“Egg moaning?” She looks genuinely confused.
I point my fork at her. “When you eat, keep your happy-stomach moans to yourself. You’re making me hard.”
“You’re getting hard watching me eat eggs?”
“No,” I adjust again. “I’m getting hard hearing you moan, which just so happens to be the same sound you make when I rub my nose along your inner thigh. So cut it out.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and studies me for a second, trying to tell if I’m serious. I am, I am so fucking serious. No egg moaning. “Fine,” she answers. “If I can’t moan while eating eggs, you can’t wear those clothes.”
“What?” I look down at my white Henley and work jeans. “What’s wrong with my work clothes?”
“There’s nothing wrong with them, they’re just . . . too tight. They make your chest look massive and heaven forbid I don’t see your abs poking through, trying to say hello. Every time you move, some kind of muscle bulges. Have you ever heard of the size up? Honestly,” she huffs.
I look down at my shirt; it’s not too tight. It fits perfectly. “It’s an extra large, that’s what I wear. It fits fine.”
She motions to my biceps. “Those pythons are trying to reach out and bite me.”
A rip of laughter pops out of me from her terminology. “Pythons?”
“You know what I mean. It’s just not fair. So if I can’t egg moan, you can’t wear those shirts.”
“Okay,” I answer, agreeing easily.
“Okay.” She nods, happy with herself. As she scoops up more eggs, I reach behind me and pull my shirt over my head where I toss it on the back of my chair. When I turn back around to face her, her mouth is open, eggs still on the fork, staring at my chest. “What are you doing?”
I look down at my bare chest and then back up at her. “You said you didn’t want me to wear that shirt around you, so I took care of the problem.”
She drops the fork of eggs on her plate and leans back in her chair while crossing her arms over her chest. “You don’t play fair, Jameson.”
I wink at her. “Never said I did, baby.”
She mumbles something under her breath and then cocks an eyebrow at me. “Fine.” Before I can respond, she grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, dropping the garment to the floor and revealing her delicious naked body. With a wicked and smarmy smile, she picks up her fork and starts eating her eggs again . . . while moaning.
Tou-fucking-ché. With emphasis on the fucking . . .
Chapter Nineteen
EMMA
Tucker: I can’t decide what to have for dinner tonight. I’m torn.
Emma: Is this one of those interludes where you say something like you can’t choose between chicken wings or what I’m serving between my legs?
Tucker: Awfully full of ourselves, wouldn’t you say?
Emma: . . .
Tucker: I was going to suggest soup and sandwiches or beef tips in gravy sauce.
Emma: Is beef tips and gravy some kind of code for your dick and my juice?
Tucker: Christ, Emma. LOL. NO! I actually like beef tips.
Emma: So you weren’t alluding to eating me out or having sex at any point during this texting conversation.
Tucker: No.
Emma: Tucker . . .
Tucker: EMMA . . .
Emma: TUCKER JAMESON!
Tucker: Fine, I originally was going to say either spaghetti or your pussy. Happy?
Emma: Completely satisfied.
Tucker: Is it weird that I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now?
My heart floats in my chest as I read his text over and over again. The smile that graces my lips is a permanent fixture these days. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake it.
“You’re in a good mood,” Logan says, pulling my head away from my phone and back to the books in front of me.
“Huh?”
He points his pencil at me. “Your smile. Did someone tell you that you’ll never have to stick another person with a needle again?”
“Am I?” I try to make my face normal, less smiley, but it’s almost impossible. Tucker makes me happy. It’s been a month since we first slept together and since then, it’s been every night, every morning, and anytime we’re near each other. He’s insatiable. Hell, so am I. I can’t keep myself away from him or out of his bed, or out of his arms, or away from his demanding lips. And I don’t want to.
“Yeah. I haven’t seen you in days and now your head is buried in your phone rather than your books and you can’t stop grinning like a fool. What’s going on?”
