Laurel
My knuckles rise to knock, rap on the wooden front door twice before releasing the screen and drawing back.
I take a step back, smoothing back long red hair with the palm of my free hand, smile plastered on my face, butterflies multiplying one by one in the pit of my stomach.
It takes three long minutes for the door to swing open and Rhett’s face to appear, shrouded in the darkness of the house.
Shoot, why is it dark inside the house? Was he already sleeping?
It’s only eight thirty.
“Laurel?” Rhett presses his hand to the screen, pushing it open a few feet. “Is everything okay?”
He’s wearing a cutoff t-shirt.
I stare, dumbfounded, brain processing the visuals hitting me hard, one at a time: Rhett wearing a cutoff shirt…the bulge of his sunless arms. My eyes do a quick scan along his smooth clavicle, visible from the scoop neckline of the shirt, a smattering of light hair in the center of his chest.
I stare some more, the plate of cookies in my hands forgotten. My gaze drops to his biceps, rakes along his deltoids and triceps, solid and lean. I want to skim my palms over it all.
“Is everything okay?” he repeats, pushing the door open farther. “Laurel?”
“Everything is fine,” I murmur, reluctantly dragging my gaze off his upper torso.
“Then why…” Are you here?
The unfinished question hangs between us.
“Why am I here?” The weight of the plate in my hands is a gentle reminder. “Oh jeez! Duh! Here.” I thrust the cookies in his direction. “I hope you like chocolate chip.”
Because they were all I could afford to make after running to the grocery store for the ingredients I didn’t have, which was most of them: flour, butter, and chocolate chips. Fortunately, it was a simple recipe—easy to make in a short amount of time.
They’re still warm, fresh from the oven.
Rhett stares down at the paper plate. “You brought us cookies?”
Us? Like him and his roommates?
“No, I brought you cookies.” I nibble my bottom lip, worried he’s going to think I’m clingy, but his crooked smile is warm. It gets me warm, too. “Are you allowed to eat these?”
His smile gets wider. “Yeah, I can eat your cookies.”
I can eat your cookies.
I search his face for traces of sexual innuendo, find none.
Bummer.
“They’re for the bus ride tomorrow.”
“You brought me cookies for the bus ride.” He stares hard at the plate. At the cookies. Up at my face, confused.
Please don’t ask me why, I silently beg, because I don’t even know the answer to that myself. If I said I had just wanted to do something nice for him, I’d be lying. Cookies are the last thing on my mind as I stand on this stoop.
We stand awkwardly at the threshold of his house, me on the tiny front porch, him in the entryway holding the screen door ajar. The wind picks up, sending a cold breeze across the steps.
It lifts the hair off my shoulders and sends a tingle down my spine.
“Wanna come inside for a minute?”
Uh, do basic white girls drink pumpkin spice lattes? Yes I want to go inside! I school my expression so I don’t come off as over-enthused or desperate. That might freak him out.
“Sure.”
Still holding my plate of baked goods, I step up into the house when Rhett pushes the door all the way open, offering entry. I purposely brush against his hard, athletic body like a cat—it can’t be helped! He barely left me any room to enter; obviously I had to touch him.
Giving him my most innocent smile, I enter the living room, eyes scanning the perimeter. Brown couch. Brown love seat. Tan coffee table. Giant TV. Cords everywhere.
Typical bachelor pad.
It’s too quiet and too dark.
“Are your roommates home?”
Rhett closes the door behind us. “No. They’re both at the field house. Rex is the team manager, so he has to make sure everything gets put on the bus. He’s probably counting equipment. Eric is with the trainer getting his ankle checked out.”
“Want me to set these on the counter?”
“Sure. Wait, no. Maybe I should put them in a baggie and shove them in my duffle so the guys don’t eat them all.”
I preen, standing a little taller—he doesn’t want to share my cookies.
“Good idea.”
Rhett finds a plastic baggie after opening four drawers in the kitchen and we put the cookies inside, two at a time, him stealing one before I slide the baggie closed. He pops it in his mouth, biting down, his straight, white teeth pulling it apart.
Chewing.
The tendons in his neck work and I watch him swallow, eyes drawn to his throat.
“Now I want milk.” His lips tease.
“Want me to get you a glass?”
“Nah, I got this water.” He picks up the glass from the counter, washing down his chocolate chip cookie with a few gulps. “That was awesome. Thank you.”
His hip hits the counter, eyes casting a wary glint over my shoulder, out the window behind me. “Dammit.”
“What?”
“My roommates are already back.” He pauses, the silence almost deafening. A set of headlights shines into the dimly lit kitchen, casting shadows against the walls. “Uh, want to go to my room?”
Not really—I kind of want to meet these assholes in person, but knowing he doesn’t want me to, I nod my head. “Sure. We can do that.”
