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“You can’t beat yourself up about tha—”
“Ican,” he snaps, “and I will. It’s my fault. He’s my dog. He relies on me to keep him safe.”
I expect him to mention that we’re at my house now. Shouldn’t I be getting out, thanking him for the ride? Instead, he sits back in his seat as if he’s not in a rush. I remember James standing in the window of the gym. Fletcher waved at him, but he didn’t wave back. I wonder what Fletcher would think of the flowers James sent me, but there’s no point telling him that.
“Anyway…” He smirks. “Enough of that miserable stuff. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I told Mom I’d clean the house. She’s out all day at this bingo event. She loves bingo.”
When I mention Mom being out, Fletcher leans slightly toward me. It’s not an exaggerated closeness, but I’m sure there’s a shift. In his mood, too, the way he looks at me.
“When will she be home?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not for hours yet.”
He swallows, looking me up and down. I’m sure of it. “Ah,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
Istilldon’t reach for the door handle, and Fletcher says nothing about me leaving. We sit in silence, but somehow, it’s not awkward. I wish I could reach past his silver hair and into his mind, his thoughts. Maybe there’s some desire there. Or perhaps he’s just waiting for the dorky, no-social-skills woman to get the heck out of his car.
“Have you got more paintings inside?” he asks.
I bite my lip, then let it go. That’s a bad habit. As a kid, I once chewed my lip so badly it bled. I haven’t done it in years, but something about Fletcher brings the old coping mechanism back. Everything he says sends a shiver of implication through me—shivers of pure heat.
“Y-yeah,” I say. “Quite a few.”
“Show me some,” he says. “I want to see if the rest are as brilliant as the gym piece.”
I’m so relieved he’s just come right out and said this. It removes any doubt and second-guessing. Even if thisisjust about my paintings, I’ll take that. I’ll savor it. It’s not like he’s dreaming about the same future as I am, anyway. Even if there’s desire here, it won’t bethatsort of desire on his end.
“Okay,” I say, a warm feeling moving through my belly. A tiny voice whispers from deep inside me that this could be the start of everything, the first day of the rest of our lives.
CHAPTERTWELVE
Fletcher
As we walk toward the house together, I fight the urge to reach down and place my hand on her sweet, round ass. She’s walking just ahead of me, hips swaying naturally, highlighting her curves. Something about what we just shared—I never talk about that stuff—made me feel so close to her. I’m amped up as if I’ve just been in a gunfight.
She unlocks her door and turns to me with a quick, nervous smile. Her eyes have a wide, excited look. Or maybe I’m projecting. My manhood is hard already, my base aching, seed rushing up my shaft.
“What sort of paintings did you want to see?” she asks, turning to me at the bottom of the stairs.
The house is quiet, making me feel like we’re the only people who exist, the only people who matter. I could reach out and grab those thick hips, pull her perfect body up against mine, press forward, and let her feel my rock-solid dick. The only thing stopping me is that I have no clue how James really feels about her.
“Anything you want to show me,” I tell her, wondering if she knows I’m talking about way more than the art.
She nods, turns, and walks up the stairs. I’m such an animal. I watch her walk up the stairs away from me, giving me an even better view of her big, juicy ass. It’s like my body is roaring,We shared some emotion. Now it’s time to make her pregnant. Now.
As pitiful as it would seem to other people, that talk we had about overseas and my reactions are more than I’ve ever shared. It makes me feel closer to her than she would probably believe. Maybe she’d think I’m a psycho. Maybe I am.
She returns a minute later, holding some rolled-up canvases under her arm. She looks at me in that shy way, head down but eyes up, making me think of her staring up with those big tits out, waiting for me to own her, claim her.
Leading me into the kitchen, she unrolls one of the paintings. I step forward, standing close to her. Her perfume and her natural scent tempt me even more. I’m so close to touching her. With an effort, I try to focus on the painting instead.
It shows a car parked on a hill during nighttime, the stars vivid, the car’s headlights exaggerated as they glow down the hill. The level of detail on the vehicle is impressive.
“How long did this take?” I ask.
