Page 9 of Trust Me
As he slips back into his truck, I consider sliding over to the passenger seat. He doesn’t say anything about it, so I keep my mouth shut and stay firmly put in the middle of the bench seat.
“So did you have a good night?” he asks while he’s driving toward my house.
“I did. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to go out and cut loose a little. Between work and Brooklyn, I just don’t get to do this very often.”
“You’re a great mom. I can see it every time I see you and Brooklyn together. She’s yourfirst responsibility, and you handle it well.”
I look at him for a moment, not really knowing what to say. So I go with, “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”
He gives me a questioning look before returning his eyes to the road. “What are you talking about?”
“Heather. I thought you would be taking her home with you. I’m sorry you are stuck babysitting me.” Maddox must be surprised by my comment because he whips his gaze back over to me. I glance quickly away, breaking our brief eye contact, not really wanting to see the truth in his eyes.
He’s quiet for a few moments until he pulls into my driveway behind my Wrangler and throws it in park. “I wasn’t taking her home with me tonight. Nor am I planning to any night soon, for that matter.”
“Why?” I ask breathlessly, both wanting and not wanting to know the answer.
He sighs as he opens the driver’s door. He reaches his left hand toward me to help me out of the truck. As I slide over the warm driver’s seat, his right hand snakes around my waist to help guide me down from the truck. I love the feel ofone of his hands in mine and the other hand on my hip. I shiver a little, not sure if it’s from the contact or the colder night temperatures.
Though he drops his hand from my waist, he continues to hold my hand as he steers me up my steps toward the front door. I struggle to get my key to fit in the knob, unsure if it’s from the effects of the alcohol or the fact Maddox is so close to me. I can hear him breathing just over my shoulder, which makes me realize he’s close. Very close. He reaches down and takes the key from my shaky hand, places it in the knob, and opens the front door for me. I turn to face him, leaning into the doorjamb, staring into those beautiful chocolate eyes.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome.”
I stand here like an idiot for a few moments, just looking at him. I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me so bad my body almost has a physical ache. “Do you know you were my first kiss?” I ask him, not breaking eye contact.
His eyebrow rises with the quizzical look he gives me, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “Can’t be true. I heard all about your youthful wild streak from Jake. You gave him manysleepless nights.”
“All rumors. A couple of classmates were each trying to make themselves look cooler than the other one, so they made it all up. That day at the river when I was upset and you found me sitting at the edge of the water, I was actually crying because of those rumors and the hurtful things the kids were saying about me at school. I tried to explain to my brothers it wasn’t true, but I don’t think any of them believed me. So I figured if I tried to come clean at that moment to you that you probably wouldn’t believe me either. I was sixteen and embarrassed my first kiss was a rumor started by stupid boys trying to look cool.”
He looks down at me, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Then in an instant, his lips crash down on mine. The kiss is hard and sweet all at once. His tongue traces my bottom lip, begging me to open my mouth for him. When I do, his tongue plunges into me, ravishing me, making me moan. His hands dive deep in my hair, grabbing a hold of my head and pinning me in place as if to keep me from going anywhere. But there is no way I can move at this point or even want to. He tastes a little like alcohol mixed with mint, and it is the most delicious kiss ever. Better than it was sevenyears ago. Better than it has been in my dreams ever since.
Much sooner than I’m ready for, he pulls away. He is breathing heavy, still holding my head and gazing deeply into my eyes. I can see the moment he realizes what he has just done. Like a light switch flipped, his eyes change from dark and needy to shocked and worried. He drops his hands like my hair is on fire and backs away. I feel the loss instantly, my body craving his touch, his hands to be back on me.
“Have…have a good night, Avery,” he says as he slowly backs down my stairs, still staring into my eyes.
I think I touched my lips at that point, but honestly, I could have just dreamed it. This whole thing feels like a dream. A dream where I watch the man I have a crazy crush on walk away from me after realizing he made a very big mistake. It’s a dream I’m all too familiar with. So, I turn and head into my house, alone.
I lock the front door and lean against it as I hear him start his truck and slowly pull away. I drop my clutch purse on the floor and head to the couch, cuddling up with my favorite throw blanket my grandma made me when I moved into this place. I’ve become accustomed to sleeping alone in my queen-sized bed, but tonight, it just doesn’t sound or feel right.Silent tears streak down my face as I close my eyes and wait for the alcohol haze to take me away into a deep, and hopefully, dreamless sleep.
*****
There’s no worse feeling than a hangover. You want to crawl under the covers and hide from the world, but you smell funky and your stomach rolls like you’re on a fishing boat at high tide.
Why in the world did I drink those tequila shots?
For someone who doesn’t drink much, shots are my kryptonite. Tequila and I don’t mix. After rolling off the couch and heading toward the kitchen for some water, I conclude the only way to feel any better is to jump in the shower.
After a long, hot shower, I decide to spend the day with my mom. It’s Sunday Family Dinner night, so I know she’ll be cooking and baking all day, and I can honestly use a little time with her in the kitchen. There’s something soothing about baking for me. Cooking? Not so much. I know enough to get by, but my cooking skills are definitely lacking. Thank goodness I only have to cook for a three-year-old whose favorites include mac and cheese and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
I pull up the long drive that leads home and park my Jeep by the garage, since I’m the first one here for a change. When I step out, I see my dad in the garage, working on his old sixty-five Corvette. He bought it when I was eight years old off of a friend who was going to scrap it. It was in pretty rough shape back then, but now, fourteen years later, he’s put time, hard work, and money into restoring the classic car. It’s in pretty good condition now, and his hard work shows.
“Hey, Dad. How’s the sixty-five doing today?”
“Oh, hey, sweetheart. She’s coming along. I just changed the oil in her, getting her ready to be sitting for the winter,” he replies as he wipes his hands on a red shop rag.
“Well, she’s looking great.” I slide my hand along the smooth body of the sports car.
