Beautiful Player
Page 61
When the mattress dipped and the heat of him returned, I was barely conscious.I opened my eyes to the smell of coffee, the sound of the dishwasher opening and the clank of dishes. I blinked up to the ceiling, the final remnants of sleep slipping from my brain as the reality of last night hit me.
He’s still here, was my first thought, followed by What the hell happens now?
Last night had come easily; I’d shut off my brain and done what felt good, what I’d wanted. What I’d wanted was him and somehow, he’d wanted me in return. But now, with the sun pouring through the windows and the world awake and breathing outside, I was filled with uncertainty, unsure what our boundaries were or where we stood.
My body was stiff, sore in the most random places. I felt like I’d done a thousand sit-ups. My thighs and shoulders ached. My back was stiff. And between my legs I was throbbing and tender, as if Will had driven into me for hours and hours in the black of night.
Imagine that.
I eased myself off the bed, tiptoed to the bathroom, and carefully closed the door, hissing at the way the latch seemed to click too loudly.
I didn’t want things to be weird between us, or to ruin the easy comfort we’d always had. I didn’t know what I’d do if we lost that.
So with my teeth brushed and hair smoothed, I slipped into a pair of boy shorts and a tank and made my way out to the kitchen, intent on letting him know I could do this and that things didn’t have to change.
He was standing in front of the stove in nothing but black boxers, his back to me, flipping what looked to be pancakes.
“Morning,” I said, crossing the room and making a beeline straight for the coffeepot.
“Morning,” he said, grinning down at me. He leaned over and twisted the fabric of my shirt in his hand, using it to pull me toward him for a quick kiss on the lips. I ignored the tiny, girlish flutter in my stomach and reached for a mug, careful to keep a long stretch of counter between us.
My mother had cooked breakfast for us every Sunday we spent on vacation in this kitchen, and had insisted the room be large enough to accommodate her ever-expanding family. The space was twice the size of any other in the building, with gleaming cherry cabinets and warm tile. Wide windows that overlooked 101st Street took up one wall; a large counter with enough stools for all of us filled another. The wide marble expanse of counter had always felt too big for the apartment, and a waste of space now that it was just me using this as a home. But with the memory of last night playing on a loop in my head, and with so much of his perfectly naked skin on display, I felt like I was in a shoe box, like the walls were closing in and pushing me closer and closer in this strange, sexy man’s direction. I definitely needed some air.
“How long have you been up?” I asked.
He shrugged, the muscles of his shoulders and back flexing with the movement. I could see the edge of the tattoo that wrapped around his ribs. “A while.”
I glanced at the clock. It was early, too early to be awake on a Sunday with no plans, especially after the night we’d had. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He flipped another pancake, placed two others on a plate. “Something like that.”
I poured my coffee, eyes trained on the dark liquid as it filled the mug, the steam as it twisted through a beam of sunlight. The counter was set, placemats and a plate for each of us, glasses of orange juice off to the side. I had a flash of Will with one of his not girlfriends and couldn’t help but wonder if this was part of the well-honed routine: making his ladies breakfast before leaving them in their empty apartments with wobbly legs and dopey smiles.
With a small shake of my head I replaced the carafe, and straightened my shoulders. “I’m glad you’re still here,” I said.
He smiled, and scraped the last bit of batter from the bowl. “Good.”
We stood in comfortable silence while I added sugar and cream, then moved with my coffee to a stool on the other side of the counter. “I mean, I would have felt ridiculous if you’d left. This is easier.”
He flipped the last pancake and spoke to me over his shoulder. “Easier?”
“Less awkward,” I said with a shrug. I knew I needed to keep this casual, keep it from becoming a thing between us. I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t handle it.
“I’m not sure I’m getting you, Hanna.”
“It’s just easier to do this part now, the awkward I’ve seen you naked part, rather than later when we’re trying to remember how we interact with our clothes on.”
