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FORTY-EIGHT
SCAR
Shaun was so worn out from all the baking and playing games that he finally fell asleep. I tuck him in and kiss his head and then walk out of the room, gently shutting the door behind me.
I shut off the hallway light and walk barefoot to the living room. As I’m putting up the games, there’s a soft knock at the door. I set the checkerboard on the table and walk to the front door. I peer through the peephole and find Maverick on the other side of the door.
The butterflies are back, remembering the passionate kiss we shared. Ever since that night, I’ve dreamed what it would feel like to have sex with him. How he would feel inside me. The way his warm kisses would trail down my body, making it shudder, begging for more.
I shake the thoughts away and unlock the door, pulling it open. My heart beats against my chest as I take him in. His short, neatly trimmed beard fits his oval-shaped face perfectly. When he started acting, his dark brown quaff was long enough to run your fingers through, but now it’s a faded style. He’s standing in a leather jacket and dark jeans with his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish.
“Hey,” I say shyly.
“Hey back,” he returns, one corner of his mouth lifting in a sexy smirk.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I wanted to see you.” He looks toward our driveway with narrowed eyes and turns back to me. “Are you on your own?”
I nod.
He looks surprised. “You and Shaun spent Thanksgiving alone?” His words are laced with pain.
“Mom’s working a double, and Dad flies in tonight, so we’re celebrating tomorrow.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” He sounds upset.
“I didn’t think I was supposed to. It’s fine, really.”
He doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t push it further.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Sure.” I step aside to let him in. He shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on the coat rack.
Looks like he’s staying a while.
Closing the door and locking it, I stand awkwardly, fiddling with the hem of my sweatshirt.
“So, how was your dinner?” I ask, walking back into the living room. I don’t wait to see if he’s following because I know he is.
“It was good. Uncle Jake and Kitty came down with their kids.”
At a nod from me, he walks past me and sits on the couch. With my back to him, I resume putting the board games away.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“No thanks. Sit with me.”
Ignoring his request, I ask, “How’s your dad doing? I feel awful for not stopping by more.” I walk toward the curio and place the games into the drawer underneath the television stand.
“Scar.”
Ignoring him and pretending to be organizing the games, I ask, “Did your mom make her famous pumpkin pie?”
“Scar,” he says in a firmer tone, which makes me pause. “Please. Can you sit beside me?”
Slowly, I turn around, keeping my head down and tugging on my sleeve nervously. Maverick has never made me nervous, but after we shared an intimate moment, I don’t know how to act around him.
