, too, I suppose.” I pretend to regard Scott dismissively, trying to ignore the way he towers over me, and how his muscular chest strains under his fitted navy-blue Henley rolled at the elbows. The man can seriously wear the shit out of a Henley.
He closes the distance between us. “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh? The dog consistently gets a better greeting than me.”
My body fights the urge to grab his ridiculously beautiful face and kiss him. But when I remember how he hung up on me after randomly bringing up his ex, I think better of it. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest, inadvertently pushing up my boobs, accentuating my cleavage. “My deepest regrets. Would you also like your belly scratched?”
His gaze flickers briefly over my chest before settling back on my face with a devilish smile. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no.”
My face heats. He’s being his normal, deliberately flirty self, which only heightens my curiosity about last night’s mystery call. Suddenly, the entranceway feels far too small. In need of air, I inch past him, into the living room.
Scott’s apartment is clean and simple. It’s older, with original wood flooring and crown molding around the ceilings. There’s a sizable living room, filled with masculine leather furniture and a flat-screen television. Basically a frat boy’s starter pack. A cutout wall separates the living area from the slightly outdated kitchen. As always, it’s surprisingly clean for two men who work long shifts.
Scott follows my lead into the living room, watching as I perch on the arm of the couch. There’s a lingering silence, casting a barrier between us that’s never been there before. As I mindlessly stroke Albus’s head, I wonder if he feels it too.
I can’t suppress my curiosity any longer, nor can I stand the awkwardness. “So . . . who called you last night?” I finally ask.
His eyes immediately go to his feet, deliberately avoiding the weight of my penetrating gaze. He runs a hand over the back of his neck before clearing his throat. “Trevor.”
I frown, immediately suspicious. He never avoids eye contact. “Why’d he call?”
“To tell me he let Albus out before going to work.” His voice is clipped, like he’s desperate to move on from the topic.
It strikes me as odd that Trevor would call him at two in the morning over something so trivial. Why not send a simple text?
I want to press him farther, interrogate him FBI-style, because my gut tells me he’s lying. But what else can I say without sounding unhinged? I have no actual proof otherwise, and I can’t go all jealous girlfriend when we aren’t even a couple.
Instead, I settle on an innocent, “Did you have a busy day today?”
He’s still avoiding eye contact as he shrugs, hands deep in the pockets of his dark-wash jeans. “Uh, it was okay. Did some errands.”
I tilt my head, unconvinced.
He registers my suspicion, finally meeting my eyes. “What? You don’t believe me or something?”
“I hadn’t heard back from you this morning. I thought that was kind of weird.”
He watches me for a moment, the tension in his jaw softening. “Sorry, really. I had a lot going on.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nah, not right now. Appreciate it, though.” His vague response does little to quell my nerves, and he senses it. “It’s nothing for you to worry about right now. I promise.” He steps forward, reaching for a strand of hair falling into my face. His fingertips brush my cheek as he places it gently behind my ear, eyes locking to mine. They’re soft and sincere. I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t deliberately hurt me.
I want to respect his request for privacy. We may be close, but it’s not like I have an automatic right to know everything that’s going on in his life. I search his face for any sign of deception, but fail to find one. If he’s lying to me, he deserves an award. “Okay.”
I flop onto my usual spot on his couch while he rifles around in the kitchen. When he returns to the living area, he’s bearing fruit. Literally. There’s a carton of clementines tucked under his right arm.
He remembered my favorite snack.
“No way. Where did you find these? They’re out of season.” Grateful, I reach to pluck two from the box, almost entirely forgetting his sketchy behavior.
“I have my ways.”
My cheeks burn as his eyes linger for a moment longer than casual. “So, what do you wanna watch?” I ask, clearing my throat. I settle in the left-hand corner of his couch, making a concerted effort to loosen my grip on the clementines, lest I inadvertently juice them with my bare hands. “Something twenty minutes or less?”