I watched him pause, staring down into the empty pan, obviously confused. He hadn’t nodded or laughed, hadn’t thanked me for saying it before he’d had to. And now I was the one clearly confused.
He’s still here, was my first thought, followed by What the hell happens now?
Last night had come easily; I’d shut off my brain and done what felt good, what I’d wanted. What I’d wanted was him and somehow, he’d wanted me in return. But now, with the sun pouring through the windows and the world awake and breathing outside, I was filled with uncertainty, unsure what our boundaries were or where we stood.
My body was stiff, sore in the most random places. I felt like I’d done a thousand sit-ups. My thighs and shoulders ached. My back was stiff. And between my legs I was throbbing and tender, as if Will had driven into me for hours and hours in the black of night.
Imagine that.
I eased myself off the bed, tiptoed to the bathroom, and carefully closed the door, hissing at the way the latch seemed to click too loudly.
I didn’t want things to be weird between us, or to ruin the easy comfort we’d always had. I didn’t know what I’d do if we lost that.
So with my teeth brushed and hair smoothed, I slipped into a pair of boy shorts and a tank and made my way out to the kitchen, intent on letting him know I could do this and that things didn’t have to change.
He was standing in front of the stove in nothing but black boxers, his back to me, flipping what looked to be pancakes.
“Morning,” I said, crossing the room and making a beeline straight for the coffeepot.
“Morning,” he said, grinning down at me. He leaned over and twisted the fabric of my shirt in his hand, using it to pull me toward him for a quick kiss on the lips. I ignored the tiny, girlish flutter in my stomach and reached for a mug, careful to keep a long stretch of counter between us.
My mother had cooked breakfast for us every Sunday we spent on vacation in this kitchen, and had insisted the room be large enough to accommodate her ever-expanding family. The space was twice the size of any other in the building, with gleaming cherry cabinets and warm tile. Wide windows that overlooked 101st Street took up one wall; a large counter with enough stools for all of us filled another. The wide marble expanse of counter had always felt too big for the apartment, and a waste of space now that it was just me using this as a home. But with the memory of last night playing on a loop in my head, and with so much of his perfectly naked skin on display, I felt like I was in a shoe box, like the walls were closing in and pushing me closer and closer in this strange, sexy man’s direction. I definitely needed some air.
“How long have you been up?” I asked.
He shrugged, the muscles of his shoulders and back flexing with the movement. I could see the edge of the tattoo that wrapped around his ribs. “A while.”
I glanced at the clock. It was early, too early to be awake on a Sunday with no plans, especially after the night we’d had. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He flipped another pancake, placed two others on a plate. “Something like that.”
I poured my coffee, eyes trained on the dark liquid as it filled the mug, the steam as it twisted through a beam of sunlight. The counter was set, placemats and a plate for each of us, glasses of orange juice off to the side. I had a flash of Will with one of his not girlfriends and couldn’t help but wonder if this was part of the well-honed routine: making his ladies breakfast before leaving them in their empty apartments with wobbly legs and dopey smiles.
With a small shake of my head I replaced the carafe, and straightened my shoulders. “I’m glad you’re still here,” I said.
He smiled, and scraped the last bit of batter from the bowl. “Good.”
We stood in comfortable silence while I added sugar and cream, then moved with my coffee to a stool on the other side of the counter. “I mean, I would have felt ridiculous if you’d left. This is easier.”
He flipped the last pancake and spoke to me over his shoulder. “Easier?”
“Less awkward,” I said with a shrug. I knew I needed to keep this casual, keep it from becoming a thing between us. I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t handle it.
“I’m not sure I’m getting you, Hanna.”
“It’s just easier to do this part now, the awkward I’ve seen you naked part, rather than later when we’re trying to remember how we interact with our clothes on.”
I watched him pause, staring down into the empty pan, obviously confused. He hadn’t nodded or laughed, hadn’t thanked me for saying it before he’d had to. And now I was the one clearly confused.