Confession. I haven’t told Logan about Tucker. Adalyn knows, she knew the second she saw me after Tucker and I had sex. I think her exact words were, “You boned him, didn’t you?” It’s hard to hide anything from Adalyn. But Logan is less perceptive, or maybe my avoidance helped out a bit. I’ve just felt awkward around him ever since Tucker suggested Logan wants me. I don’t think it’s true, but then again, sometimes with the way I catch him looking at me, I do wonder.
“Nothing really,” I answer, pulling on the ends of my hair, unable to make eye contact.
“Not buying it.” He tilts my chin up with his pencil and says, “Tell me.”
Why is this so awkward? He’s my friend, so I should be able to tell him anything. Just peel the Band-Aid off, get it over with. I take a deep breath and say, “Uh, Tucker and I started seeing each other.”
“Tucker, your roommate?”
Is there really any other Tucker? I don’t say that, but come on, Logan. “Yeah, that Tucker.”
His eyebrows pull together and I’m a little surprised by his reaction. I thought they got along. “Huh, I didn’t think you were interested in him. I thought he’s your best friend’s ex-boyfriend. Isn’t that against girl code or something?”
Well, there’s the splash of ice-cold water I DIDN’T need to wipe the happy smile off my face.
I don’t know what to say. How does one really react to another person blatantly calling them out? So I just shrug and sift through my book. All the words blend together, forming one giant sentence that makes no sense.
Isn’t that against girl code or something?
Stupid Logan and his logic. I’ve been so caught up in Tucker that I haven’t even thought of the outside world, of the people around us, of the repercussions of our coupling.
“I don’t mean to upset you.” Yeah, right! “I guess I was just caught off guard, that’s all,” Logan says, placing his hand over mine. As has been his habit, his thumb caresses my skin in what I’ve always considered a reassuring way.
“You didn’t upset me.” I try to think of how to respond and instead just go with honesty. “I really didn’t think about anyone else besides us. It just happened so fast, and I guess I haven’t sat back to think about what it all means.”
“Is it serious?”
To me it is. To Tucker, I really have no idea.
“We haven’t really had that conversation. We’ve just been, you know, seeing where it all goes.”
Logan nods and puts his pencil down in the crevice of book. “Well, it seems like he makes you happy. It’s hard not to notice the change in your demeanor.”
“He does make me happy.”
“And what about him? Does he feel the same way about you?”
I don’t like Logan’s questioning. “What kind of questions are these?” He’s making me question Tucker’s intent and I really don’t care for it. Is that Logan’s intent? To make me doubt Tucker? I don’t want to think about us because the minute I start thinking about how Tucker feels inside, my gut starts to churn. As long as I’ve known Tucker, his heart has been Sadie’s. It’s always been Sadie and the thought of him still harboring feelings for her literally tears me in half, makes me feel physically ill. I can’t think about it. I won’t think about it. I refuse to. Didn’t he say he needed to work through that before we slept together? Did we rush that? Did he simply give in to me because
he was horny?
“I’m just concerned about you. I don’t want you to start something that’s going to break you later on.”
“Why do you think he’s going to break me? You barely know him and you haven’t seen us together, so you don’t see how he treats me.”
“That’s true, but what I do know about him scares me. You’ve told me about his ex, about how he’s felt about her, how he bought that house for her. And then there’s that room, the room he won’t let you in. And don’t forget about . . . what is it? Rule number six? Don’t talk about Sadie?” He strokes my hand again, concern in his eyes. “Come on, Emma, it doesn’t seem like he’s over her and instead of dealing with his baggage, he’s covering it up with you as a distraction.”
Ouch. That hurts and what hurts even more is that his comment seems to ring too close to the truth for my liking.
“Don’t be mad at me, Emma,” Logan says, tugging on my hand. “I’m just looking out for you.”
“I know.” I nod. “I, uh, I have to get going, though. I have somewhere I have to be.” I start to pack up my things as quickly as possible.