He grabs the cookies off the counter and we set off down the dark hallway to the bedrooms. Behind the second door on the right is his room; painted beige, it’s much tidier than I was expecting—and clean, especially considering this was a drop-by. His bed isn’t made, but the covers aren’t thrown everywhere, either. It’s kind of sparse—at least, compared to what I’m used to.
Desk in the corner. Dresser against the far wall. Queen-sized bed. Navy bedding.
Green plaid pillows.
Interesting.
“Where are all your trophies?” I mean, don’t guys hang stuff like that up for bragging rights? My ex-boyfriends always did. “I’m assuming you have a bunch of those, right?”
“Packed up in my parents’ basement.”
He must not have wanted to haul them all the way to Iowa from Louisiana.
“Do you have a lot of them?”
Rhett shuffles to the closet, barefoot, and slides the door closed. I watch the muscles in his back flex when he shrugs, facing away from me. “I guess.”
“So you’re just okay? They recruited you out of the goodness of their hearts?”
This makes him chuckle. “I’m tryin’ not to sound like a conceited asshole.”
From the living room, we hear the sound of the front door open, close. Two loud voices bantering back and forth in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing like the place is being ransacked.
Whoever his roommates are, they’re loud.
Ignoring the sound of them rifling through the cupboards for food, I stray to Rhett’s desk, fiddling with his pens, poke one around the surface with my green fingernail.
Unlike my laptop, Rhett’s is void of decals and stickers. Unlike my notebooks, his are plain and have no doodles scribbled on the cardboard covers.
I glance at him over my shoulder.
He goes to stuff his hands in his pockets; discovering his navy pants have none, he runs both hands through his hair, blowing out a puff of air.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
All right, Rhett, I get it—you don’t know how to tell me you think it’s weird that I’m in your room. That it’s making you uncomfortable and you don’t know how to act. What to do with yourself, or your hands.
I get it.
It’s cute.
Different, without a doubt.
I stroll to the bed, slide down the front of it to the floor. Lean my head against the mattress and shoot him a friendly smile as I run my palms down the length of my legs, down my black leggings, plucking at the fabric.
He bites back a smile, sauntering the few feet it takes to reach me, squatting on his haunches then joining me on the floor.
We both stare at the closet.
“Do you ever get nervous going into a match? Or meet? I still don’t remember what you call them.” I laugh.
“The whole thing is a meet. The part where I wrestle an opponent is a match. And no, I don’t get nervous. Not usually.”
“Because you’re so good?”
“Maybe, or because I’ve been doin’ it so long it’s second nature. My body is on autopilot, you know?”
I do know. “That’s how it was with volleyball. My parents started me when I was eight, and I never had a break.” I pause. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I admire you for sticking with it, though. I know it’s hard.”
“It can be.”
He can’t fool me; I know what the life of a D1 athlete is like, and his sport is far more intense and backbreaking than volleyball ever was.
“Does your family visit?”
“They used to come to every single home meet.”
“But they haven’t since you’ve been in Iowa?”
“Nope. Too far.”
“Have you gone home?”
“Nah. It’s a long drive—I’d rather not make it alone.”
He steeples his fingers on his knees, and I study his hands, learning the lines of his veins and the bend of his fingers, his large, masculine hands.
I bet they’re rough.
I bet they’re capable.
I bet…
I sigh.
His room smells good and he smells great, and he’s sitting less than an inch away. His thigh is touching my thigh, his hips touching my hips. It’s not on purpose, obviously—this is Rhett we’re talking about here.
But he’s close enough that the nerves in my body are sending electric jolts to places I’d rather they didn’t, especially since it’s apparent this guy isn’t interested. I’m a fool for pushing the issue simply because I’m curious.
Calling him. Texting him. Bringing him freaking cookies—Jesus, what the hell have I been thinking?
This little playground crush I seem to be developing on him is going to end up with me getting hurt—or worse, looking like a complete fool. I can picture it now: poor, clueless Rhett, avoiding me like the plague because I scared the crap out of him with my assertive nature.
Maybe this is why I date guys who aren’t emotionally available. Getting him comfortable with me is proving to be a challenge when most guys have been easy—the breaks are always clean and easy, too. No one gets hurt because no one actually cares, nothing invested but physical gratification.
He turns his head when I exhale; up close, I can see the different hues of his irises. How long his lashes are. The scar in his left eyebrow. The small, discolored skin along the bridge of his nose where a bruise is healing.
Rhett’s eyes stray to my lips.
Mine stray to the hardwood floors beneath us, taking in the square footage. “You know something? I think there’s plenty of room in here to give me those self-defense pointers.”
“Now?” He looks dubious.
“Do you have any better ideas?”
Like making out, just to see what it feels like? Rolling around naked on the bed, perhaps?
Rhett bites the inside of his cheek. “Let me think of an easy one for you to do. Most of them wouldn’t work as self-defense.”
