Love to Love Her YAC (7 page)

I glance back at Rhiannon, who is now bent
over clasping her knees while trying to catch her breath. She looks
up and shakes her head. “You threw it before I was ready, you ass!”
she bellows.

“I told you to go long!” he yells back. He
saunters toward her, his face lit up with a cocky smile I want to
slap off him.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t
have Go-Go Gadget arms, Spence.” The guy is standing next to her
now. He laughs again and claps her on the back in a way that seems
almost avuncular.
Maybe they’re just friends
, I think to
myself, buoyed by newfound hope.

Rhiannon checks her watch. She says something
I’m unable to hear from this distance, then high fives the guy she
called Spence. She heads to the sideline and stoops to pick up her
book bag from the grass just paces away from where I’m standing in
the shade of an oak tree. I know I need to say something, but
before I can move her head snaps up, as if she can sense someone
watching her. She glances my way and freezes when she recognizes
me. Slowly she begins to smile, but she doesn’t make any move to
come towards me. Instead I go to her, covering the distance between
us in a few easy strides. Now that she’s this close it seems
impossible not to be much, much closer. I don’t stop until I’m just
a foot away from her.

“Hey,” I say, grinning at her in a way I hope
will express how happy I am to see her. She seems a bit guarded,
and I can’t blame her for that. Three days ago she granted me the
privilege of touching her in places, the thought of which turns me
on to the point I can barely see straight, and now I’m the shithead
who didn’t call.

“Hey,” she replies. “What are you doing
here?”

“I work right over there,” I say, nodding
toward the one story brick building across the street. “I was going
for a walk when I saw you and had to stop.”

She nibbles on her lower lip, regarding me
warily from beneath her long, dark eyelashes. “I’m glad you
stopped,” she says finally. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s really good to see you, too.” Without
thinking about it I reach for her hand and give it a light squeeze,
allowing my touch to linger perhaps a beat too long. My eyes dart
to the guy Rhiannon was playing Frisbee with. He’s standing several
yards off, watching us with some interest. Suddenly I don’t want to
let go.

Rhiannon looks back over her shoulder,
following my gaze. “That’s my cousin, Spencer,” she says. The knot
in the pit of my stomach begins to loosen, and I inwardly harangue
myself for my unwarranted possessiveness. I glance down at my hand
on her warm skin and suddenly feel embarrassed, so I withdraw
it.

I clear my throat. “Listen, do you have plans
tomorrow night?” I ask.

“Hmm…yes. I’m having dinner with Corinne,”
she answers. “Then I have a test to study for.”

“What about later tonight then?” I ask. “I
have class until 9:30, but there’s something I want to talk to you
about. Could I stop by afterward? I won’t stay too late.”

She rocks forward on the balls of her feet
and blows a stray hair out of her face. “Sure. Come on up when you
get there. Apartment 2C.”

“Okay.” I look at her a moment longer,
fighting the urge to kiss her then haul her off to the gym to
ravage her body with my fingers and tongue. “See you tonight,
Rhiannon,” I say. I peel my eyes away from her and turn to walk
away, already hating myself for what comes next.

Rhiannon – 9:45 PM

B
lake had seemed a
little off when we talked earlier by the soccer fields. He had
looked so anxious, so conflicted, like he couldn’t decide whether
to kiss me or tuck tail and run. And then there was the “something
I want to talk to you about” thing, which is weighing on me more
than I’d like to admit. It feels as though I’ve thought of just
about everything that might mean, and each scenario I imagine is
more horrific than the last. Still, the prospect of having him here
is thrilling regardless.

I spend some time cleaning my apartment,
knowing this is the first time he’ll set foot in it, then change
into a pair of my favorite jeans and a soft pink cami. Finally I
sit down to read a book and pass the time until he arrives. I’m in
the bathroom finger combing my hair when the knock at the door
comes at a few minutes before ten. My pulse picks up in a way that
has become all too familiar over the past five days, and I hastily
slick on some cherry flavored lip balm before going to answer
it.

