Capturing Peace
Page 13
I didn’t want him in my apartment. This was my place with Parker, and having Coen here didn’t seem right. If he came over, if he got comfortable being here, that would be a step in the direction of letting him into Parker’s life as well. I didn’t care that he’d met Parker . . . I was already over what had happened this morning; but I wasn’t ready for him to be here yet. And if we went out and happened to run into my parents or their friends, I would never hear the end of it. My mom would start planning a wedding the second she knew his name. Or maybe when she got over me actually bringing someone into Parker’s life.
“Sure . . . ?”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to go out.”
“Okay,” he said carefully. “Well, yeah, you’re more than welcome to come here. Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“All right, we’ll order something when you get here.”
I stood there playing with the ends of my hair for a few seconds before I said, “This isn’t a date.”
“Of course not,” he said, his tone amused. “It’s a distraction.”
“Right.” A very, very bad distraction.
He gave me his address before we hung up, and I ran into my closet. A part of me told me to go in my yoga pants and shirt, since that’s what he’d seen me in earlier and I didn’t want him to think I’d dressed for him. But another wanted to look like more than a tired mom when I was around him.
After going through three outfits, I settled on a pair of short black shorts and a light gray off-the-shoulder shirt. Casual, and comfy . . . and hopefully I didn’t look like I had tried as hard as I did to look both. With a quick touch-up to my makeup, I grabbed my phone, purse, and keys and left my apartment before I could talk myself into staying there instead.
During the ten-minute drive there, I tried to make myself turn around the entire time. Even as I walked up to his condo, I kept chanting to myself how bad of an idea this was, and how I needed to go back home. When he answered the door in low-slung jeans and another black shirt, I almost turned around and walked away.
Such a bad idea.
“You look beautiful.” His dark eyes slowly raked over my body before resting on my face again.
“This isn’t a date,” I reminded him again, and he laughed.
“And you still can’t take a compliment.” Opening the door wider, he stepped back to give me room. “Come in, I’m starving.”
I stood there for a few seconds before barely turning back toward his driveway. “Maybe I should—”
Coen grabbed my hand and pulled me into his condo before shutting the door behind us. “Stop second-guessing everything. You wanted a distraction, and I’m hungry. So we’re going to have our it’s-not-a-date-it’s-a-distraction night, and you’re going to learn how to relax.”
“I know how to relax.”
“You sure about that?” he asked, the rise of one eyebrow challenging me to argue.
I couldn’t.
HOURS LATER, WE were full on pizza, and had been watching movies on Coen’s TV. I’d laughed more tonight that I usually did in a week’s time, and as the hours had passed, I’d slowly felt myself relaxing into him. Something about his easygoing laugh, his no-bullshit attitude, and mesmerizing eyes had left me leaning into him more, and enjoying his company . . . and being terrified of that.
“I shit you not”—he pointed at the screen and leaned forward so he could look at me—“that’s Casey from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
I laughed and grabbed the remote to rewind Shutter Island before pausing on the man in question. “That? No, that is not Casey. I would know because I thought he was so hot in that movie.”
Coen looked over at me with a look of disgust. “That’s gross. He’s old. Obviously,” he said, pointing at the TV.
“That’s not him! I’m telling you.”
“No, what you’re telling me is you go for guys who are thirty years older than you. Gold digger.”
I laughed harder and reached for my phone on the table.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking it up, I’m going to prove you wrong!”
Coen grabbed my phone from me and held it out of my reach.
“Give it back! Or are you worried you’re going to be wrong?”
“No. Fuck no. I know that’s him, I’m just thinking about you and your reaction when you realize that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was made twenty years ago.”
I stopped reaching and cocked my head to the side. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, Duchess.”
My eyes narrowed on him. “I hate that name.”
“And you wonder why I keep calling you it.”
“Asshole,” I growled as I reached over to make another grab for my phone.
His arm kept it just out of reach, so I rolled to my knees and leaned over him, stretching my arm as he stretched his body away from me. One of his hands had gone to my waist to keep me from moving, but the air around us seemed to change at the same time his fingers flexed against me.
