Jocelyn

The morning arrives like a fog, slow and steady, enveloping me whole. One minute I’m dreaming of Boxer’s lips pressed to my forehead, and the next I find myself shaking off stiffness and finding a little girl drooling on my arm.

Confusion strikes first. It takes me a long moment to remember how I got here—and where here actually is. That’s when I hear the low tones of someone humming, a distinctly male voice coming from the kitchen, and everything crashes into clarity.

I slept over at Landon Boxer’s house. A potential client. An almost lover. A man that has my stomach twisted in knots every time he enters the room.

Worse, I hadn’t even asked permission. I’d just zoned out and started drooling on the couch. Had I drooled? God, I hope not. I quickly check the couch, but it is free of wet spots, thank goodness.

I close my eyes, wanting to slap a hand over my face as panic sets in after confusion, but I don’t want to risk waking Charli. A sleepover. At a potential client’s house! What was I thinking?

My knee cracks as I attempt to straighten my leg, and the slight sound is enough to stop the humming radiating from the kitchen. I pause, debating whether I should pretend to sleep or face my fears, when a figure pops into the doorway, and all thought pauses entirely.

It’s Landon Boxer. And he’s wearing an apron.

It’s not a tough, manly sort of I’m Grilling apron. No, it’s got a line of purple ruffles around the bottom and puffy painted words across the front that say World’s Greatest Dad. I have one guess as to who put them there.

I’m torn between laughing and melting into the couch at its adorableness, so I choose the safer option and giggle.

He looks down, grins, and then meets my gaze again, not the slightest bit embarrassed. “Last year’s Father’s Day gift,” he says in explanation. “By the way, good morning.”

“Good morning,” I mouth back. “I’m a little trapped here.”

“Sorry about that. She’s an aggressive sleeper.”

Landon approaches the couch, a hint of a smile on his face. He reaches down to scoop Charli up, but I press a hand to his wrist.

“Don’t wake her,” I say. “I can sit here; I don’t mind. It’s cozy.”

He gives a soft laugh. “Watch this—it’s a magic trick.”

Swooping her into his arms, Charli’s head falls onto his shoulder with an unceremonious droop. Her legs dangle, arms flopping all over, and save for a cute miniature snore, she doesn’t show any signs of waking.

“She can sleep through anything,” he says, repositioning her on the other end of the couch. “Come on, let me get you a cup of coffee.”

Coffee sounds incredible, so I follow him into the kitchen, the scent of freshly ground beans enough to make me weak at the knees. Either that, or it’s the incredible sight before me—a man confident enough to wear a frilly apron while cooking what looks like sprinkle-encrusted pancakes in a skillet.

Then again, he has every reason to be confident. He lifts the coffee pot and pours it into a gigantic sky-blue mug while I stand gazing at his arms tense with lean muscle, every vein defined. He’s back in athletic shorts and an old t-shirt, the fabric so worn I can see hints of skin through it.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, peeping at his body when I should be explaining myself. Maybe it’s the lack of coffee putting me into a deep, lusty stupor because I can’t hardly remember how to say thank you as he passes me the mug. I splutter something that I hope sounds like gratitude, and take a slurp of the piping hot liquid.

“How is it?” He looks genuinely concerned.

“It’s delicious.”

“Steve got me hooked on his fancy hipster coffee.” He gestures to a machine that looks more like a beaker than a coffee pot. “I hate that I love it.”

“I don’t blame you for it.” I smile, watching as he deposits the grinds into the trashcan. “I think it helps that you wear the apron when you make it.”

His eyes flick once more to the fabric covering his waist, and he shrugs. “Charli made me wear it so often when she first gave it to me that I just got in the habit of putting it on when I make breakfast. It’s really the only meal I cook. Marie cooks almost all of our meals during the week, but Charli and I like to do our own breakfasts.”

“She does, huh?” I raise my eyebrows at the sleeping body curled on the couch. “Great teamwork.”

“She’s six going on sixteen, I swear,” he says with a shake of his head. Then, almost to himself, he murmurs, “It goes too fast.”

