When I hear the knock on the door all the butterflies I’ve been trying to quell inside me take flight. I haven’t seen him since that kiss. They had a game last night but he texted me before it, after his date with Lizzie, to tell me it went smoothly and asked if he could swing by today after his running clinic. Of course I said yes. I wanted to see him and figure out exactly what the hell is going on between us.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror in the hall. I spent two hours getting ready this morning. I curled my hair but then messed it up so it looked natural and applied all the natural-colored makeup I could find so I didn’t look like I was actually wearing any and I even tried three lipsticks before settling on one that was only a shade darker than my natural lips. My clothing selection took almost an hour even though I ended up in just a pair of soft gray patterned leggings and an oversized, off-the-shoulder sweater. I’ve never tried so hard to look casual and effortless in all my life. But when I swing open the door and his eyes sweep over me and he smiles, it was worth every second.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says and I smile.
“Come in.” I open the door wider and he steps into the hall. I motion for him to head to the living room and he does after slipping off his shoes. But he just stands in the middle of my room and stares at my furniture like he’s unsure of where to sit. Although it somehow feels like a bold move, I reach out and take him by the wrist and tug him toward the long velvet couch. I drop down on one end, my back against the arm and he sits more in the middle. And then slides to the other end. Not a great start.
“Congrats on the win last night,” I say to break the ice.
He smiles. “You watched?”
“Mac insisted, and I didn’t mind,” I confess. His eyes light up a little bit at that and he smiles. Then he reaches into his pocket and hands me a folded piece of paper.
“The check from Lizzie,” he explains as I unfold it. “She got her lunch and her tickets. And absolutely nothing else, much to her dismay.”
My eyes lift from the check and lock with his. He looks calm and almost amused. I’m still horrified that a woman thinks she can buy sex at a charity auction. “Was she a bitch about it?”
He nods. “Oh yeah. She told me that she was going to tell everyone the rumors weren’t true and that I couldn’t possibly be great in bed and I was probably impotent or something.”
I am one hundred percent horrified and I’m clearly not hiding it because he starts to chuckle. “I can’t even…I mean who does that?”
“Lots of women come up to me expecting nothing but a good time,” he replies. “Because I have no problem giving them one as long as they know it’s just once and it’s just for fun.”
I swallow but my mouth is dry. “You must have had a girlfriend at some point.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Never.”
“Never?” I repeat in disbelief. “Not even before hockey? Like when you were in high school or something?”
His expression grows dark before he bows his head. “Not a lot of girls want to date a homeless guy. Although there was one girl who used to sneak me into her basement and let me sleep there if I fooled around with her. She wouldn’t admit we were messing around in school because she was embarrassed, but I guess she was as close as I got to a girlfriend because it was a regular thing for a while.”
My heart aches for him, but I try not to let him see it. I know he might construe it as pity and I don’t want to upset him. “Can we talk about that? Your childhood?”
“I don’t like to.”
“I know. I don’t like to either.” That makes him look up and meet my eye again.
“Len mentioned she thought I would understand you better than that asshole you were dating,” he tells me and I bite back a smile.
“You might,” I admit and pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. “And there’s no need for name calling.”
He balks at that. “I heard him at the fund-raiser talking about you like you were his property or his project. He’s an asshole. You might have a lot in common with him like the way you grew up or the schools you went to, but he is nothing like you and you deserve more than him.”
Those butterflies are taking flight again. “I don’t have that much in common with him, actually. I mean I know it looks that way, but his idea of struggle is having to wait so long for a cab that he contemplates taking the subway, which he never has by the way.”
Alex laughs at that and gives me a sheepish smirk. “I hate to say it, but that’s what I thought of you too.”
“And you’re wrong, but I see why you made that assumption. My parents are rich and my dad’s family has been wealthy for generations too,” I explain and hug my knees tightly to my chest. “But technically I’m a Bennett by name, not by blood. My mom hates when I point that out because she says I’m her daughter because her heart chose me not her DNA. But what I’m trying to say is I was adopted.”
“Is it a secret?”
I shake my head. “No. But like I said my mom doesn’t like to make the distinction. Probably because of the way I was adopted.”
“How were you adopted?”
“Nope. Your turn,” I counter and give him a small smile. “How were you able to play hockey if you lived on the street? You said yourself it’s not a cheap sport.”
I figure that’s an easy first question—not too invasive and shouldn’t upset him too much, I hope. He runs both his hands through his hair, leaving it mussed up in a deliciously sexy way that I purposefully try to ignore so I don’t get distracted, and then he leans back on the sofa, his back against the other arm so we’re facing each other. “I grew up in Quebec and like the rest of Canada, maybe even more so, they take hockey very seriously. They offer a lot of free programs and equipment when you’re really young. When I was nine I ended up in a group home for troubled boys and they put us in one of the free programs hoping it would help curb our aggression. I was addicted the minute I stepped onto the ice. A coach saw potential in me, and he made sure I had the necessary equipment. The next coach did the same thing and then passed my name on to a Juniors coach and they helped me to keep playing.”
“And you ended up getting drafted?”
He smiles at me. It’s boyish and sincere. “Oh, if only it was that simple. I entered the draft but wasn’t selected. I barely finished high school so playing in college wasn’t an option so I sweet talked an assistant coach on the Quebec Royales into letting me attend their development camp for undrafted players. I worked my ass off like my life depended on it because it honestly did and they signed me.”
“That’s an amazing story.” I’m in awe. “You need to tell the kids about that. It shows that you can accomplish everything you want to, despite a rocky start.”
His expression dims again. “Like I said, I don’t talk about it. My teammates don’t even know about my childhood.”