When I open the door he’s leaning with his
elbow up against the doorframe, scratching his forehead with his
thumb and looking as if he stepped straight out of this month’s GQ.
He’s wearing the same red-sleeved baseball tee he had on earlier
and it’s riding up at the waist, exposing an isosceles slice of
lean muscle and tanned skin. I’m momentarily enthralled by the
light brown hairs that trail downward from his navel and vanish
into his low riding jeans.

“Do you mind if I come in?” he asks, his
handsome face lit by an amused smile.

I swing the door wide and step back. “By all
means,” I say, “but only because I’m thirsty and you brought
beverages.” My eyes dart to the two bottles of Fanta Orange he
holds in his left hand, secretly pleased that he remembered my
order at the Chinese restaurant the other night.

“Ah, you noticed,” he says. “And here I
thought it was my boyish good looks that made you to lose the power
of speech.”

I turn around to conceal my embarrassment. I
don’t blush often, thank the Lord, but on those rare occasions when
something truly blush-worthy occurs, my fair complexion makes it a
dead giveaway to any and all who witness it. “Your arrogance is
unbecoming,
sir
,” I say, deploying the title Blake warned me
not to use against him last Sunday. God, it seems like months ago
now.

He chuckles lowly behind me. I hear him set
the sodas on the breakfast bar before he walks past me to the sofa,
his hand brushing my hip in a move that may or may not have been
accidental. I’d be willing to bet it was the latter, but perhaps I
flatter myself.

“May I have one?” I ask, jerking my thumb
over my shoulder at the drinks. “Or are both of those for you?”

“By all means,” he echoes my earlier
statement. I pick up a bottle, still chilled from whatever cooler
it recently came out of. I crack the cap open and take a leisurely
pull from the bottle, letting the cold liquid pour down my throat
and soothe my nerves. When I look back at Blake he’s watching me
impassively. He’s sitting on the edge of a sofa cushion, his legs
spread apart and his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers
clasped together in between.

“Did you want to watch TV or something?” I
ask tentatively. I know I should ask him what he came here to talk
to me about, but I can’t bring myself to go there just yet.

“Sure, if you want to.” He sits back on the
couch and crosses his right ankle over his left knee. He lets his
left arm trail across the back of the sofa, and I imagine that same
arm wrapped around my shoulders. I push the power button on the
remote control then press the button for the DVR. I glance over at
the couch, hating that I’m now in the awkward position of having to
choose a place to sit.
Curse him for sitting down first
.

“I have some episodes of ‘The Daily Show’
recorded,” I say, stalling for time. “Would that be okay?”

“Sounds good to me,” he drawls. “I’m
easy.”

I hit play on the first episode listed and
pick a seat in the center of the couch a few feet away from Blake
in what I consider to be neutral territory. I curl my legs up onto
the cushion and set about attempting to ignore the magnetic pull I
feel from his end of the sofa.

We watch in silence for a few minutes until
the first commercial break. Blake stands to retrieve his Fanta from
the kitchen, and when he resumes his seat he pats the space next to
him. “Scoot over here,” he says quietly. I glance up – he isn’t
smiling. In fact, his eyes are dark, whether with anger or desire I
can’t tell. I sincerely hope it’s the second one.

I slide over until the edge of my thigh is a
couple of inches from his, and he stretches his arm across the back
of the couch again, allowing his fingers to dangle off and dust the
top of my shoulder this time. I breathe in and out slowly and
deeply, hyper aware of our posturing and our proximity to one
another. I want to snuggle closer, but for some nonsensical reason
I would prefer for him to be the one to draw me nearer. Instead I
go for subtle…I turn my head slightly, allowing my hair to tickle
his arm and lay my hand in the gap between our legs so that it’s
just barely touching his leg through his jeans. He lets out a
halting breath and begins lightly drawing circles on my shoulder
with his finger. The electricity from his touch pierces through
me.

We watch two episodes of “The Daily Show”
this way, rearranging our body parts in painstakingly minute
increments as if we’re moving in slow motion. At the end of the
hour I’m dismayed to find that I’m plastered up against Blake’s
side, unable to remember quite how I got here. Meanwhile, his
fingers grip the top of my arm like he’s holding on to me for dear
life.

