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Mina
Jaxisheretotake Timothy out, but Timothy has disappeared into his room. He’s still not willing to see Danny or any of his old crew, but he readily accepted an invitation from Nic’s trainer. I don’t know Jax, but Timothy assures me he’s a joyless, quiet grump of a man with a fondness for torturing his famous clientele with grueling workouts.
Everything about the man screams strict discipline, so I think Timothy will be safe with him.
Hopefully, Timothy hasn’t changed his mind. I’m half afraid if I turn Jax away, he’ll make me get down and give him twenty-five push-ups.
I stop outside Timothy’s bedroom, my mouth suddenly dry.
It’s been a week and I’m treading water, waiting for some excuse to pop into my head. Any reason why a relationship with Timothy would be a bad idea. Nothing is coming to me. There is no reason we shouldn’t be together, beyond the fact that I’m still scared.
Timothy’s not hiding from me anymore. Nope, he’s right there, where he said he’d be. He’s not pressing me for more, but he’s playing dirty. More naked swimming. Presenting me with cherry stems he tied with his tongue after our ice cream sundaes last night. Little touches and hungry looks that turn my stomach into butterflies.
I’m not sure how he escalates this situation next, and that’s thrilling, which is disturbing because I don’t like thrills.
I’m probably safe since Jax is here. I knock.
The door opens and Timothy grins at me. “Now you knock? You only barge in if you hear me jerking off?”
I go hot at the memory of Timothy stroking himself, and it takes all my self-control not to look down at his shorts. My eyes dip anyway, but I laugh. His shorts are a hideous plaid, but at least they match his icy blue polo shirt. He’s dressed for mini-golf with Jax.
“I thought you were dying,” I say with exasperation.
“Sure you did, champ.” He beams at me. “When I hear that jackhammer vibrator of yours, should I knock down your door to make sure you aren’t remodeling my bathroom?”
“You can’t hear me.” Not unless his ear is pressed against the door.
He winks. “I don’t need to. I know when you’re thinking about me.”
I don’t bother to deny it, though I’m tempted. “Jax is here,” I say, turning to go back down.
Timothy bundles me into a hug, kisses my forehead, and promises he’ll be home by eight.
And I’m alone.
Almost immediately, I begin conjuring up disasters. Someone who sucks at mini-golf will shank a ball and it will smack Timothy right in the forehead. He’ll slip on a rogue banana peel and bash his head into a windmill. Out of the blue, his brain will start to bleed again and no one will notice.
Maybe I should’ve gone with them.
I sit at my sewing machine and shove these thoughts out of my head.
If anything happens to him…
Grabbing the nearest pile of unfinished underwear, I throw myself into work, letting the whir of my machine even out my heart rate.
I love him.
Finished underwear pile up and I keep working, forcing myself to concentrate. One after another. There’s a rhythm to it and repetitive nature that soothes me, but it’s not working today. My thoughts are running wild.
Whatever I’m afraid of already has the power to hurt me, so why not put my heart in his hands? Timothy’s the most trustworthy person I know.
And maybe I don’t want to be alone anymore. We have the foundation of our friendship to build upon. We could be amazing together.
A little buzz of excitement builds in me, and with a blink, I realize I’ve stopped sewing, possibly a while ago, and am staring at my reflection in the sliding glass doors.
I haven’t had sex in five years.
That jolts me and I stumble to my feet. I can’t imagine sex with Timothy being bad—he’s too considerate to be a selfish lover—but what if we’re awkward together, elbows in the wrong places, teeth knocking together? If it doesn’t feel right?