“It does,” I agree. Then I realize I don’t have children, so it sounds a little fake that I’m responding. “Time, in general, I mean.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“Me? No,” I say. “Not really.”

“Not really?”

I force a smile. “Is Steve your only brother?”

“He’s more than enough.”

“He seems nice!”

“There’s more to him than meets the eye.” Boxer leans forward, holding the spatula before him like a weapon. There’s a teasing glint to his eye. “Don’t fall for his innocent act.”

I raise my hands. “Never.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did. I managed to snooze and shower all in one go.” When Boxer looks confused, I laugh, holding a hand up to show the light outline of drool on my wrist. “Charli is an active sleeper.”

“Here, I’m so sorry about that.” Boxer runs a cloth under warm sink water, squeezes it out, and then approaches me slowly. “May I?”

I can only nod, moving to sit on one of the kitchen stools for balance.

One of his hands has encircled mine, the other gently sponging away the mark on my arm. It’s everything I can do not to shiver under his touch. The way he moves is soft, gentle, and I force my mind to stop thinking of other ways he might touch me.

“Is that better?” Boxer pulls the washcloth from my arm.

I nod.

Instead of letting go, he squeezes my hand tighter, takes a step closer, and lets his fingers trail up my arm. His eyes come up to meet mine. “Sorry about that, Joss.”

“I’m not sorry at all.” I blink, shocking myself. “I mean, about...this.”

“Me neither,” he says, his hand sliding the rest of the way up my arm until it’s at my shoulder, then my back.

His touch trickles across my neck sending fireworks throughout my body. I’m nearly quivering under his touch—pathetic, really, but I can’t help it. He has everything I never knew I wanted. A heart big enough for two. Goals. Desires. Generosity and kindness born naturally to him.

This life—his life—it’s not mine, but suddenly, I want it all.

That’s why I lean into him, brushing against his chest as he lowers to meet me. The air sizzles between us, crackling with long anticipated tension. We were cut off the other night at the peak of our desires, and I’m relieved to know it’s not just me who’s still frustrated.

“I’m glad you stayed,” he murmurs against my cheek. “Thank you for being here.”

It’s me who should be thanking him, not the other way around. I let my fingers press into his shoulders and pull him to me. He moves both arms behind my back so he’s holding me entirely.

Lifting me off the stool, he makes it seem like I weigh no more than the spatula he wielded seconds ago. In my place, he sits down and balances me on his lap, wrapping his arms around my waist until his fingers situate on my hips.

I can feel him beneath me, and it’s enough to make my breathing turn ragged. The moment our kiss begins is peppered by sunlight. Bits of it streak through the room, dancing across his face as we linger just centimeters from one another. My lower body may be trembling with desire, but up here, between us, there’s only caution.

Until he inhales a deep breath and the caution flies into the wind. His hands slide down until they’re cupping my backside, holding me against him as his tongue slips between my lips. He tastes of fresh coffee and sugar, and it’s invigorating.

My hands find his face, my palms pressing against his cheeks as I forfeit any sense of self control. I forget that he’s wearing an apron. I forget his child is sleeping in the next room over, just out of sight behind the wall. I forget that his brother is upstairs. I’m lost in every one of his low groans of need, his roving fingers pleading for more as he holds me against his lap.

He’s taut with desire, and I’m burning up inside. It’s not enough anymore, this game we’re playing. Two steps forward, one step back. Business or pleasure? Passionate lust or responsible adults?

“Why can’t it be both?” I murmur in a moment fogged with desire. “Business and pleasure?”

“Whatever you want,” he says back. “So long as I’m next to you.”

These words, this hint that we could be something more than two adults wanting each other from afar, never quite giving in, is enough to push me past all logical reason.

“Do you still want me?” I manage, though it’s a gasp.

“More than anything.” It’s low, husky. “God, I’ve wanted you for weeks.”

“We’re both adults, what if we...” I remember what the ladies at the bar said the other night, about being adults, the value of taking Boxer home, if even for a night. “What if we get this out of our system?”

“Out of our system?” His eyes darken, and I can see conflict written there. “What do you mean out of our system?”

I could argue with him, but we’re in no position to at the moment, so instead, I show him. I grind my hips against his lap, the friction causing his eyes to close and a low curse to sigh from his lips.

