Either he didn’t want Hannah reading too much into his new collection or there was a lot to read into it and he needed more time before admitting that.
Unless, of course, she was completely nuts and he was just a dude who’d forgotten about buying a few albums. But for a man who never purchased anything for his apartment, wouldn’t they have stood out? Been remarked on by now?
Lube had been a main topic of interest, but not a stack of vinyls?
Let’s say, hypothetically, he’d started collecting records because he had a low-key interest in being Hannah’s type. Never mind that her knees trembled over that possibility. How far did his interest go? She didn’t know. But the same intuition that had led to calling their relationship “serious” was buzzing now. Telling her to wait, to be patient, to stay the course with Fox.
That if he was hiding records, he was hiding a desire to be . . . more.
Despite his assurances of the opposite.
Deep in thought, Hannah carefully wedged the new albums she hadn’t been able to resist under one arm and let herself into the apartment. When she walked inside, she was immediately greeted by the spicy scent of aftershave—and when Fox walked out of his bedroom in dark jeans and a slate-colored button-down, she knew.
He was going on a date.
Hannah’s stomach plummeted to the floor.
Chapter Fifteen
Fox was going to see his mother.
He always found out on short notice when she was working in the vicinity of Westport. If Fox wasn’t on the water, he always jumped, because he never knew when she’d be back again. He’d definitely been a little disappointed when Charlene called to say she’d be in Hoquiam for the night, because going to see his mother meant he wouldn’t be home with Hannah.
Hannah, who had slept in his bed last night, her tight little butt in his lap for a good two hours somewhere in the middle of it all. She’d barely walked out his front door this morning before he rolled onto his back, gripped his cock, and came after six strokes. Six. It usually took him a good five minutes, at least. He’d thought of Hannah during every one of those six strokes. Same way he had every time since last summer. Only now, she wasn’t just the girl he couldn’t stop thinking about. She was the girl who flat-out refused to fuck him.
And goddammit. Now she walked into the apartment, clothes damp and clingy from the rain, and there he went, thinking about being inside her again. Picturing her bowed back, her mouth open on a cry of his name, the slap of flesh on flesh. Stop it, you bastard.
Until recently, Fox had never fantasized about anyone specific while beating off.
A body was just a body.
But in his fantasies with Hannah, their minds were in sync as well as their physical selves. They laughed as often as they moaned. Even thinking of their fingers gripped together, the trust in her eyes, added to the insane pleasure. Imagining himself inside Hannah felt great. Better than great. His orgasms were more satisfying by leaps and bounds.
And that scared the holy shit out of him.
Fox was distracted from his troubling thoughts when Hannah stopped short just inside the door, framed in the lazy rainstorm, her face going from thoughtful to dismayed. Sad, even? “Oh,” she said, giving him a once-over. “Oh.”
He tried valiantly to ignore the pounding in his chest. Jesus, it got louder and harder to manage every time they were in the same room. For the longest time, he’d thought if they just slept together, it would go away. This twisting, hot, melting, spearing sensation she inspired in him with a blink of her eyes. He’d feel shitty afterward for jeopardizing their friendship, but at least it would be over and he could stop obsessing about her so much. Now he was beginning to seriously doubt anything would work.
“Hello to you, too,” he said, voice sounding strained.
“Sorry, I just didn’t expect— I . . .” She dropped the bag she was holding underneath her arm, jolted, then stooped down to pick it up. “You’re going on one.”
Fox frowned. “Going on one what?”
“Going out.” She stood slowly, holding the bag to her chest, eyes big and trained on him. “Going out on a date.”
Understanding dawned.
And then he saw her demeanor for what it was. This assumption that he was going on a date had thrown her big-time. Honestly, part of him wanted to shake her and say, Now you know how I feel sending you off to your director every morning. But what would that argument make them? A couple?
They weren’t. She lived in a different state and was actively pining for someone else. All he had to offer was a notched-up bedpost and the mockery that came along with it. Potentially for both of them. A relationship between them wasn’t happening, despite her obvious disappointment that he could be going on a date. And so for a split second, Fox considered letting Hannah believe he was going to meet someone else. Maybe it would put an end to whatever was happening between them. They shouldn’t be sleeping in the same bed, shouldn’t be telling each other deep, dark secrets. Look where it led. Jealousy. Longing that made him want to carry her back into his bedroom, wrap himself in her goodness, and feel normal again. She was the only person who made him normal. Made him . . . okay.
In the end, Fox couldn’t force himself to do it. He couldn’t let her think for a second that he’d rather spend his time with anyone else. It would have haunted him. “My mother is in town,” he said, relief coating his stomach when he saw hers. “Well, she’s in Hoquiam—tonight only. About forty minutes from here. That’s where I’m going. To see her.”
Her shoulders relaxed. It took her a moment to respond. “Why tonight only?”
Fox’s lips edged up into a half smile. “She’s a traveling bingo caller. Goes up and down the coast running bingo nights at various churches and rest homes.”
“Oh . . . wow. I did not expect you to say that.” Amusement danced behind her features. “Are you going to play bingo?”
“Sometimes I do. But mostly I help with crowd control.”
“You have to keep control of the bingo crowd?”
“Freckles, you have no idea.”
Glancing down at the bag in her hand, her smile turned into a curious one, a line appearing between her brows. “Fox”—she seemed to scrutinize him—“do you have a record player?”
Too late, he recognized the brown paper bag stamped with the purple logo for Disc N Dat and his gut seized. Of course she’d gone there. Why wouldn’t she visit at least once? It had been shortsighted of him to buy his records there when she could so easily find out he’d been to the shop. “Do I have a record player?”
Hannah raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I just asked you.”
“I heard.”
Her chest rose and fell. “You do have one.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Hannah.”
But she was already striding forward, on a mission, making panic sink like an anchor in his belly. Hiding the record player and albums from her had been selfish. He’d felt selfish so many times. But he’d bought the fucking thing for reasons he didn’t know how to express out loud. A gut-born need to be what she wanted.
And Hannah . . . she would make him admit to it.