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“Any man worth marrying will share everything he has with you.”
His words reach into my soul, hitting me in a spot so tender and vulnerable it scares the living daylights out of me. I want to believe that, I really do. And yet, I’m almost one hundred percent certain that I’ve lost the ability to trust without reserve.
“Amber says every woman should have ‘fuck you’ money.”
Cal arches a black brow. “The only thing Amber is qualified to advise on is how to shrivel a man’s nuts.”
I watch him rock back and forth, a long, long muscular thigh draped over the side of the hammock. This handsome man that I’m grateful to call my friend. Not too proud to admit his mistakes. Taking on other people’s responsibilities without a word of complaint. He really is a good egg.
“I don’t think I can trust a man like that again,” I mutter. I get no reply to this. He holds his silence, and as it stretches on, we both relax into it.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
His query catches me off guard. Turning, I find him watching me closely. As if my answer means something to him. Or maybe the rollercoaster I’ve been on for the past three years has finally sent me over the edge of madness. I could be making all this up in my head…I don’t know what to believe anymore. The fact that I can’t trust my own judgment anymore is incredibly depressing.
“With my life,” I say without hesitation. “That’s different, though––we’re friends.”
His eyes hold mine for a second too long, long enough that we’re entering the weird zone. Goosebumps crawl up my arms.
“You consider me your friend?” There’s an indecipherable look on his face.
“Sure, I do…I don’t know if that look on your face means you don’t want me, but tough noogies, Champ, you’ve got me. So deal with it.”
“I want you,” he finally says, his tone hushed.
I’m incapable of looking away. Aaaaand we’re back in the weird zone. With the way he’s watching me, I’m petrified he can see what I’m thinking. And what I’m thinking, I’m mortified to admit, is that Amber may be right. This feels like more than friendly affection. This feels like the little crush I was harboring is growing into a monster. One I have no control over.
Ughhhh. A crush on my friend, one that’s been good to me, one of less than a handful of friends I have left and who isn’t the least bit interested in a relationship. Or anything else for that matter because, quite frankly, I haven’t seen him look in a woman’s direction once since the day we met. So he’s not exaggerating in the least when he says he likes being alone.
“What do you miss most?” His voice cuts into my idiotic inner monologue.
“About what?”
“Being married.”
My inside voice immediately starts screaming, Sex! Seeeeeexxxxxx! A flame of shame burns right up my neck and over my face. He grabs onto my hammock and we both stop rocking. His pale eyes narrow, bright with a little mischief and a lot curiosity.
“You don’t have to be married for that.”
The thought of having casual sex with a stranger makes me nervous as all get out. I let my imagination run wild regularly, sure I do, who doesn’t. However, they’re fantasies––that’s all. I know I don’t possess whatever it is that allows a person to disconnects emotions from sex. Maybe it’s my history, the fact that I’ve always been in love when I’ve had it. Maybe it’s because I’ve only ever had sex with one person. The bottom line is, I can’t imagine sharing myself with someone I don’t care about.
“Don’t judge, but I don’t do casual sex. And falling in love again is a long shot at best, which pretty much eliminates sex with another person.”
He’s back to staring very intently. I feel the full brunt of it and it kind of freaks me out a little.
“I don’t judge you.” His voice is low and soft and does strange things to my body. Suddenly, my heart is pounding fiercely and my nether region is achy and empty. I watch his tongue dart out and lick his lower lip and oh my God if I’m not immediately picturing myself sucking on that tongue. I have to put a stop to this before I end up embarrassing myself.
“Are you…uh,” I mumble semi-coherently. I can’t take my eyes off his mouth. Shit! This is my friend, my good friend, and I’m eye fucking his mouth. “Are you…uhh…ready to date? What about that chick in the PR department?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He lets go of my hammock and I’m back to swinging. “Not my type.” His gaze returns to the stars above, neatly avoiding mine.
“Attractive and sweet isn’t your type?”
“She just isn’t,” he repeats.
“Fine, be mysterious.”
His lips quiver and I know we’re back on safe ground. Time to make a graceful exit before I jump him. I get up to go back to my room.
