I owed him an explanation.
I was a coward.
I—
Had pretty much been going around in circles since I’d first picked up my cell earlier that day to call him.
I was going to dial his number. I wasn’t going to text but actually speak to him and explain that I’d had a horrible ex and that he’d hurt me, and I was still fucked up and broken and damaged.
And that it wasn't him.
That it was me.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Ugh. That sounded about as good this time around as it had all the previous times I’d gone through this loop in my brain.
So, I’d chickened out. And I’d texted instead, promising myself I’d just blurt the explanation via text and then turn off my cell.
I’d done neither.
Minimally, I’d apologized, which was the single good thing I’d done that day, but the explanation hadn’t come, I hadn’t been able to stop my replies, and by the end of it, Damon was coming to my house, bringing me pizza, and we were rehearsing my lines.
And then he was going home.
He’d spelled that part out clearly.
I deliberately ignored the fact that Damon leaving made a pang shoot through my heart.
I was well aware of my faults along with my past trauma and that it was influencing my present life. This wasn’t me thinking I was such a bad person and didn’t deserve happiness. Yes, I was damaged. Yes, there was a part of me that would never be fully healed. But I wasn’t a martyr. I’d gotten through to the other side. I had friends, and I had my career. That was enough.
I was also critically aware that I would never be able to lower my guard enough to give another man power over me.
I controlled the interactions.
I said when and where and then told them to get the fuck out.
Always get the fuck out.
They just . . . none of them had ever stayed or even tried to stay.
But none of them had been Damon either. I hadn’t known them well, hadn’t spent years with a weekly call, dinners when we were in the same town, clubs and dancing and drinking when we’d been younger and newly successful and the most exciting thing was being allowed into the VIP section. But though that excitement—partying all night, drinking myself into oblivion—had faded after a while, my connection to Damon hadn’t.
This is why I hadn’t allowed myself to do this.
This is why I shouldn’t have allowed myself to do it now.
Fucking biological clock and cute newborns and Artie and Pierce looking so lovingly into each other’s eyes.
It had melted my brain.
I’d agreed to the drink when I’d been vulnerable, and that had stretched to a meal and more drinks and then—
Damon in my bed.
Being more spectacular of a lover than I’d ever expected. I mean, it wasn’t like I hadn’t hoped and prayed he would be a fantastic fuck or imagined what it would be like to have him in my bed.
But . . . he was too close.
Then last night.
Had. Been. Incredible.
And also the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life.
Circles?
See?
Now it was 6:56 P.M. and Damon was punctual, so he would be on time. Which meant I had exactly four minutes to . . .
Panic? No. To get my shit together? Yes. That.
“Forget the orgasms,” I muttered, moving to my closet and throwing on an oversized sweatshirt. Paired with loose jeans, a tank top and T-shirt, along with white sneakers, my hair pulled back into a pony, a pink baseball cap on my head, and I was wearing as many layers of clothes as I could stand.
It was ninety degrees outside. The sun was nearly set, and my air conditioning was still going at full force. I would be roasting in all the layers, but my reasoning was sound.
Namely, if it took me forever to get undressed, then I’d be less likely to jump on top of Damon’s glorious cock when he came through the door.
Didn’t stop me from taking it into my mouth, though.
Eden!
I stopped, shook my head hard, glad that my inner reprimand had been in my mother’s voice.
That was the surest way to douse any of my remaining desire.
Clothes, good.
Penis, bad.
Friends, good.
Anything more than friends—and that included fuck buddies—bad.
The doorbell rang.
I hurried from my closet and dashed down the hall, wanting to get as far away from my bedroom as possible. On second thought—
I ran back and shut my door.
Then turned toward the front of the house. Paused. Reconsidered.
“Shit,” I muttered and hustled back, opening the door and locking it from the inside then pulling it closed. I’d have to find the key later, the one that resembled a pin but with a circle on one end that I could shove into the hole in the knob to unlock it. Otherwise, I’d be sleeping on the couch.
I nodded with approval. Worth it.
The temptation would be locked away and I—
The doorbell rang again.
“Get it together, Larsen,” I muttered and got my ass to the front door. “Friends,” I reminded myself. “Back to friends.”
I sucked in a breath, mentally girded my chastity belt, and turned the knob.
Then was wholly unprepared for the gut punch that was Damon.
Fuck, I loved the way he looked at me, brown eyes warm, lips curled up just slightly at the edges. “Hi,” he murmured and fuck, but I loved it even more when he spoke to me like that, soft and gentle and sweet. His voice was like being wrapped in a warm blanket. He held up the box. “Extra garlic bread, as requested.”
All of my nervousness faded.
I nodded. “Thanks,” I said and added, “Want to come in?” when he hesitated on the threshold.
“You good with this?”
Concern in those pretty chocolate eyes and I mentally chastised myself again. I’d ruined the easy rapport between us. I’d known better and I’d still—
His fingers on my cheek. “Stop it.”
“I’m—”
Damon brushed by me, holding the pizza boxes aloft and stepping into the hall. I turned, saw he hadn’t stopped, was disappearing into the kitchen. With a slow, deep breath, I closed the door and followed him.
He’d put slices on plates and had the blue porcelain circles in his hands by the time I made it into the room. I saw him glance toward the kitchen table then hesitate.
I deliberately avoided looking in that direction because . . . well, because orgasms and sticky syrup on my skin, the sweet smell of powdered sugar in my nose. “My . . . um . . . the script is on the coffee table in the family room if you want to eat in there.”
A nod then he moved that way. “Any chance you can get me a glass of water?” he asked. “I forgot to pick up drinks.”
I moved toward the fridge. “Do you want a beer?”
“That would be great. Thanks.” He slipped through the doorway that led to the family room.
I was not going to make this weird. I was not. We’d forget about this morning, forget about last night, and—
“Don’t forget to grab yourself one,” he called.
That was enough to snap me out of my head. Friend. Be a friend.
“Do you want to run through the full script?” he asked when I came through with a beer in each hand, “or just the rewrites?”