“Emma, don’t go. I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I try to catch my breath as I pack. “I know and I appreciate that. I just have to go.”
Logan stands and stops me from putting a book in my backpack. “Don’t just run away. Talk to me, Emma.”
Irritation overwhelms me and I snap at him. “Talk to you? I just told you how happy I am and you go and throw a wet blanket over it. Why would I want to talk to you when you make me feel like crap?”
His face registers shock and I feel slightly bad for lashing out. “I’m sorry, Emma. I really was just looking out for you. I don’t trust him and his intentions.” Yeah, Logan. That much is obvious.
I snag my book from him and stuff it in my backpack followed by zippering it up. I toss the bag over my back and say, “Well, I’m a big girl, Logan, and I know what I’m doing. I appreciate your concern but please just stay out of it.”
With that, I take off toward my car while I check my phone. There’s a text form Tucker.
Tucker: When are you getting home? Racer is here and I want an excuse to kick him out.
I sigh and tuck my phone into my pocket. Home. That’s exactly what it has felt like. Returning home. To Tucker. Damn Logan. He’s the reason it feels a lot less exciting now.
Logan succinctly brought all my fears to the forefront of my mind and I’m not ready. Not ready to wonder if my life with Tucker is transient. Not ready for him to ask me nicely to leave with a “Thank you very much, Emma, but my heart will never be yours.” Not ready to have my heart shatter and wonder if I’ll ever be whole again.
I’m not ready to be let go, and I’m not sure I ever will be.
***
When I pull up to the house, there are almost blinding lights blasting in the living room, making the whole house look like it’s harboring the sun. Confused, I grab my bag and head in. I drop my stuff onto the kitchen counter and make my way to the living room where there’s music playing—One Direction, ha!—and lamps pointing toward the fireplace where two bare-chested men wearing tool belts and rocking a fireplace kneel on the ground. Tucker has a pencil tucked behind his ear, his hair all askew as if he’s been running his hand through it, and Racer is sporting a backward baseball cap.
Both men rival each other in the muscle department, their chests bronze despite the winter months, their backs rippling as they place a very light colored rock on the fireplace. The room has also been painted a pale grey, making it feel light and airy. How long was I studying that they could get all of this work done?
“Just put the mortar on the damn thing and give it to me,” Tucker says, holding his hand out.
“You’ve gotten to put all the rocks on, I should get to do some too.”
“Stop being a little bitch and hand me the rock. I want to get this done before Emma gets home.”
“I’m not being a little bitch.” Racer sits back on his heels and points to his tightly flexed chest. “You’re being the little bitch and not sharing. Sharing is caring, Tucker.”
“You put them on crooked.”
“The fuck I do. They call me the fireplace master back at the job site. You’re lucky I’m here helping you without charge. I could be invoicing you one hell of a bill if I wanted to.”
“The amount of pizza and beer you shoved down your throat while painting will cover that bullshit invoice. Now hand me the damn rock.”
“No.” Racer seems to put his foot down.
“For fuck’s sake, Racer.” Tucker pulls on his hair in frustration. I was right, he has been yanking on those beautiful strands and I can guess the reason why.
I decide to step in.
“Just let him put the rock on,” I say, turning the music off at the same time, startling both of the six-foot-three men right out of their construction boots.
“Fucking hell,” Racer says, dropping the mortar-covered rock right on the hardwood floor.
“Jesus, Racer.” Tucker picks it up and yells, “Quick, wipe that shit off my floors.”
Tucker places the rock on the fireplace and then stands, wiping his hands on his low-slung jeans. Despite the anguish I’m feeling, which is making my stomach do all different kinds of flips, I can’t help but take Tucker in. He looks just like that meme that floats around the Internet of the man standing on the bed, shirtless, fixing a light. The meme reads, “I don’t know what he’s fixing, but mine just broke.”
When he starts toward me, all I can think is, yes, mine broke too, whatever the hell it is and I want him to fix it.