Forgetting my phone, I looked down at Coen to see him staring at me. His face no longer looked amused, he almost looked mad. But that look had my body heating, and my breaths getting heavy.
“Reagan”—he cleared his throat—“I need you to get off me before I do something you’re not going to like.”
“Sure . . . ?”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to go out.”
“Okay,” he said carefully. “Well, yeah, you’re more than welcome to come here. Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“All right, we’ll order something when you get here.”
I stood there playing with the ends of my hair for a few seconds before I said, “This isn’t a date.”
“Of course not,” he said, his tone amused. “It’s a distraction.”
“Right.” A very, very bad distraction.
He gave me his address before we hung up, and I ran into my closet. A part of me told me to go in my yoga pants and shirt, since that’s what he’d seen me in earlier and I didn’t want him to think I’d dressed for him. But another wanted to look like more than a tired mom when I was around him.
After going through three outfits, I settled on a pair of short black shorts and a light gray off-the-shoulder shirt. Casual, and comfy . . . and hopefully I didn’t look like I had tried as hard as I did to look both. With a quick touch-up to my makeup, I grabbed my phone, purse, and keys and left my apartment before I could talk myself into staying there instead.
During the ten-minute drive there, I tried to make myself turn around the entire time. Even as I walked up to his condo, I kept chanting to myself how bad of an idea this was, and how I needed to go back home. When he answered the door in low-slung jeans and another black shirt, I almost turned around and walked away.
Such a bad idea.
“You look beautiful.” His dark eyes slowly raked over my body before resting on my face again.
“This isn’t a date,” I reminded him again, and he laughed.
“And you still can’t take a compliment.” Opening the door wider, he stepped back to give me room. “Come in, I’m starving.”
I stood there for a few seconds before barely turning back toward his driveway. “Maybe I should—”
Coen grabbed my hand and pulled me into his condo before shutting the door behind us. “Stop second-guessing everything. You wanted a distraction, and I’m hungry. So we’re going to have our it’s-not-a-date-it’s-a-distraction night, and you’re going to learn how to relax.”
“I know how to relax.”
“You sure about that?” he asked, the rise of one eyebrow challenging me to argue.
I couldn’t.
HOURS LATER, WE were full on pizza, and had been watching movies on Coen’s TV. I’d laughed more tonight that I usually did in a week’s time, and as the hours had passed, I’d slowly felt myself relaxing into him. Something about his easygoing laugh, his no-bullshit attitude, and mesmerizing eyes had left me leaning into him more, and enjoying his company . . . and being terrified of that.
“I shit you not”—he pointed at the screen and leaned forward so he could look at me—“that’s Casey from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
I laughed and grabbed the remote to rewind Shutter Island before pausing on the man in question. “That? No, that is not Casey. I would know because I thought he was so hot in that movie.”
Coen looked over at me with a look of disgust. “That’s gross. He’s old. Obviously,” he said, pointing at the TV.
“That’s not him! I’m telling you.”
“No, what you’re telling me is you go for guys who are thirty years older than you. Gold digger.”
I laughed harder and reached for my phone on the table.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking it up, I’m going to prove you wrong!”
Coen grabbed my phone from me and held it out of my reach.
“Give it back! Or are you worried you’re going to be wrong?”
“No. Fuck no. I know that’s him, I’m just thinking about you and your reaction when you realize that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was made twenty years ago.”
I stopped reaching and cocked my head to the side. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, Duchess.”
My eyes narrowed on him. “I hate that name.”
“And you wonder why I keep calling you it.”
“Asshole,” I growled as I reached over to make another grab for my phone.
His arm kept it just out of reach, so I rolled to my knees and leaned over him, stretching my arm as he stretched his body away from me. One of his hands had gone to my waist to keep me from moving, but the air around us seemed to change at the same time his fingers flexed against me.
Forgetting my phone, I looked down at Coen to see him staring at me. His face no longer looked amused, he almost looked mad. But that look had my body heating, and my breaths getting heavy.
“Reagan”—he cleared his throat—“I need you to get off me before I do something you’re not going to like.”