He sets himself down beside me, man-splaying, long legs stretched out under the coffee table. “Ha ha, very funny. I promise I won’t fall asleep. You have my permission to take any means necessary to keep me awake.”
I shoot him a mischievous smile. “Any means necessary?”
“Within reason,” he warns, pretending to inch away from me.
“I think it’s time to work on your stamina. We’ll watch . . .” I rack my brain for a morbidly long movie. “Lord of the Rings,” I say evilly, knowing full well it’s a trilogy, which yields about nine combined hours with him.
He smiles, amused. “I didn’t take you for a big nerd.”
“Oh, I’m a die-hard fan,” I lie, just to get a rise out of him.
He tries not to laugh. “Yeah? Do you even dress up in character and go to conventions?”
“Biannually. There’s one next week, actually. Was gonna see if you want to come with me.”
“Oh, uh—” He’s not quite sure where to go from here, so I let him off the hook.
“Scott, I’m kidding. I’m not really a fan. It was the longest movie I could think of.” Which means more time with you, I leave out.
Clearly relieved, he chuckles, running a hand over his stubble. “Hey, I would have gone. I would have hated every minute and judged you just a tiny bit, but I’d go.”
“Really?”
“If it was something you really liked, of course I would.” My heart turns to goo instantly. “Maybe I’d even let you dress me up.” He bounces his brow and I can’t help but laugh at the overtly sexy mental image of Scott with long silky locks, wielding a sword. It’s less ethereal Orlando Bloom and more haven’t-bathed-in-weeks Henry Cavill in The Witcher, and I’m very much here for it.
After we queue up the movie, I turn sideways to stretch out my legs. But there’s no room with him directly beside me in the middle cushion. Instead of scooting over, he drapes my legs over his lap.
He doesn’t look at me, or acknowledge it. It’s just casual, as if this is the norm. And it feels like it is.
“Can I make a prediction?” he asks as Frodo departs on his quest.
“Go for it.”
“The uncle is Frodo’s real dad.”
I give him a sarcastic stare. “Really?”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“No. Not even close. This isn’t Star Wars.”
He ponders for a moment. “Okay. Gandalf is Frodo’s father.”
“Scott, rest assured. There is no baby daddy drama.”
He fake pouts. “Well, that’s a missed opportunity.”
Scott’s plethora of outlandish theories doesn’t stop at Frodo’s father. They’re far ranging, like “the blond elf” and Gandalf are secretly in love, or Samwise Gamgee is going to betray Frodo, or the ring is a covert listening device for Sauron. In fact, the only correct theory he’s thrown out is that Aragorn is the rightful king.
Truthfully, paying an iota of attention to the movie is humanly impossible while he runs his hand over my legs. I’m answering all his questions from straight memory. In fact, the only thing that keeps me sane and distracted from the blooming heat in my lower half is aggressively peeling clementines. By the time the fellowship forms, I hold out a freshly peeled clementine to a confused Scott.
He’s too busy gesturing to the TV like an outraged sports fan to notice straight away. “How is that little weirdo with the bug eyes still following them?” His eyes widen and his mouth falls open when he takes stock of the clementine in my hand. “You peeled that for me?”
I nod. “I painstakingly peeled off every last bit of the white stuff for you.”
He presses his palm to his heart with an openmouthed smile. “Holy shit.” He takes it from my hand gently, inspecting its juicy bareness before giving me an approving look.
He adjusts my legs on his lap, giving my thigh a squeeze before popping a slice into his mouth. Then, he turns to place one into mine. It’s almost erotic how his fingertips graze my lower lip, sending a spark rippling down my spine. My entire mouth tingles with heat.
I channel my sexiest, most sultry self, going in for a slow, seductive bite. I’m basically vintage bikini-clad Paris Hilton, rubbing my soapy bits over a Bentley before indulging in a Texas BBQ Carl’s Jr. burger, as one does. Unexpectedly, a spray of citrus launches out. As if in slow motion, it soars upward, landing directly in Scott’s left eye.
