If he’d had a clue she had only improved since his last visit, he would have stayed the hell away. A redhead like her mom, but more a darker fire and a sleekness with waves instead of curl. More freckles than stars in the sky. Lush pink lips and dreamy blue eyes, her expressions always saying more than her words, but only to those who were paying attention.
He swallowed his own tongue as he took her in, knowing he looked like a clueless moron, naked and standing on one foot. She must have just gotten home from work, wearing pastel pants with a sweater, but her bare toes wiggled with sparkly blue nail polish. Hell, he’d missed her. And spent way too fucking much time thinking about her the last ten years. And this was absolutely not going how he imagined this would go.
She teased her fingertips in her hair and laughed brilliantly. “Damn, Cole. You know how to make an entrance.”
“Me?” he answered, laughing as he stood tall, not bothering with the humiliating dance of someone caught naked. “You walked in on me.”
Eyes rolling, she plucked his jeans up off the floor and reached to hand them over, her eyes strained upward and notably away from his lolling cock. “My sincerest apologies. Now put some pants on so I can hug you.”
Slowly, letting it all sink in fully, the corners of his lips curled into a subtle smile, one side lifting higher than the other as he relented to a full grin. Chest flooding with warmth as he anticipated her response, he nodded a dare and said, “You can hug me now.”
“Oh, wow. You…” She tipped her head back and blushed again, handing the jeans more determinedly.
Laugh still vibrating through him, he took the jeans and leaned against the counter, contorting his body to get the job done. Messing with Trace had always been fun, but messing with Trace while naked was new.
She seemed to realize the extent of the challenge that the simple act of getting dressed would be for him and dropped to her knees in front of him.
His breath rushed from his lungs and he quickly looked up at the ceiling. Fuck. Not helpful. He focused every effort on not imagining where this could go and grabbed the vanity counter to steady himself.
“Don’t you have anything looser in the ankle? This is going to hurt,” she said, voice filled with pity as she hesitated.
Trying to keep it light, he swallowed the lusty gravel from his throat before speaking. “It’s this, or joggers that are so wide in the waist they won’t stay up or so narrow in the ankle they won’t fit over the grapefruit that used to be my foot.” Unable to resist, he finally looked down. “Or I could just walk around naked.”
Trace snorted a light laugh and he could see the blush rise from her neck to her forehead. “Smartass.” Fingers lightly brushing over his swollen ankle, she quickly changed her tune and crooned, “What happened? You look awful.”
“Um. Long story,” he said, hissing as denim rounded his heel. Her touch was delicate, but nothing was going to make this easy.
She glanced up, then quickly laughed and grimaced and looked back down. “Wow. Penis. Right there. In my face. Okay. Let’s get you dressed.”
“I can—“
“But I’m here now, and you’re going to fall and get even more hurt at the rate you’re going,” she said as she stood, leaning back as she did to avoid that face-to-penis thing again.
One pantleg on, and he glanced around, realizing this wasn’t getting any more glamorous. Great. Just fucking great. The entire fucking flight over, he’d thought about this exact moment, seeing her again, maybe there was a slim chance she’d be single, and she’d fawn over him and realize they were made for each other and all that romantic bullshit.
Instead, he dropped the lid to the toilet seat down and slid his good leg into the other side of the pants. “I got it,” he said softly.
“Clearly.” She bit her lips together and folded her arms over her chest, going absolutely nowhere. “So. You’re the mysterious dinner guest,” she said, not looking away as he pushed up to his feet again and secured his jeans.
“They didn’t tell you I was coming?” he asked, pushing his long hair back with his good arm.
“No,” she said, studying him curiously, as if figuring out some big puzzle.
As he reached for his shirt, she crossed to him, no pause. Smooth as silk, she folded her arms around him, keeping one arm low on his waist to protect his injured arm. Thoughtful, but her hands on his back, on his bare skin, and he couldn’t help but imagine that maybe there was a small chance that she had missed him the same way he’d missed her. Idiot that he was, he breathed her in, his eyes closing while he indulged.
Whispering, so close, she said, “Hug me back or I’m going to think you didn’t miss me, too.”
Hell. He wrapped his arm around her, tighter than he should, not nearly as tight as he wanted, keeping it friendly, as always. “Are you kidding?” he said, filling his voice with lightness for her as he finally pulled back. “Your voice has been in my head for the last decade, demanding I save the last cookie for you.”
Not a hint of shyness, not holding back, Trace held tight to him, careful of his injuries. “Did my parents convince you to come back while you recover, from whatever stupidity you’ve done to yourself this time?” She pulled away and looked up at him, pouty and sweetly melty as her blue eyes searched his.
Voice hitched in his throat, he tried to remember how to talk. He closed his eyes, a headache threatening to coat his skull, and he took a breath before trying again. “I quit my job. I’m here… for good.”
Dinnerstucktosafesubjects, thank fucking christ. Cole tucked his hair behind his ear, the overgrown mess officially now long enough to tie back, but his right arm didn’t lift that high yet, so he endured. Ellen and Jeremy’s responses to him coming home had been remarkably and reassuringly predictable, their welcome a gushingly warm boon. As evening closed in, they had moved inside for dessert, no one letting him even carry in his own dish, promising he’d be able to help when he didn’t look like he’d been run through a meat grinder.
Trace had of course been… Trace. Refreshing and welcoming, sarcastic but still sweet as the apple pie Ellen had cooling through dinner, timed perfectly so the vanilla ice cream melted on impact but no one burned their tongue. Naturally, he indulged, but the cookies had done him in. Leaned back in the dining chair, ancient oak that had been handed down a few generations, he tipped down the last of his beer.
He twisted the glass in his hand. Every noise in the house demanded his attention, each car outside, each creaking branch. No sound escaped. Yeah. He’d fucked himself up enough that he couldn’t actually relax in the safest place he’d ever known.
