Page 62 of On the Ropes
Tabitha
Ipaced down the narrow hallway. Spun around and paced all the way back. I tapped the edge of my cell phone against my lower lip, staring at the screen and considering my options.
Then I paced all the way back again.
Less than a week ago, I was doing shots with my sister and bragging about my ability to keep my attractions to people totally in the moment.
It’d been a day since I’d last seen Dean, and I was wearing a hole in the rug from nerves alone. I’d been undone by a hug. A hug between two friends. Well, Dean’s thumb didn’t help either. The one he’d used to brush sugar from my lips all while gazing longingly at me like I was an ice cream cone he desperately wanted to lick. That moment alone had me blushing myself stupid all day long.
Stepping into Dean’s open arms and wrapping mine around his neck was somehow even more blush-inducing. He radiated a powerful strength, body warm, smelling like woodsy soap and clean clothes. There was nothing contrived or artificial about Dean Knox-Morelli, and I doubted he’d ever worn cologne. He didn’t need it. I already wanted to nip at his skin and taste him.
We’d embraced for ten seconds, maybe less. There was nothing outwardly sexual about the act itself, merely the combination of a dozen tiny movements that left me with a pulse of desire between my legs. There were too many sensations happening at once to focus on—his large hands sliding down my back, his breath caressing my neck, his mouth moving through my hair. We’d been balanced on a tightrope, frozen in motion. Waiting. Wanting. If Rowan hadn’t shown up I would have fisted my hand in his shirt and kissed him.
Telling Dean that he could knock on my door last night if he needed a friend wasn’t some sneaky come-on. I would have gladly stayed up late with him watching movies or dragged him out for cheese fries or, really, whatever brought him comfort. He didn’t knock though. And I hadn’t seen him all day.
Granted, I’d been holed up editing hours of film so I could create the fundraiser for the pocket park. But my craving to see him far outstripped any other fears some very dusty corners of my brain were trying to remind me of.
I dialed his number, chewing on the end of my thumb.
“Are you pacing back and forth over there?” Dean said in greeting.
I stopped, one foot hovering off the ground. “Y-yes, I was. Why, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, I can.”
I forced myself to stand still. Cool. Casual. That was me. “I know it’s a little late, but are you free right now to have some fun with me? It doesn’t involve food and/or drink this time.”
“What does it involve?” The husky edge of his tone gave me goose bumps.
“It’s a surprise. But wear your workout clothes and your running shoes. So, basically, wear what you’re always wearing.”
“Is it outdoors? Because it’s supposed to storm.”
I walked to the window and peeked out the curtain. It was just now getting fully dark, but he was right. I could see a scary-looking assortment of clouds on the horizon.
“What’s a little rain?” I teased. “Live a little, Mr. Machine.”
His laughter was low and rumbling against my ear. “You’re scandalous and a troublemaker. But it’s a deal. Ten minutes?”
“You know where I live,” I said, then hung up.
I yanked on running shorts and threw on a tank top over my sports bra, feeling first date jitters. But not the kind I usually went on.
Once downstairs, I went in search of my keys and wallet on the kitchen table and accidentally knocked over the photo album we’d been laughing over at the diner the other night. I dropped to my heels, pressed it to my chest, and noticed one of the pictures lying facedown on the floor. I scooped it up and stood. Anticipating something adorable, I flipped it over with a smile. The gesture froze on my face. Those happy jitters turned sour, all my breath catching in my throat.
It was a picture of my mom.
I fully believed Aunt Linda to be the kind of woman to throw away all the pictures of her brother’s horrible ex-wife. I was guessing it’d gotten stuck behind another and accidentally missed.
I held it up in the light. My mom and dad were posing for the camera in their theme party bell-bottoms. Mom was not in our lives anymore on purpose. The last time I’d seen her was maybe my freshman year of college on a random home visit. Seeing her face was shock alone, as was recognizing that we shared the same nose. Something about her posture, the tilt of her chin, reminding me of me.
My mother had had a boyfriend, Roger, that she’d been seeing behind my father’s back for at least six months before their marriage got really bad. All that I understood at the time—all that she’d told me—was she had a friend that was a secret only I knew about. Every time Roger called, her face lit up. And my dad was never to find out about him.
I also knew that she looked similarly happy when my dad was around—tinkling laugh, warm and affectionate. She switched it on and off so skillfully, I remembered feeling legitimately afraid.
I was eleven years old when she decided I could help with her secret.
Dad doesn’t know,she’d said, and I can’t tell your sister. But I can trust you, right?