Smooth, Crystal. Smooth.
He immediately lurches forward, pressing his eye closed.
“Oh, crap.” I swing my legs off his lap, covering my mouth with my hands.
He squints at me through splayed fingers, shuddering with silent laughter. “It’s cool. I’m just blind. It’s no big deal.”
I try to peel his hand away from his face. “Let me see your eye.”
He rubs it. His lid flutters wildly as he attempts to open it all the way, to no avail. “Crys, it’s kind of burning.”
I pause the movie and dash to his bathroom to grab a washcloth, wetting it with warm water. By the time I return, he’s managed to open his eye again. I press the washcloth over it. “I am so sorry. I think that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done to a guy.”
“Yup. Getting an acid burn in the eye is definitely a first for me.” He tilts his head as I remove the washcloth, revealing his gorgeous, evergreen eyes.
“Excuse me while I perish from embarrassment.”
He chuckles. “It’s fine. It isn’t burning anymore. I’ll forgive you eventually.”
I eye him, cheeks still red-hot. “The good news is, you’ve stayed conscious for over half of the first movie.”
“Because I have so many questions.”
“I think you might be a Lord of the Rings fan. Makes one of us,” I say. I hit Play again, resettling on the couch.
He brings my legs back over his lap like they belong there. “Which character would I be?”
I pretend to think, but the answer is pretty obvious. “Aragorn. One hundo percent.”
“Why?”
“Well, you both have some nice flow, for one. And you’re a firefighter. So you’re brave, daring, and chivalrous. When you want to be,” I add.
He nods in quiet agreement, clearly thrilled. “What about you?”
That’s an easy answer. “I’m definitely a hobbit. Hardworking, patient, fair, and loyal. Prefers to stay close to home. Strong moral code, sense of right and wrong.”
“Can’t argue with that. I’m pretty sure you have the Excalibur Fitness Center policies down to a science.”
I roll my eyes, tossing a throw pillow at his head. He ducks. When he brings his head back up, there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You really wanna go there?”
I nod, accepting his challenge.
Before I even have a chance to speak, he pins my legs over his lap and begins tickling my sides mercilessly. My legs wriggle and thrash as I try to slither out of his strong grip. I squeal in between breaths, unable to do anything but give him a swift swat in the chest. “You’re the worst. What did I do to deserve this?”
“You mean other than blind me with acidic fruits?”
Point taken. I’m quite prepared to give my body over to suffer the consequences, so much so that I readily let him climb all over me. He places his weight on me, pinning my wrists to the arm of the couch for a brief second. This view is spectacular—his corded forearms planted on either side of my head, caging me in. I have the perfect view of the thick swoop of his eyelashes.
He watches me for a few moments before his gaze flickers to my lips. If I lifted my neck even slightly, I could kiss him. And I want to. I want to taste him again. Desperately. He swallows, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, cupping my chin. He tilts my head up, letting out a soft sigh before his lips brush against mine, stealing my air and all my resolve.
Our lips meet again and again, sinking into a flurry of sweet kisses, gentle bites, just sampling and testing each other. I run one hand over the stubble of his jaw, while the other combs wildly through his thick, wavy hair, which feels like silk in my hands. I paw at him, wanting him closer.
He rolls off me and into a seated position. “Come here,” he commands, as if he can read my mind. He tugs me by the arm onto his lap.
I position my legs on either side of his thighs, feeling his enthusiasm for the situation as I settle onto him. His groan fills my ears and it makes me feel light, like I could float up and away with him.
There’s a fragility in the way he’s looking at me, truly at me. As if he’s inviting me in, allowing me to see into the depths of his soul. Every guy I’ve ever been with would already have my pants off right now, but he’s treating me like I’m something to be cherished, savored.
Being with him feels anything but fleeting. It’s like plunging headfirst into a deep pool, knowing there’s no way out.
