Page 12 of When There Was You
“She’d love nothing more.”
“I’m screwed. You realize that don’t you?”
Mick flicks his butt out the window and reaches for my hand, stroking my knuckles with his thumb. “We don’t know anything yet, Jax. Let’s just see what happens.”
But all I can see is Remy being ripped from my life, which will then put a strain on Mick and me. The three of us work together. As a team. As Musketeers.
Taking a deep breath, I listen to my beautiful man. He’s smart, level-headed, logical. Always so calm. Right about most things. I trust he knows what he’s talking about.
The alternative is unfathomable.
Seven
Rain pelts comfortingly against the roof of the cottage, louder up here in the loft. It’s poured all day, and Mick and I have cocooned inside making love, snacking, and lounging.
It’s my last weekend before I hole up for finals, and it’s unlikely I’ll see Mick for a couple of weeks. Once the semester ends, I’m starting my internship, working part time as a receptionist for a hair salon, and still hostessing at Original Joe’s. Between the three, I should be able to cover my expenses.
My father made it perfectly clear months ago that he would not pay my rent or bills while I “lounge around” all summer. His ultimatum: move home or support myself. When I explained my internship was a mandatory class, he met me in the middle, providing half and leaving me to earn the rest.
There’s no way in hell I’m ever moving back to my parents’ house again. Living free of restrictive parental controls is even better than I’d imagined, and I’m no longer in a front row seat witnessing my mother’s deepening slide into depression and Valium therapy. Plus, I love my roommates.It’s unacceptable to abandon them or leave them in a lurch. I’d take on four jobs if it meant keeping my status quo intact.
Until my schedule is settled, it’s impossible to know how it affects my time with Mick. He’s awesome about making it work, though. The former Mr. Cryptic and Unavailable is now Mr. Easygoing.
My mind is far from at ease, however. Thoughts about Remy getting discharged from rehab and returning to Oakland turn my insides into roiling lava. His return will supposedly occur around the same time as finals. If I think too much about it, I spiral. Too many unanswered questions skitter through my brain. It’s impossible not to predict a total doomsday situation for us if Remy remains under his parents’ control.
What if. What if. What fucking if.
Mick and I shower together. He washes my hair, massaging my scalp and gently filtering through the long strands—one of the most decadent experiences of my life.
A slow groan escapes. “You spoil me,” I say.
“It’s my pleasure, believe me.” He kisses my shoulder so tenderly, I melt even more.
He finishes, and I repay the favor, soaping him head to foot. My hands glide over every square inch of his chiseled planes and valleys, paying homage to his beautiful physique.
Afterward, we reheat leftover Chinese food and bring it all into the living room to eat while watchingMagnum, P.I.reruns.
“Don’t even think of eating all the Moo Shu Pork. You know it’s my favorite,” I say.
He feigns outrage. “If you really loved me, you’d let me have it.”
I grin, unable to fight Mr. Fucking Gorgeous. “You can have everything of mine.”
That brings a sterling smile to his face, that dimpletaunting me like a siren call. He plants a plum-sauce-infused kiss on my mouth and hands over the container. “Fuck me.”
My victorious laugh echoes in the space. I wasn’t lying, but I happily polish off the rest of the carton all the same.
Sunday dawnsclear with no rain, clouds, or fog. Mick dials the weather line and confirms we’ve got a beautiful day at our disposal. We’re both itching to get out after being cooped up yesterday…not that it didn’t have its advantages.
“We should hike Mount Tam,” he says, arms crossed over his naked chest, his lower half clad in Levi’s. With his tousled hair and bulging biceps, all six feet of him are distracting.
I blink, de-Micknotizing myself. “I’ve never been, even though it’s so close.” I duck into the fridge and grab ingredients for a scramble. “How high is it?”
“About twenty-five hundred feet to the peak. If it’s clear, you get a hell of a payout—a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of Marin, SF, the East Bay, Mount Diablo, and our lady the Pacific. This could be one of those days. It’ll be fun.”
The vegetables sizzle when they hit the hot pan, and I stir, coating them in olive oil. “Fun like learning-to-surf fun, or fun as in this-is-going-to-kill-me fun?”
Mick presses against me in answer, snaking one arm around my waist. “Don’t you trust me to show you a good time?” His deep voice shoots straight to command central.