I let the closing credits play out before I
make a move to power off the television. I’m no longer interested
in watching anything other than the gorgeous man sitting next to
me. Which is why, when I turn to face that man, I’m rather put off
by the now-familiar look of anguish in his bright green eyes. As I
study him, his newly shaved jawline and perfect pouty lips and long
black eyelashes, the look transforms into one of entreaty.

Suddenly Blake stands up. He clears his
throat and pushes a hand through his hair, scraping it away from
his face. He looks everywhere except at me. Now I’m beginning to
get nervous.

Thinking I may as well just put us both out
of our misery I say, “There was something you wanted to talk to me
about?” I give him a small smile that I hope comes across as
encouraging. He turns, searching, and when his eyes land on the
wingback chair turned at a right angle to the sofa he drops into
it.

“There really isn’t any good way to say
this,” he begins quietly, almost as if he’s talking more to himself
than me. He looks up, and I can see the effort it takes for him to
continue holding my gaze with his own.

“Rhiannon,” he begins. He pauses, his eyes
roaming my face and then my body, which is now curled in on itself,
shielding me from the blast that now seems imminent.

“Rhiannon,” he starts again. “I…I have…um, a
girlfriend.” He says it so softly I can’t be sure I heard him
correctly, but putting two and two together I think I probably did.
“I have a girlfriend,” he says, this time with slightly more
conviction. “Her name is Jordan.”

I can feel my expression crumbling along with
my good spirits, despite my redoubled efforts to keep my face from
betraying the raw emotion that consumes me. I don’t say anything,
too afraid the dams will open and my voice will break, so
apparently Blake feels the need to fill the silence with more
needless explanations.

“She isn’t here. She lives in California
actually, in Sacramento. That’s where I’m from – I don’t think I
told you that.” When I still don’t say anything he bows his head
and holds it in his hands, his fingers flexing against his skull.
As much as I don’t want to care, I hate to see his obvious
suffering. I hate the fact that a part of me is moved to comfort
him in some way. Somehow I fight the urge.

“Is it serious?” I ask quietly, then quickly
change my mind – I don’t think I want to know the answer to that
particular question. “How long have you been together?” I amend,
diverting the course of the conversation to topics that
may
be slightly less painful.

“Six years,” he says without looking up. “Off
and on” – an afterthought.
Ouch
. So much for less
painful.

“That’s a long time,” I observe, mostly for
lack of something better to say.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says. “I never should
have let things go as far as they did. I just couldn’t seem to stop
myself. I didn’t want to...”

Idly I wonder why he’s still sitting here –
he said what he came here to say. Damn if I don’t still want him
here, though.
What is the
matter
with me?

Suddenly the gravity of our situation hits me
like a ton of bricks, and I can feel my eyes brimming with tears.
“Oh God,” I say quietly. “You let me kiss you.” I’m seized with
guilt, thinking back to the many ways I touched this man who
belongs to someone else.

Blake’s head snaps up. If I wasn’t so wrapped
up in considering my own responsibility in all this I would be
surprised by the unshed tears in his eyes. In an instant he’s out
of the chair and crouched on the floor in front of me, his hands
gripping the sofa on either side of my lap, his eyes pleading. I
drop my gaze, unable to look him in the eye. “No, baby, that was
all me. Please don’t do that, don’t even
think
you did
anything the slightest bit wrong or out of line here. It was me.”
He touches my face lightly, and I can’t help but cringe away from
him. “Look at me,” he pleads. Reluctantly I lift my chin and blink
to clear the tears from my eyes. I can feel the wetness of my
eyelashes and the plump tear that cuts a stream down my cheek.
“
Please
believe me. You. Did. Nothing. Wrong,” he
whispers.

I take a deep, cleansing breath and square my
shoulders to him, thinking perhaps if I act okay with this I may
start to
feel
okay. When he reaches for my hands, though, I
stiffen and involuntarily withdraw them, clasping them close to my
stomach. I curl into myself, effectively constructing an
impenetrable wall between us to forestall any further physical
contact. The clash of emotions blistering in my chest and gut
threatens to take me down – a brutal mixture of rage, regret and
also a perverse physical attraction that persists despite
everything that’s just happened.