A small smile falls upon his lips as he moves my hair behind my ear. “You’re so beautiful.” His breath comes out in shallow pants before he presses another soft kiss to the side of my mouth.
He runs a flurry of small kisses along the edge of my lips before coaxing them apart. His tongue melds with mine as his hand moves to the back of my head, tugging my hair gently. I’m surprised there’s any oxygen left in the entire apartment.
This feels different than our first kiss. While our steamy changing room make-out was mind-numbingly hot, akin to unlocking every secret fantasy I’ve ever had, it was lust spurring me on. The perfect storm of lust and loathing for a nameless gym patron with the body of a god.
This kiss is something else, because I know Scott on a deeper level that takes my breath away. I know he’s an outgoing introvert. Crowded places don’t faze him, but if he can avoid them, he will. I know how sad he gets when he sees lost dog posters—he lingers, reading them at least twice with a heavy sigh. I know how he likes his cereal, with very minimal milk, due to his aversion to soggy foods. And I know how funny he thinks something is based on the placement of his hand to his chest and how far back he tosses his head.
Just knowing all of these things, among a million others, intensifies our fusion. Like the stakes are higher than ever with every move we make.
His fingers move from my hair to my back, running up and down my spine. I arch myself, moving in a slow rhythm against him, remembering how perfectly we moved together. Eventually, the tips of his fingers edge around the curve of my waist, under the front of my sweater, darting upward, over my stomach.
“Is that okay?” he whispers against my mouth.
More than okay. I nod and he continues, his hands slowly making their way around the undersides of my breasts underneath my bra. He molds them in his palms, skimming the peaks with the pads of his fingers, his breath quickening with each passing second. A tingling sensation rockets through me, rendering me desperate to drive myself even closer to him.
When I roll my hips, he lets out a deep groan into my ear, grasping my thighs to ground me to him. Suddenly, I hate these leggings and the thin layer they cast, dividing me from what I really want.
As if he can read my mind, his fingers dip under the waist, teasingly tugging them down. His hand curves over my ass underneath my leggings, giving me a firm squeeze. His chest heaves as he meets my wild, primal gaze, which is silently telling him to push me around and have his way with me.
Then, out of nowhere, he stills underneath me. Letting out a ragged breath, he pulls his hand north of my waist. A vein pulses in his forehead. He looks hungry, starving, as if he’s doing all he can to resist.
“Crys . . .” he says between labored breaths, “we can’t do this.”
“What? Why?” I stiffen on top of him as disappointment avalanches through my body. He’s rejecting me. The only reason I’m not side-aerialing off his lap is because he’s still firmly gripping my waist, as if silently telling me not to move.
His face looks pained as he drops his head. “Because. We’re waiting. Taking it slow. Remember?”
I’ve never hated myself more than I do right now. Why did I do this to myself? Was the old me of merely a few weeks ago really that visually impaired? Did I not want my Marvel-Chris crush to send me to the edge with just his touch? Sure, I didn’t want to be his rebound. I wanted more than just sex. But current me, with his massive erection pressed against me, doesn’t even care. I want this, regardless of the consequences.
I curve my hand along his jaw, my fingertips scratching his stubble as I pull his face closer to mine. “Screw it.”
His massive hands close around my comparatively tiny wrists. I feel like I’m in shackles, which does little to quell my all-out carnal lust for him right now. Our faces are literally an inch apart. I desperately want to close that last inch, but he won’t let me.
“I don’t want to fuck you.” His starved, gravelly voice drops an octave. I’m stunned for a moment, not just because he sounds like the velvety narration of an erotic fantasy, but because he’s full-on rejecting me right now. Sensing my shock, he tightens his grip on my wrists. “That came out wrong.”
“No. I heard you,” I say, attempting to rip my wrists out of his death grip, to no avail.
“Just listen. I want to. Badly.” His eyes nearly plead with mine. “But you told me you needed time.”