I drop my knees and lean forward. His right knee is bent, lying up across the couch cushion and so I extend my own legs so my foot brushes his knee. He looks down at it, reaches out and lays a hand over my ankle. One of his fingers brushes against the small patch of bare skin between my sock and my leggings and it sends a gratifying shiver up my body. “Don’t be ashamed. You should be proud. You’ve overcome so much.”
He won’t look at me. His eyes focused on his hand and my leg. “I’m not ashamed. I just don’t like talking about it. I’ve overcome my past, like you said, so why would I want to relive it by talking about it?”
“But you relive it anyway, don’t you?” I can’t help but ask and he stops moving his thumb softly across my ankle. “The way you react to small spaces has to do with your childhood doesn’t it?”
He pulls his hand back and leans away from me. I want to kick myself. I feel like I’ve gone way too far and he might leave but he does something else, just as bad. He puts on one of his cocky, flirty grins, which I now know for sure are an act. He’s hiding himself from me again. “Take off your shrink hat. We’re two friends talking, remember? I’m not your patient.”
“I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist,” I clarify and smile. “And I think we’re kind of past the friends stage, aren’t we?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize how wrong I am. The smile on his face disappears and the storm always swirling behind his eyes turns into a category five. I pull my leg back instinctively, but he reaches out and stops me. His hand wraps around my ankle and he grabs my other one too and he yanks me closer. Now I’m almost sitting in his lap. Letting go of my left ankle he cradles my head and leans in. The kiss is long and hard, his lips rough and his tongue forceful as it dominates mine. I feel that crazy, inexplicable instantaneous fire again and find myself crawling into his lap as his hand delves deeper into my hair. I wrap my arms around his neck pulling myself closer to him. His hands side down my back and cup my ass, pushing me higher, off his thighs and onto his lap, and I feel him rub, rock hard, against my center.
Against every animal instinct I have, which seem to be my only instincts right now, I break the kiss and struggle to find my sanity. “We shouldn’t do this without finishing our conversation.”
His eyes remain closed and he sighs softly. “I know. But I had to kiss you again and I know when we finish this conversation, you won’t want to let me do that again.”
The butterflies that have been fluttering inside of me suddenly turn to stone and drop like a cold mass of dread into the pit of my stomach. I move off him and back to the other side of the couch. He runs two hands through his hair again this time pausing to pull on it gently out of frustration. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like you,” he says but somehow looks stricken, like the admission is horrifying or painful or something. “And I mean, obviously I’m attracted to you.”
His eyes drop down to the bulge in the front of his jeans and mine can’t seem to help but follow. Yeah, he’s definitely hard. It makes me flush but his next words are like being doused in cold water. “But I can’t be anything but your friend.”
“Why not?” It’s a simple, honest, yet painfully needy question. And I can’t help but ask it.
“Because I’m different,” he replies gruffly and stands up creating an even bigger void between us, which I hate. “I don’t just mean because you grew up differently than me. I guess that’s the root of it, because it made me who I am, but it’s not that I think we can’t make something work because you grew up with everything and I grew up with nothing. It’s not that. It’s just I can’t be someone’s boyfriend. I’m not capable of that.”
My mouth falls open and I find my heart wanting to scream the words “I don’t care” but the fact is, I do care. My heart wants him—as is, with all the broken pieces, and even if some pieces are missing. But my brain knows who I am and what I need from a relationship and it’s more than just sex. “I can’t be someone’s bed buddy. I’m not capable of that.”
His face falls, like he was hoping beyond hope for another response. “I know. So I kissed you because it’s going to be the last time. Because we want different things.”
I’m not buying it. I stand up too and cross my arms. “You want to be single forever?”
He shrugs.
I glare. “That’s not an answer, Alexandre.” I say his name with a rolling French R and it gets under his skin, I can see it.
He shoves his hands in his pockets defiantly. “I’d rather be single than be rejected because I can’t be what someone needs.”
“How do you know what I need?” I ask. “I’ll be honest, I don’t even think I know what I need. I just know that everyone who seemed right so far, didn’t feel right. And this thing with you is different…and overwhelming and confusing and even a little terrifying. But that feels right.”
He wants to consider the possibility that I’m right but he doesn’t. Instead he steps over to the window and glances out at the street below, face set in the mask of cocky smile again. “You’re beautiful and sexy and we could have a lot of fun together. But that’s all it would be. I’d love to have fun with you. Friends with benefits is my thing. It’s my only thing. I’m trying to be a good guy here and be honest up front. I’ve never lied to a girl about it before and I certainly don’t want to lie to you. I do think you’re special, Brie, but I can’t be your boyfriend.”
“I guess we’ve found something you’re more afraid of than closets.” It’s mean and I instantly hate myself for it. I should know better. His claustrophobia is real and I just shamed him for it. I step closer. “Alex, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he replies in a hard clipped tone but he still sports that stupid, easy smile. “I should get going.”
I follow him as he makes his way to the front hall and slips on his shoes. I’m still feeling like a massive pile of shit for what I said. I lean on the archway that separates the living room and hall. “Alex. I’m just…disappointed. And confused. I don’t get it. I just don’t.”
He’s not about to try and explain it to me again. He gives me an authentic smile instead of one of his fake ones. “I hope we can be friends. I still want to volunteer and hang out with Mac too and I hope that means I can see you and maybe hang out together.”
“Is that going to be easy for you?” I have to ask because I know the answer for me. It’s not going to be easy. I like him. I want him. Pretending those feelings don’t exist is going to suck beyond words.
He’s already opening the front door but he pauses and looks over his shoulder to meet my eye. “No. It’s going to be hard as hell. But that’s the story of my life.”
He walks out without another word.