“I want you, too,” I whisper. “Maybe if we just let ourselves have a night together, we can move on and focus on business.”

“What if I don’t want to move on afterward? What if I want you for more than one night?”

I rest a finger against his lips. It’ll never work between us, I know that. I’m not the type of woman he deserves. He deserves someone motherly, someone peppy and perky who’ll join PTA meetings and stay at home and raise a happy houseful of kids. I know I’m not that person, and he’ll figure it out soon enough.

“Let’s start with one night,” I say. “No strings attached. We can go from there.”

“Be open to it.”

“What?”

His eyes are begging me as he leans in, pausing to kiss my cheek, behind my ear, across my collarbone. “Don’t push me away after a night,” he murmurs as he dusts his lips against the top of my chest. “I’ll give you one night, if you give me the potential for more.”

“When?”

He looks up at me, my confirmation everything he needs. Instead of an answer, he stands, bringing me with him, my legs locking around his waist. One of his hands reaches to the wall over my shoulder as my arms cling to his neck.

I’m pressed firmly against him, wishing for my clothes to vanish. It’s irresponsible, irrational, and I’m well aware my desire is wreaking havoc on my ability to make thoughtful, adult decisions, but I can’t help it.

“I don’t want to wait until tonight,” he says, “I want you now. Let me drive you home—Steve can babysit, the pancakes will wait. We can take our time.”

“Not now,” I say, but my body says differently. It arches to meet his, and he responds.

He moves so my back is pressed against the wall, his hard chest against mine. We connect until the spiral of kissing drives us into a frenzy, and it’s only when movement sounds in the other room that we both freeze entirely.

“Drop me!” I hiss at him, poking his shoulder. “Boxer!”

He does as I command, and it’s lucky I’ve taken yoga classes because I somehow manage to land on my feet. I think it’s called Tree position. Or maybe Standing Human. I don’t really pay attention in yoga, but whatever it’s called, it works.

Boxer raises an arm, scratching behind his head in an awkward motion as he spins around, closes his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths.

“I’ll check on her,” I say, straightening my attire. “You might want to, uh... fix your apron.”

He looks down to where the frills of the apron are all off kilter, protruding in ways they weren’t ever intended to be worn, and the image strikes me as funny. I never thought I’d make out with a man in an apron.

I laugh, hating that I sound like a hyena, but loving it all the same. I haven’t been this giddy in years. I take a second to gather myself, pull my hair together and my shirt all the way down, and then make my way out to the couch.

“Good morning, birthday girl,” I tell a still sleepy Charli. “How does it feel to be six?”

“Are there pancakes?” she asks. “We have pancakes on my birthday.”

“Sure are,” I tell her. “We’ll just give them a second to, uh, cool off.”

Luckily, Charli had wild dreams, so we spend a good twenty minutes discussing them. Charli has a way of telling stories that goes on, and on, and finally, sometime between a dinosaur eating her cheese, and a mouse chasing her around the yard, we are called into the kitchen for breakfast.

With twenty minutes to have calmed down, Boxer once again looks at ease in his kitchen. He has a few pancakes still sizzling on the skillet, and a plate stacked halfway to the ceiling with the rest of them.

Charli moves about the kitchen with a dedicated role, pulling out the syrup first, hoisting it to the table with both hands. She then makes her way toward the silverware drawer and withdraws two forks, mumbling to herself as she makes her way back to the table.

At the last second, she glances up, catches sight of me, and shines a shy smile. Still yammering to herself under her breath, she hurries back to the drawer and retrieves a third utensil.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.

Boxer waits for his daughter to respond.

Charli looks to her father for guidance but when he raises his eyebrows, she puffs up her chest and answers. “No, you’re our guest.”

“What can I get you...” Boxer prompts.

“What can I get you to drink?” Charli interrupts excitedly. “Water? Wine? Beer?”

Boxer stares at her. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Uncle Steve always wants wine or beer,” she says.

“Uncle Steve doesn’t want wine or beer at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning,” Boxer grumbles. “Coffee?”

