He drops the notebook to the bed.
I don’t let him speak. “Don’t say anything. Just… let me talk.” I rush to get out. He nods but his hands are clenched at his hips. His dreamy eyes are locked on me like I’m the last good thing on earth. “I hate this. Being apart. I always hate it. Every single time. I pretend I’m fine. We both know I’m not. I wear your shirts because they smell like you and remind me of every night we don’t sleep.”
His throat works. “Roxy…”
I hold my hand up to shut him up. “I hate that I know the exact tone of your laugh…. the way you cook when you’re stressed… the fact that you still keep the cayenne next to the oregano just to piss me off.”
I breathe. Hard. I whisper, “I hate that it feels like home when you’re near me. It always has. Even when I push you away. And you always let me. You just ride the waves of my crazy and wait for me to calm down. You are my home, Chase. I fucking love you and I don’t know why the fuck you love me.”
I kiss him. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s desperation. It’s grief and longing and God, I missed you and I love you.
His hands cup my cheeks, and he kisses me back like he’s been dying of thirst and I’m water.
His hands find my waist. He caresses my neck. His love finds my soul.
We undress quickly and come together, finding the rhythm only we have. We fall apart in each other’s arms. He kisses me as we come and it’s perfect. When we both settle back to earth, I curl into his chest and whisper, “I don’t know how to stop loving you, Chase.”
He whispers back, “Then, stop trying to.” And he kisses the side of my head.
CHAPTER 3
COUPLES THERAPY, SWEATPANTS, AND ONE HELL OF A BLOW JOB ATTEMPT
ROXY
* * *
I wake up in Chase’s bed. We’re naked. Tangled together in sheets and limbs but surprisingly, I don’t have any regrets. Not even false one’s.
What I do have is full-blown crisis brewing behind my ribs and moisture pooling between my legs from the sight of his tattooed chest in front of my eyes and his morning wood waving “good morning” from the sheet barely covering his hips.
Last night wasn’t just me welcoming Chase back to my bed. It was us.
That’s so dangerous.
Shuffling out of the bathroom, still in my robe, I walk into the kitchen just as he’s flipping the last pancake and setting it onto a tray already stacked.
“Hey,” he says, softly, watching me.
“Morning,” I mumble and longingly gaze at the coffee pot.
He slides a plate toward me. “I put peanut butter on them. And the coffee just stopped brewing. You can grab the first cup.”
I pause.
He put peanut butter on my pancakes.
I only eat peanut butter on pancakes when I’m emotionally overwhelmed.
This sexy bitch.
The retreat itinerary says, “Guided Intimacy Work,” which is just a very fancy way of saying “Therapy with friends and Sasha’s kombucha-sipping ass as moderator.”
Everyone gathers on the patio.
Trent’s already uncomfortable.
Bree and Weston are holding hands, and wearing weirdly pained expressions, like they’re in a filmed funeral montage for television.
