“You still hang out with him?”
“We mostly train together and sometimes hang out at one of the bars around UCCS. He’s a senior there now,” I explain, as I pour coffee into the mug and add some creamer. I know she doesn’t take sugar. Inspecting the contents of my refrigerator, I silently berate myself for not picking up some groceries on the way home.
I walk toward her with the coffee. “Do you want something to eat? The pickings are slim. I have some chopped fruit, a couple protein bars, or some chips left over from Friday, but they might be stale.”
A genuine smile appears on her mouth as she takes the coffee from me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, sending fiery tingles shooting up my arm, but that’s nothing new. “Wow, you’re really spoiling me.”
I’m not sure what expression she sees on my face, but it’s enough to have her reach out and squeeze my hand.
“Hey. I was teasing. I don’t want anything to eat. I think my stomach would revolt if I tried to force food down.” And just like that, the smile drops off her face, and the sad, devastated expression is back.
I want to know what he did to her, but I need to shower and change so I can give her my undivided attention. Crouching in front of her, I tuck a stray piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m gonna grab a shower real quick. Drink your coffee and make yourself at home.”
She visibly gulps, but she’s got that faraway look in her eyes again.
I stop at the doorway to my bedroom. “Kendall?”
She looks over her shoulder at me.
“Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”
I maintain eye contact with her until she nods, but I’m not entirely convinced she won’t be gone when I come out.
9
VANDER
I take the quickest shower in the history of showers, and my body is barely dry when I pull on a pair of gray sweats and a long-sleeved white tee. I slip my feet into a pair of Nike slides. After dragging the towel through my hair, I run my fingers through it and spray on some cologne before exiting the bedroom.
My shoulders collapse in relief when I find Kendall still here. The room is noticeably warmer, thank fuck, and she has ditched her ballet flats, curling her legs up under her, still swaddled underneath my hoodie. Her shoes aren’t the only thing she’s ditched. The half-drank coffee is cold in the mug on the coffee table, and she’s found the tequila. Along with the portfolio for my college submissions. It’s resting on the table, and she’s slowly flipping through it as she drinks straight from the tequila bottle. A look of fierce concentration glides over her beautiful face as she studies it carefully while sipping tequila like it’s lemonade.
There is something so painfully beautiful about this visual that I stop and stare, even though I should probably be freaking out she’s going through my drawings because I know what she’ll discover.
But fuck it. I’ve already laid my cards on the table. She knows how I feel about her. I’m going to own it.
I watch her expression transform as different emotions surface while she flicks through my artwork, and my heart swells behind my chest. She’s so entranced she hasn’t even noticed I have returned to the room.
Watching her wearing my clothes and looking cozy on the couch as she drinks tequila from the bottle without flinching, while leafing through the physical manifestations of my soul, is profoundly beautiful, and I wish I could freeze frame this moment and capture it for eternity.
If she wasn’t so vulnerable tonight, I’d suggest she pose for me. But I can’t be selfish. Not when she’s upset. Taking another few seconds to watch her, I commit the visual to memory so I can draw it after she’s gone. Reluctantly, I clear my throat, announcing my presence. “Hey. I see you found my portfolio.”
“I did.” She glances at me briefly before returning her attention to my artwork. “I hope you don’t mind me looking, but you know I’ve always loved your drawings. You’ve gotten even better.” Her fingers glide over my interpretation of the view from the bridge at Helen Hunt Falls. She doesn’t even look up as I sit down beside her. “You are incredibly talented, Vander. This is impressive work,” she adds, flipping the page.
I wait with bated breath for her reaction.
She stares at one of the many portraits I have drawn of her, her finger tracing over the lines of her stunning face. “When did you do this?” she softly asks, turning her head to look at me.
“It was the start of the summer. I was hanging with West in his room, and you were sitting on the loveseat in the backyard, rocking back and forth as you stared into space.” Angling my body, I twist around so I’m facing her. Our knees brush in the process, and that’s all it takes to warm every part of me. I long to pick her up, deposit her in my lap, and just hold her close.
Her touch stirs so many sensations in me. Some soothing. Some arousing. Some confusing. But I always feel. Kendall makes me feel things that shouldn’t be familiar, yet they are. Every fleeting touch is like a memory seared into my skin, and it takes monumental willpower not to react to it in a visceral way.
Unable to resist touching her, I tuck another piece of her hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her cheek. “You looked so incredibly sad, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you. I watched you through the window, for as long as I could get away with it. That night, I couldn’t sleep because your pain tormented me. I felt your anguish as if it was my own, so I got up, grabbed my pad, and started drawing.”
Her eyes widen before she lowers them to the picture again. “You drew this from memory?”
I drew most all the pictures and paintings of her from memory because I couldn’t risk taking a photo. Moving my hand from her face, I press my fingers to my head. “You’re imprinted in here the same way you’re imprinted in my heart.” I place my hand over my chest, right where my heart thuds steadily. “You’re all I see, Kendall. Even when I close my eyes.”
A strangled sound emits from her throat, and her eyes well up again.
“Please don’t cry, baby.” I brush her tears away before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, wishing I could absorb her pain and remove it. “It’s killing me to see you like this.”
“I don’t know how to process everything I’m feeling,” she admits, remembering the tequila and swallowing a mouthful. She hands it to me. “I know you want to know what’s happened, but I can’t talk about it. I can’t say the words.” More tears stream down her face as I take a healthy glug of the earthy, semisweet liquid. “It’s hurts too much.”
“I’ll kill him,” I hiss, unable to contain the anger I feel toward her husband. “I will fucking bury him for hurting you.”
She shakes her head, sending waves of golden-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. “He’s not worth it.” She swipes the bottle from my hands, taking another drink. “I don’t want to think about it or talk about it. I just want to spend time with you.” Tentatively, she reaches out, threading her fingers through my damp hair. “You have beautiful hair, Vander.” She sets the tequila down on the coffee table and turns to me. Her fingers trail down my face, and I can’t move, can’t breathe. I’m afraid to move a muscle and break this spell. “A beautiful face too.” Softly, she explores my face, her fingers sweeping over my eyes, my nose, and my cheeks. She drags her lower lip between her teeth as her fingers run through the bristle on my chin and cheeks. Things get interesting in my pants when her fingers keep moving, trailing down my neck, along my collarbone, and onto my chest. My dick is hard as a rock, and she’s barely touching me—her touch is addictive, and I can’t get enough. Her hand comes to a stop over my heart. “But this is the most beautiful part of you. You have the biggest heart, Vander. I think you’re amazing.”