“Thanks,” I say. “And thank you,” I tell Charli as she worms her way in front of me to set the table. “Everything looks delicious.”

It tastes delicious, too. And smells delicious and feels delicious and everything about the morning is entirely delicious. Charli struggles to pour syrup for her dad, finally drowning his plate in a pool of maple sugar. Golden butter melts onto the top of the warm, brightly colored sprinkle-pancakes. Boxer even adds a candle and a scoop of ice cream to Charli’s, and we sing one more round of happy birthday to her.

“But it’s not your birthday anymore!” I tease once we’re finished. “That’s not fair; I want ice cream too.”

Boxer gives me a scoop of ice cream and Charli insists we sing another round for me, even though it’s not my birthday for another few weeks. I realize with a twinge of surprise that it’s the first time someone’s sung happy birthday to me in a long while. I told everyone at my office to ignore my birthday and, save for Lindsay, they pretty much do. Lindsay will slip me a card and a cake, but she doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

What’s more surprising is that I don’t mind the attention when it’s coming from the two sitting across from me. We’re all being silly, squirting whipped cream straight from the can into each other’s mouths and pouring rainbows of sprinkles over our ice cream, and it’s fun.

We laugh as Charli tells us jokes that make zero sense whatsoever, and we listen as she rambles on and on about her exotic dreams. I’ve never had a dream about a dinosaur before, but the way Charli tells the story, I feel like I’m missing out.

The whole thing is easy. Fun and light and sparkling with sunlight through the wide kitchen windows. Boxer has propped a window above the sink open, and a fresh breeze washes over us. He keeps my coffee cup filled with piping hot liquid, the taste warm and welcome after our sweet choice of food.

I haven’t felt this elated since my childhood. I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is, but everything feels right. I haven’t checked my phone once in the last twelve hours or so, which is beyond rare. For all I know, it might be dead. Nearly twenty-four hours have gone by in which I haven’t sent a single email. That didn’t even happen the day I had my appendix removed.

Boxer and Charli are in the middle of a conversation about what sort of cereal to buy for the upcoming week, and it’s pleasing to simply sit back, listen, and enjoy being here. It won’t last, that’s for sure, since as soon as this spell is broken, I’ll be back to work. Tomorrow is Monday.

Monday. It rings like a curse word in the bright Sunday morning, so I push it out of sight and focus on the party at hand. Boxer, however, must sense my change in mood because he shifts Charli to his lap, snuggles her for a long moment, and then sets her on the floor.

“Go upstairs and get dressed,” he says. “Wash your face because you smell like syrup, and brush your teeth.”

“Why?” she moans. “I don’t want to go.”

“We’re going grocery shopping today since Marie can’t come back until Tuesday, now.”

“To the store?”

“Where else do you buy groceries?” he asks. “Of course the store.”

“Does that mean we can stop by Gabe’s?”

“You just had ice cream.”

“But it’s Gabe’s,” she pouts. “He says to stop by more often.”

“I can’t argue with her logic,” he says to me. “It is Gabe’s.”

“So we can go?” Charli asks.

“We’ll see,” he says. “We’re not going anywhere if you still smell like syrup in fifteen minutes.”

She’s gone in a flash, and suddenly the easy chatter that’s filled the kitchen falls to silence. It’s not uncomfortable, not really. It’s uncertain.

“Thanks for feeding me,” I say finally. “Everything was delicious.”

Boxer doesn’t answer, instead retrieving the coffee pot for one last refill. I murmur a word of thanks, but I have the feeling he’s not listening as he pulls the apron off and tosses it onto the counter. When he returns to his seat, he’s got a contemplative look on his face.

“There’s something between us,” he says finally. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

I shift in my seat, the memories of earlier, in this very kitchen, resurfacing. “Yes.”

“I have a proposal for you,” he says. “It came to me while I was cooking.”

“What sort of proposal?”

“The sort of proposal that I hope you’ll listen to.”

“I’m listening.”

He folds his hands and rests them on the table before him. Our fingers are inches apart, not quite touching, and I wait to see where this is going before I move one way or the other.

“You want to get this out of our systems.” He gestures between us. “But I don’t think that’ll work. It’s not a one-time thing.”