“That was weeks ago. I’ve had time,” I assure. “Why are you suddenly so against it?”
“Because you were right. If we’re going to do this, we need to trust each other, with no doubts. We’re not there yet.”
I frown. “Do you not trust me?”
“I do. But I don’t know if it goes both ways.”
I’m helpless because he’s right, which is exactly why I implemented this time rule to begin with. To save myself from being a shiny object, a distraction to get over Diana.
I release a small sigh. “I’m sorry. I hate that I overthink everything . . . I wish I could jump in, headfirst.”
“I don’t want you to until you’re ready. Really. And it’s not just you.” He dips his chin, avoiding eye contact. “I had a talk with Martin too.”
“Really?”
“He wants us to be careful, especially in the lead-up to the wedding. He doesn’t want any drama. This wedding means a lot to him and Flo.”
I understand the apprehension. Tension between Scott and me would put a damper on the occasion. But I’m surprised by the sudden shift in attitude toward our union. Last I checked, Martin and Flo were practically begging us to date. I’m tempted to pry further, but I get the sneaking suspicion Scott isn’t interested in sharing more. So I just nod. “Yeah, makes sense. We’ll cool it.”
After a few beats, he looks back up at me, eyes alight, as if he’s just come across a rare sale on his hideously expensive protein powder. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t take you on a couple dates in the meantime.”
“You want to court me? The old-fashioned way?” Grandma Flo would be so pleased.
Scott’s cocky smirk returns. “Why not? But there will be old-fashioned conditions.”
“Conditions?”
His fingertips run a featherlight trail along my cheekbone, sweeping across my jaw and down my neck, tracing my collarbone. His green eyes are a kaleidoscope of want, need, desire, everything I want. “No touching,” he whispers in my ear as he sweeps my hair to one side, exposing my neck.
I’m hardly breathing. In fact, I’m practically immobile. I feel nothing above the waist, probably because every nerve between my legs has catapulted itself front and center.
His lips graze mine. “No kissing.”
I squeeze my legs together. I’m going to die. I’m going to spontaneously combust on this couch right now.
His hand traces straight down my front, over my breasts, down the hill of my stomach, circling around my inner thigh over my leggings, so close to where I want him. He leans closer, his breathing strained. “And no sex.”
“What?”
He smooths his finger over me exactly where I’m craving pressure. “No. No sex of any kind. No kissing. No touching.”
“You’ve already failed. You’re touching me right now,” I manage as his fingers continue to work their magic. When he presses harder, I nearly spin out of control. My vision tunnels and a delicious heat blooms everywhere. I shift slightly, desperate for that contact. Literally one more touch and I’ll be a goner, over the edge. Good night and goodbye forever, world.
And that’s when he dares to take his hands off me completely. It’s as if I’m inches away from the finish line and someone viciously grabs the back of my shirt, pulling me away from victory.
A wicked smile falls over his lips as he sits back from me. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “Starting now.”
I can barely see straight. I cough due to my bone-dry throat. I sound like a cat hacking up a furball. “You’re really committed.”
“I have to be if this is gonna work. Otherwise, we’ll end up hooking up long before August. I don’t want either of us to regret anything. You were right . . . about our families. If things didn’t work out, Flo would probably murder me in my sleep. We owe it to ourselves and everyone else to take things slow.” He’s completely right. If we were to continue on this trajectory, we’d hook up and my insecurities from Neil would resurface and probably swallow me whole.
Sure, I’m frustrated, like a coiled ball of yarn in desperate need of detangling. But I’m also entirely smitten. The fact that Scott is doing this demonstrates how much he truly cares. When I think about how outrageously amazing this man is, my entire body calms, as if it knows how perfectly in sync he is with me on every level. In fact, I’m struggling not to force him into marriage right here and now.
“You have no idea how much that means to me . . . I don’t know what to say.”
He smirks again, raising his brow. “You don’t have to say anything. Just show me how much it means to you. On August sixth.”