The room is quiet while he deliberates, and I watch his facial expressions change, the wheels of his brain turning. “Okay,” he says at last. “I think I have one. We’re both goin’ to have to stand up.”
He rises to a full stand in one fluid motion.
Rhett leans down, offering both hands to help me off the ground. When he holds them out, palms up, I slowly slide my skin across his. Flesh to flesh.
My pulse quickens at the contact.
Our eyes connect; I know he feels it too.
He must, or I’ll go crazy trying to convince myself there’s something building between us even if he’s convinced himself there isn’t.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my body still humming from his touch.
“You ready?”
My blue eyes glide over the smooth skin of his exposed collarbone, the hard valley between his pecs.
Am I ready? Oh yeah—so ready. “Yes.”
“All right, so, uh.” He wipes his palms on his pants. “I guess we’ll go with the double takedown. So you’re going to have to widen your legs and squat, like this.”
Rhett spreads his legs, squatting, hands up with his palms facing me, waiting for me to mimic his stance.
“Like this?” I purposely prop one foot out, uneven, hip jutted out.
“No, like this.” He stands, breaking position. “Here, let me show you.”
He moves into my personal space, large hands gripping my hips, shifting my body to the right. Palms skim my thigh, tapping the inside of my sensitive flesh until my legs are spread—it’s like he’s tapping a lifeless slap of meat. Clinically. Mechanically.
Rhett is clearly in his element when it comes to wrestling.
“Now bend them a little bit more, and put your hands out, like this.” He manhandles me until I’m positioned the way he wants me. “Good. Now when you come at me, you’re going to put your hands around my hips and move them around to my backside, head down toward my stomach.” His mammoth hand pats the area below his sternum. “Try to aim here.”
“What?” My head gives a shake. “No way! I’m not doing that!”
He frowns, sighs. “Fine. I’ll do it to you, then you can try it on me afterward.”
I smile innocently, the thought of his hands sliding down my ass a thrilling prospect. Bonus points if he squeezes it.
“All right. I’m totally okay with that.”
“Raise your hands a little higher, like this,” he instructs, demonstrating.
Rhett is all business. His eyes don’t so much as flicker down my body—not once, not even when I stick my boobs out to test his resolve.
“When my head hits your stomach, my hands are gonna get up underneath and pull you down, and you’re going to hit the floor.” He pauses. “Just FYI.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll try to lower you gently.”
Oh jeez. My girly parts tingle.
“Normally this is done from more of a run and the—”
“Just do it!” I laugh. “The anticipation is killing me.”
“Sorry. I’ve never done this on a girl before.”
“Rhett, just—oh my God!” I gasp when his head hits my tummy and I’m lifted off my feet, on my back within seconds, air whooshing out of my lungs with an excited breath, breath catching when his face appears in my line of vision.
Hovers over me, shaggy hair in his eyes. “You okay?”
My lips part, exhilarated. “Yes.” I’m more than okay, especially when his face moves in, eyes roaming my face. “Are you checking me for a concussion? Because I’m fine—my head didn’t even hit the ground.”
He had a hold on me the entire time he was leveraging me to the floor, quick, agile, and completely in control of his movements. Stealthy. Steady. Strong.
Gentle.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” I murmur, relishing how near he is, the hands now circled around my biceps.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.” He tosses his head, jerking the hair out of his brown eyes. “What did you mean?”
“That was amazing.” My breath hitches, gaze skimming his bare shoulders. “It took no effort.”
“Lots of practice,” his lips say.
“Practice makes perfect,” mine reply, mind wandering to what else would be perfect with a little bit of practice, mentally ticking off a list: wrestling…kisses…sex.
I’m willing to bet he could give me an orgasm or two with a swivel of those muscular hips. My body aches to arch, pelvis wriggling under the length of him, inches from what I know is inside his navy pants.
“You know…” I begin. “You can’t seriously expect anyone to actually use that for self-defense, especially not a girl.”
“I panicked,” Rhett admits with a cute, crooked grin, teeth raking along his bottom lip. His low laugh is deep inside his chest. “You came over unannounced, askin’ about self-defense.”
My fingers find their way to his wavy hair, brushing aside the stray locks so they’re out of his eyes. “No, I came over to bring you cookies.”
Rhett seems to bask in my touch, briefly tilting his cheek into my palm, resting it there. My thumb traces the skin along his jaw, across his lower lip.
“Laurel?”
His face inches closer.
I suck in a breath.
This is it—he’s going to kiss me. “Yes?”
“Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say in a breathy whisper.
“What are you hopin’ it means?” Our mouths are a sigh apart, the air between us tickling my lips. His powerful chest brushes my breasts and this time, he doesn’t move away.
“Say it again.”
“Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?” His mouth is hot, near my ear, warm breath sending a spark up my middle, dampening my underwear. “Dis oui, s’il te plait.”
Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser; dear Lord, I hope it means he wants to kiss me. I hope it means—
Rhett’s bedroom door busts open, hitting the wall behind it, just as Rhett’s soft lips lightly sweep mine, tentative.
“Holy fuck.” There’s a skinny guy with blond hair filling the doorway, legs spread, folded sweatshirt in his hands. “Did I just interrupt something? Please say yes.”
Rhett is off me lightning fast, quicker than he flipped me on my back, and the loss of his heat leaves me cold. He turns to help me from the floor, my hands gripping his.
“What the hell, Gunderson. Learn to knock.”
“We just got home—I wasn’t expecting you to have anyone in here, dude. It’s not my fault.”
“It’s still my room.”
Gunderson shakes his index finger in the air like he’s making a point. “Technically this month it’s partly mine since I had to pay some of your rent.”
Rhett’s sigh of exasperation is loud. “Gunderson, get the fuck out.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not be so hasty.” He throws his hand out toward me, tucking the sweatshirt under his armpit so he can greet me properly. “I’m Rex, team manager. And you are…”
“Gunderson, this is Laurel.”
I peek out from around Rhett’s imposing form and give his roommate a little wave, despite the fact that he’s five feet away. “Hi.”
“Laurel.” Gunderson’s face is nothing but an idiot grin, all teeth and stupidity. “Dude, you’re Laurel? You’re so fucking…wow. I’m almost tempted to tell him to forget everything I said about you.”
When the rude bastard narrows his beady eyes at me, I narrow my blue eyes back. Then the jerk has the balls to ask, “What are your intentions with our buddy Rabideaux here?”
“Jesus, Gunderson.” Rhett groans. “Get out of my room.”
“It’s a legit question, dude! I’m doing you a favor.”
Rhett gives his roommate a delicate shove through the threshold of his bedroom, his mammoth-sized hand reaching around. It goes to the small of my back, just above my ass, that one spot heating my entire body.
His thumb inadvertently settles near my ass crack.
I’m tempted to wiggle my butt.
“This is why you can’t get laid, you know that, right,” the jerk mutters when he’s ushered into the hallway. “You can’t even joke about sex.”
Rhett’s hand lingers on my rear, slides up my spine when his roommate disappears from sight. Reaches for a sweatshirt off the hook by his door, tank top rising when he lifts his arm, smooth expanse of midsection exposed from the motion.
I ogle his body.
Washboard abs. Flat stomach. The telltale sign of a happy trail leading from his belly button, disappearing into the waistband of athletic pants so thin, I can see the outline of his dick.
He slides the sweatshirt over his head. When he comes up for air, tugging the hem down over his pants, he says, “I should get you home.”
Instinctively, I want to pout. Stomp my foot. Demand he lay me down on the floor and put his hands back on my body where they belong.
“Okay.”
We walk in peaceful silence past the nine houses that separate us. I wordlessly count them as we go, trying to enjoy Rhett’s company, to shift the focus so I’m not fixating on that almost kiss in his bedroom.
He was going to kiss me, I know it.
It’s a short jaunt to my house and a shorter walk up the sidewalk.
“I have to be up early, so…” Rhett lingers, kicking at an invisible pebble on the concrete slab that is my entryway. “Thanks for the cookies.”
“Good luck tomorrow.” I want to go up on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around him, kiss his cheek.
Something.
Anything.
“Thanks.”
“Let me know how it goes?”
“I will.” Rhett runs a hand through his shaggy locks, stepping back down onto the path in front of my house. “Night.”
“Good night.”
Rhett: Hey.
Me: Hey yourself! How did it go today?
Rhett: Great. Won both my matches.
Me: Are you on your way home?
Rhett: Not yet. We’re staying the night then head out in the morning.
Rhett: It’s fucking loud in the hallway—the groupies for this school are everywhere.
Me: Groupies?
Rhett: Yeah, you know…
Me: They seriously hang out at the hotel?
Rhett: Yeah. The guys usually tell them where we’re staying and they follow the bus back to the hotel, for hotel sex I guess.
Me: Can I ask you a personal question that’s none of my business? You don’t have to answer.
Rhett: Sure.
Me: Are there any groupies in your room right now?
Rhett: LOL, no.
Me: Why is that funny?
Rhett: You really think I’m the type groupies latch on to? They usually hang on the other guys, thank God.
Me: Okay. Good.
Rhett: It was a good day. I’m freaking tired—I can’t believe these guys are going to be up all night.
Me: I really wish I could have seen you in action.
Rhett: Well, I mean, you can—if they’re not being aired live, they’re usually on one of the sports networks or YouTube. Just Google it.
Me: Really???
Rhett: Yeah. The matches are all televised.
Me: Well then excuse me while I go find vids of you wrestling…