Christ, he didn’t deserve to live after lying like that.
Or better yet, he did deserve to live with the expression on her face afterward and the knowledge that he’d put it there. Scumbag. How dare he? How dare he say poisonous shit like that to this girl who, perhaps unwisely, gave a damn about him?
He’d spent a long time trying to avoid the belittling expression on a woman’s face when she implied he was a hall pass or a meaningless diversion. The one Melinda had all those years ago while lying in bed with his best friend. He’d never thought about seeing that look on Hannah’s face—not until last night. Not until he’d confessed everything to her and his past had nearly crowded him out of the car.
If Hannah ever looked at him like that, she might as well slice the heart right out of his chest. Melinda’s betrayal would be laughable compared to what Hannah’s disappointment or dismissal would do to him. Even the possibility had caused him to strike first. To say something to push her away and protect himself in the process.
God. He’d hurt her.
And she might have expressed that pain, but . . . she’d forgiven him with that kiss.
That purposeful, no-holding-back kiss.
Which brought him back to his current worry. Who would walk out of the guest-room door? His best girl Hannah? Or Hannah with a plan? Because that kiss last night, the one that turned his dick into a stone monument, had resolve behind it. She’d stroked his tongue without any hesitation. Like she wanted him to know she meant it. She was all in. And that terrified him as much as it . . .
Teased hope to life in his chest.
Dangerous, stupid hope that made him ask questions like What if?
What if he just put his head down and dealt with the lack of respect from his crew? Took on some of the responsibilities he tried so hard to avoid?
Because someone worthy of Hannah would need to be responsible. Not him. Right? Just . . . someone. Whoever it was. He couldn’t have an apartment totally lacking in character or comforts. He would need to have upward mobility in his job. Like going from a relief skipper to the captain. But that was just an example, because he wasn’t referring to himself.
He wasn’t.
Fox nodded firmly and flipped the pancake on the griddle, approximately 4.8 seconds passing before his attention snuck back to the door to watch the shadows move underneath. How ridiculous to miss someone he’d only seen the night before. Starting tomorrow, he’d be on the boat for five days. If he missed her after one night apart, 120 hours were going to be pretty damn inconvenient. Maybe he should practice blocking the emotion now.
You don’t miss her.
He examined the churning in his chest.
Well, that hadn’t worked.
“Hannah,” he called, his voice sounding unnatural. “Breakfast.”
The shadows stopped moving briefly, started again. “Coming in a sec.”
Fox let out a breath.
Great. They were going to pretend like last night never happened. They were going to act like he hadn’t spilled the insecurities he’d harbored for the majority of his life. Like he never revealed the seemingly well-natured ridicule he received from the crew. They’d kissed before and gotten over it.
This would be no different.
Why was the churn in his chest getting worse?
Maybe . . . he didn’t want them to get over it.
When Hannah walked out of the bedroom, Fox’s spatula paused in midair and he sucked up the sight of her like a vacuum cleaner.
No bun today. Her hair was down. Smooth, like she’d used one of those irons on it. And she wore a short, loose olive-green dress instead of her usual jeans. Earrings. Suede black boots that reached all the way up to her knees, making those hints of visible thighs look like dessert.
I should have jacked off.
It was hard enough to be around Hannah ordinarily. Spending the day with her in Seattle dressed for easy access? Torture. He wouldn’t be able to blink without seeing the ankles of those boots crossed at the small of his back.
The smell of burning blasted him back to the present. Great. He’d decimated the pancake. Turned it almost totally black while ogling the girl who was making him consider buying some throw pillows and window treatments.
“Hey,” she said, tugging on one of her earrings.
“Hey,” he returned, picking up the burned pancake with his fingers and throwing it in the trash, pouring fresh batter onto the pan. “You look nice.”
And I’d like to throw you down on the couch and devour you.
“Thank you.”
Fox hated the tension hanging between them. It didn’t belong. So he searched for a way to dispel it. “How late did you stay up making a road-trip playlist?”
“Too late,” she answered without hesitation, wincing. “You can’t really blame me, though. We’re going to a recording studio in the grunge capital of the world. I’m overstimulated.” She slid onto one of the stools in front of the kitchen island and propped her chin on a fist. “Sorry, babe. You’re going to be sick to death of Nirvana and Pearl Jam by this afternoon.”
That “babe” hung in the air like napalm, and he almost burned a second pancake. She proceeded to scroll through her phone, as if the endearment had never left her mouth, while it kicked him in the stomach over and over again. He’d called her “babe” before, too, but never like this. Never just . . . across the kitchen island in the broad daylight with the smell of warm syrup in the air. It was homey. It made him feel like one half of a couple.
Was this her plan? To walk out here after his ugly behavior last night and . . . stay? Not just in his apartment, but with him. Their bond intact. Unwavering. Because the fact that she knew every part of him, inside and out, and she was still sitting there . . . it was having an effect. The relief and gratitude that hit him was huge. Welcoming. And it was causing him physical pain not to hold her right now. Call her “babe,” too, and give her a good-morning snuggle. Ask to hear about her dreams. Last night at bingo, he’d slipped into the role of boyfriend, and it was kind of scary how good it had felt. To hold her hand and laugh and let his guard down.
The more he thought of that final kiss last night, the more it felt like a promise. That she wasn’t giving up on him? Or . . . the possibility of them?
Had he actually said the words “I won’t kiss you again”?
Like actually said them?
That promise sounded absolutely ridiculous to him in the light of day. Especially when she took a bite of the pancake he’d made, making a husky little sound of pleasure at the taste, her finger dragging a path through the syrup on her plate and dipping into her mouth. Sucking on it greedily.
Was it hazardous to operate a motor vehicle with a dick this hard?
“I see what you’re doing, Hannah.”
She glanced up, startled, the picture of innocence. “What do you mean?”
“The dress. Calling me ‘babe.’ The finger sucking. You’re trying to seduce me into thinking . . . this kind of morning thing could be normal for me.”
“Is it working?” she asked, eyes momentarily serious as she took another bite.
He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t do anything but picture Hannah sitting there every single morning. Indefinitely. Knowing she’d be there. Knowing she wanted to be there.
With him.