“How do you know that?”

“Come on, Joss. I’m not a one night sort of guy, and you’re not a one night sort of girl.”

“How do you know what sort of girl I am?” He’s right, mostly, but I’ve always hated when people tell me what I am or what I’m not. So, naturally, my hackles come up.

“I don’t, but I’m guessing,” he says gently. “You can tell me if I’m wrong.”

He’s not wrong, so I sit back and cross my arms over my chest.

“New York is in two months—the endorsement deal. I talked to Steve last night, and he’s happy to stay here with Charli for that weekend. What do you say we spend the next two months getting to know each other... with one catch.”

“I see where this is going.”

“No sex,” he says. “Before we complicate things, let’s see if this—us—works. Let me take you out on a few dates. Spend some more time with me and Charli.” He gestures his hand in circles, signaling the passing of time. “Then, if we still want one another after two months, we’ll have New York. Alone for the entire weekend.”

Listening to him talk has my nerves in a spiral. First, my heart sank, then rose, and now I have chills thinking about a weekend alone with Boxer.

“I need more from you than one night,” Boxer says. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m not even asking you to be my girlfriend. But I don’t want to get you out of my system, Joss, and I refuse to ever pretend I do. If we’re going to act on this, we’re going to give it a fair shot.”

I swallow, stalling, trying to come up with something to say. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“Wrong about what?”

“Us? What if we’d be better off just putting to bed the tension and forgetting it ever existed? Then we can go on and be business partners like planned.”

He closes his eyes and rubs his hands across his eyebrows. “Is that what you want? Really?”

I blink, looking up to the ceiling. “It would be easier.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, eyes still closed. “If you want to take the easy route.”

“I never take the easy route.”

“Then why the hell are you taking it now?”

“I’m not, I’m just suggesting—”

“That I’m not worth investing your heart into. Right? Because surely, I’ll break it?”

“No, Boxer, that’s not what I’m trying to say—”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

“Wait!” The word emerges like the sharp crack of the whip. In that moment, a flood of information crashes through my brain, drowning me in a pool of confusion. My talks with Lindsay, my past relationships, Mr. Hot Shot who didn’t bother to know my last name. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.”

Boxer opens his eyes, then his hands, and gives me time, space to talk. The only problem is that I don’t know what to say.

“I’m listening,” he says.

“I don’t think I’m right for you. Long term. But I do care about Charli, and I’m trying to avoid hurting her feelings. That’s why it might be better to just wrap up this weird kissing thing we keep doing.”

“Don’t you think I know my daughter better than you do?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then let me protect her. I’ll decide what’s good and bad for her—what I want her exposed to and what I want to shelter her from.”

“Fine.”

“Why would you say something like that in the first place, though?” His brow furrows in genuine confusion. “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide whether or not you’re right for me?”

“Yes, but I’m just trying to be realistic.”

He stands abruptly, his chair shooting back as he leaves the table. Feet pound on the stairs as he climbs them, the low murmur of conversation filtering back. It sounds like he’s first talking to Charli, her high-pitched squeals signaling good news. Then, the responses turn lower, more annoyed. Steve.

Boxer returns downstairs, changed into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that looks soft enough to sleep in, and extends his hand. “Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to go for a walk.”

“Oh, um...” I scrunch up my sleep hair and push my coffee away. “Maybe I could use the restroom quick?”

“Why? You look great.”

“Well, I still need to use the restroom.”

“Oh.” He actually blushes, and it’s adorable. “Of course, sorry. I’ll be waiting outside.”

I ease into the bathroom to take care of business and wash up. Before I leave, I pause in front of the mirror. I dig in my purse for remnants of barely-functional mascara, and do the best I can to touch up the mess that is my now makeup-free face.

Even then, I’m still not ready to face him. I take a few deep breaths, wondering where Boxer came up with this idea of dating for two months. I still don’t know what to think about it.

I’m not used to the idea of men turning down an offer of a no strings attached relationship. Not that I’ve ever offered it to someone before, but I just figured the answer would be an easy one.

Then again, Boxer’s surprised me from day one, and I have a feeling that’s not about to stop anytime soon.