Intercepted (Page 22)

Never mind.

The alarms are ringing in my head to get the heck out of dodge. Don’t answer. Discussing family is way out of small-talk zone.

“He’s okay. His back’s still bothering him a bit, but he said it’s getting better.” When Gavin leaves, I’m calling my mom and yelling at her for ingraining me with such superb manners.

“Give him my number. I found the best chiropractor; I’ll bring him with me next time.” He sips his coffee. You know, like he didn’t just casually offer to hang out with my FRICKIN’ DAD!

“I don’t know if he’s the chiropractor type.” This is true. I can already imagine my dad yelling about some quack trying to break his back. But even if he was an Eastern medicine junkie, I’d still say no. Jarod/Gavin (Javin) time isn’t going to be a thing. #StopTryingToMakeJavinHappen

#ItsNeverGoingToHappen

“Well, the offer’s on the table if he wants to try.” He takes the lid off his coffee and shoves his croissant wrapper inside. “Where’s your trash can?”

“I got it.” I reach across the table to grab his cup, but his large hand covers mine before I can reach it. The innocent touch causes goose bumps to spread across my arms.

“No, finish your food. I have two legs. I can throw it away myself. Where’s the garbage?”

“Under the sink.” I point into the kitchen.

“Thanks.” He winks and turns with his trash in hand.

I watch as his long legs make quick work of my small space; it only takes him about three steps to make it. I’m watching him in awe, like he’s some sort of chivalrous alien because he’s throwing away his own cup. That’s how fucked up my relationship experience is. I’m awed by a grown man cleaning up after himself.

“Marlee.” Gavin pulls me back to the present.

“Yeah.” My head snaps his way.

“Where’d you go?” He approaches, but instead of sitting down across from me, he stops beside me.

“Sorry.” I take a deep breath and paste my best faux smile on my face before looking up. “I’m still waiting for this coffee to kick in, last night kicked my butt.”

“It was a crazy night.” The words are right, but the tone is all wrong. He pulls me in for a hug that lasts a second longer than it should.

I know what this is. It’s the same way I’d talk to some of my girlfriends when they’d tell me about their cheating husband. It’s pity.

I pull out of his arms and put my coffee cup to my lips, not taking it away until I’ve finished it. I grab my scraps off of the table and follow the same path Gavin took to my trash can.

After I drop the cup in my tiny can, I close the cabinet door with more force than necessary. It pops back out and the edge nails me in the shin.

“Son of a!” I shout and grab my leg.

“Are you okay?” Gavin opens my freezer and then kneels, examining my life-threatening injury.

“I’m fine. It just—” My sentence falls away and a gasp takes its place.

With one hand on my hip, he holds the bag of frozen corn to my leg.

If you haven’t had it before—a big, tough, bearded football player on his knees, tending to your tiny scratch like it’s the most serious situation he’s ever encountered—you should try it. It’s sweet. It’s naughty. Even though the bag is cold against my skin, it doesn’t prevent heat from filling my core.

When he lifts the plastic pouch and grazes his finger near the scratch, I don’t even attempt to hide the full body shiver that takes over. Fingers crossed he’ll blame it on the corn.

“Better?” he asks, still on his knees.

“Y-yes,” I stutter. I move my focus to my floor beneath him instead of him . . . still on his knees. “I’m gonna go get out of this dress.” I pull back so fast, I almost go tumbling into the wall behind me. Smooth. “Make yourself comfortable or go. You know. Whatever you want.”

Smoother.

What can I say? When I’m on a roll, I’m on a freakin’ roll.

“Thanks,” he says to my back as I speed walk to my room.

Sixteen

I slam the door shut behind me and collapse onto my unmade bed.

I know it’s rude to keep a guest waiting, but it’s also rude for said guest to get me all worked up in my frickin’ kitchen.

I mean, how dare he. Right? It’s not like we haven’t had sex before and I don’t vividly remember every last detail about what he can do with his fingers. And I know I kissed him last night, but I was drunk! My armor is made of a special material that loses all hardness when doused in alcohol.

I roll around in my comforter and smother my face with my pillow until a few of my wits have returned. Once I feel a little better, I stand up and peel myself out of the dress clinging to my bloated midsection under Gavin’s sweatshirt and toss on some yoga pants and a tank top. I run to the bathroom to brush my teeth, apply some face lotion . . . brush my teeth again. I stare at my reflection in the mirror long enough to give myself a reassuring nod, but not long enough to harp on the dark circles surrounding eyes.

I walk back into the room with his mom’s folded sweatshirt and flip-flops, but I stop short at the sight of him lounging on my couch with my remote in his hand. The casualness of his basketball shorts and T-shirt is the polar opposite from the Gavin I spent last night with. His hair, which was gelled and combed to perfection, is falling carelessly in front of his face. The scruff on his face is a little bit thicker and a whole lot sexier. Chris never grew a beard. He was a pretty boy and spent double what I did on beauty products. Gavin looks like a sporty lumberjack and I can’t lie, I’m not mad at any of it.

I wonder what his beard would feel like against my thighs. I mean, it’s not like I remember him being clean shaven four years ago, or anything.

Trying to shake those dreamy thoughts out of my head, I word vomit all over my living room.

“Thanks for the sweatshirt,” I say a little bit too loud. “I wish I would’ve grabbed one last time I left your place looking like a call girl.”

Gavin’s relaxed body tenses, and he sits up. With the exception of him throwing my necklace at me—which is a pretty big freaking exception—we’ve barely discussed that night. And we definitely haven’t mentioned what came after.

I’m positive he’s about to run his tight ass out of my front door, but he holds still.

“Since you brought it up. What happened that night?”

Curse your big, careless mouth, Marlee Harper!

“What do you mean?”

“I thought we had a great time. I know I did. Then the next morning, I grab us coffee and when I come back, you’re gone without a trace.” He stands up. “I searched through scraps of papers for days hoping you at least left a number.”

Uh . . . what?

“I’m sorry, but come again?” My cheeks start heating along with the rapid rise of my heartbeat.

“You just . . . disappeared. And four years later, I see you again and you’re with that jackass, Alexander—and have been for years! It’s fucked up, Marlee.”

“‘It’s fucked up, Marlee’? Are you serious right now?” I hiss.

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“You lied to me. You told me you were an investment banker. I woke up the next morning to an empty bed. I went to find my clothes that were scattered all over your apartment.” We started undressing by his front door, I had to go into four rooms to gather all of my clothes before I gave up on finding my missing accessories. “And then I got punched in the freaking face when I saw the picture of you with the commissioner.”