“I’m so sorry, sweetie. That sucks. But can I tell you how happy I am to be able to see you again soon? Is that terribly selfish of me?”
Megan laughed. “No, it’s not selfish, because I can’t wait to see you, either.”
“You need to stop by the second you get to town. Plus, I want you to come see The Panting Dog. It wasn’t around when you were here and my boss is super hot.”
“You’re already trying to set me up,” Megan said. “Besides, if he’s so hot, why aren’t you after him?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” she said, taking a deep breath and deciding to lay it all out. She wasn’t embarrassed this time. She wasn’t hiding Smith anymore. She needed to talk about him because he mattered to her. “There’s someone else.”
She told Megan the whole story from start to finish. “What do you think?”
“I leave town and exciting things happen, that’s what I think.”
“So what do I do? I miss him,” she said, feeling his absence like an empty ache inside her.
“And you’re ready for a relationship with him?”
Her heart beat faster at the thought, crazy as it was. She’d be a fool to give up this chance at something more. She knew that now. “Yeah, I think I am.”
“Then there’s only one thing to do. Apologize. Lay it on the line for him.”
“How?”
“Think of a way that matters to him.”
Jamie mulled over those words, and within minutes she knew the perfect way to say she was sorry to the man who’d unexpectedly stolen her heart.
Nerves fluttered recklessly in her belly as she walked up the steps to Smith’s home. His truck was in the driveway, and she hoped so hard that he’d answer. She knocked and waited and waited and waited, the seconds stretching interminably as she shifted back and forth in her boots, hoping he would accept her apology.
When he opened the door, his face was inscrutable. He looked tired, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d been working late the night before to finish the bar. But he looked beautiful, too. As gorgeous as the times she’d lusted for him, and even more so now that her feelings had transformed from lust to something far deeper.
“Hi,” she said, the word coming out all jumpy sounding. But she soldiered on, unfolding the piece of paper in her hand. “I wrote you a Mad Lib. I call it Mad Lib poetry and I hope you’ll bear with me as I read it.”
The corners of his lips quirked up in curiosity and she began.
“I’m sorry—Name of Person—Sexiest and Sweetest and Funniest Man I’ve Ever Known. About the—Adjective—idiotic thing I did yesterday. I hope you’ll accept my—Adjective—heartfelt apology as well as some—Plural Noun—monkeys,” she read, and glanced up to see his eyes sparkling with recognition.
“Monkeys gets ’em every time,” he whispered, then tipped his forehead to the paper so she kept going.
“This is my way of saying I’m a—Self-Deprecating-Title—Dunce. And if you’ll still have me, I’d like to go on another—Adjective—wonderful, romantic, fun, fantastic date with you. And my big sister will join us for drinks because I’m not embarrassed of you. I was—insert words to describe how you felt when you were being a dunce—scared of getting hurt. And I really hope you’ll accept this attempt at saying let’s try with strings all attached,” she said, eagerly awaiting his answer.
“Darlin’, I have always been all in, and I could not be happier to give this a go for real,” he said, then pulled her in for a deep and devouring kiss that blotted out the whole wide world and turned her knees weak. Exactly as a kiss should do. “And incidentally, that was four adjectives rather than one for our second date tomorrow.”
“Then let’s make it four times as good,” she said.
“We will.”
Chapter Thirteen
Their first real date was better than the last one, and that had been a damn good one. This time, they’d gone bowling, drank beers, and laughed the whole time. He beat her in one game, and she beat him in the next, and then he’d finished off the final round with several strikes. She didn’t mind losing to him, because she knew she was winning being with him, and she was glad they were all in.
Now, they were at her house. She shut and locked her front door, took his hand, and led him back to her bedroom for the first time.
She turned on the light and watched him as he took in her room. The dark red comforter on her king-size bed, because she liked to sleep splayed out like a starfish, the well-worn books on her nightstand. Then the framed pictures of her and her parents, her sister, and Tennyson. Finally, there was the note card he’d given her, lying on her nightstand.
Another time.
“You kept it,” he remarked, with wonder in his voice.
“I did. Because it was from you. ‘The promise of another time, and that time is now.’” She reached for the bottom of his shirt and tugged it off. She’d seen him shirtless plenty of times, but now, here, in her bedroom, the sight of his naked torso—so muscular and cut—was a heady one.
He kicked off his shoes. She unzipped his jeans and let them fall to the floor. She’d seen him naked before but she didn’t think she’d tire of the sight. Every inch of him, every ounce, was the embodiment of masculine perfection. Strong arms, broad chest, abs she wanted to lick, fabulous legs, and then the pièce de résistance—that perfect cock, long, thick, and hard as a rock for her.