With purpose in every step he takes toward me, his muscles shift and flex, giving me one hell of a show. “You’re home early, babe. I thought you would be studying later.”
So did I.
Feeling a little off-ish—thank you, Logan—I say, “Yeah, we ended early tonight.” I scan the room and nod. “Looks good in here.” I lean to the side and say, “Hey, Racer.”
He scrubs the floor and then pulls up the rag and waves it at me. “Hey, Emma.” Then he tosses the rag at Tucker and says, “Your precious floor is fine, dickhead.”
Tucker ignores him and takes a step forward, but I step back, unsure of how I’m feeling right now. He doesn’t seem to like my retreat from the way he narrows his eyes at me.
“Uh, I’m tired. I’m going to get ready for bed, call it an early night. Don’t worry about making noise or anything. Nice seeing you, Racer.”
“Have a good night,” he calls out as he starts laying rock on the fireplace, unsupervised. From here, he seems to be doing a fine job.
I turn back to Tucker and meekly smile at him. “Night.”
His face turns in disapproval, but before he can say anything, I go back in the kitchen, snag my bag, and go to my bedroom where I quietly shut the door.
He’s covering it up with you as a distraction . . .
Logan’s words repeatedly sting as they play on repeat in my head. It’s like he reached inside my brain, pulled out the fears I’ve been trying to keep hidden since Tucker and I kissed, and laid them out before me. I hate that my fears are making me insecure and causing me to question everything that’s happened between Tucker and me. Has anything we’ve done together meant anything to him? Or have I just been a temporary escape for him from his pain? Enabling him to forget. Does he make comparisons between Sadie and me and believe he’s settling for second best?
I feel so sick to my stomach. Not in the mood to do anything but lie in my bed, I change into a set of pajamas and crawl under my covers. I turn toward my nightstand, set up my iPad, and go to my Netflix app. I just need some mindless binging. As I’m searching through the TV shows, my door cracks open. Tucker sticks his head in, sees me in bed and invites himself in, shutting the door tightly behind him.
He’s still shirtless and in his jeans, but now he’s without his boots and tool belt. His bare feet pad across the hardw
ood floors in my bedroom until he reaches my bed. He sits down and pulls down the sheets that are covering my shoulders and takes in my taco-covered pajama set.
“Are you okay, Emma?” he asks after studying me for a few seconds.
“Yeah.” Do not cry. For the love of God, do not cry, he will think you’re crazy. “Just tired.”
His hand caresses my cheek. “No, there’s something bothering you. What aren’t you telling me?”
Ah, why does he know me so well already?
I shake my head. “Long day.”
I can tell he’s not buying it but he lets it go as he says, “Okay, I’ll get rid of Racer, clean up, and then I’ll wrap you up in my arms. Give me half an hour to finish up everything.”
“Don’t worry about it. You do your thing. I can just catch you in the morning.”
He lifts an eyebrow at me. “You’ll catch me in the morning?”
“For breakfast?” I ask as a question. I’m really not good at this lying thing.
“So after a month of spending every night together, of not only having sex, but talking, laughing, and enjoying one another, you’re just going to catch me in the morning?”
This isn’t going as planned. Why can’t I be more coy about things? I wear my emotions on my face, unmasked and for everyone to see, especially Tucker who’s so adamant about studying my every move.
He takes my silence as his answer and nods his head. He stands from the bed and walks out of the bedroom without another word. Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I bury my head in my pillow and try to drown out the negative thoughts in my head, but I’m having a difficult time.
If he cared, he wouldn’t have just walked away.
If I wasn’t a distraction, he would still be in this room.
If he wasn’t still hung up on Sadie, he would have pulled the covers off me and snuggled up against me.
But none of that happened. Instead, he left, and I feel cold, unwanted, and sick to my stomach. This night isn’t going anywhere, so I turn off my nightstand lamp and turn away from my door. Tears fall down my cheeks as I try to comprehend how I’m going to handle the morning.