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She smiled and could not stop smiling. What were the odds of a chance encounter with a person and falling head over heels in love with them in one night? And to have that person feel the absolute same way too back? She turned to Wilson and kissed him lightly on the cheek. His skin was bristly with the need to shave. Summer thought that was so hot.
“Morning,” she said, caressing his face.
It was her intention to start something. But Wilson took hold of her wandering hand and stopped her. He wasn’t rude exactly but he was adamant. That was not going to happen. At least not for now.
“Do you have to get going or something?” asked Summer.
“Yes,” he said. “I have to get you back home.”
“Well if that’s all you’re worried about,” she giggled.
He straightened her out.
“No,” he said firmly. “We aren’t going to do that again.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What did I do?”
“You did nothing wrong,” replied Wilson. “You did everything right. It was me who should have known better. Let me fix us some coffee.”
He rose from the bed. The tattoo of his club logo was crisper, cleaner in the light. Even though she was upset at the things he was saying, she could not help but be stirred by the sight of his body. He was exceptionally proportioned. He pulled up his jeans but wore no shirt as he padded off to the kitchen. He looked fine walking away. Summer squirmed against the comfy bedding.
This is not over, she thought. Not by a long shot.
“How do you take your coffee?” he called from the kitchen.
Summer blinked. “I don’t drink coffee,” she replied.
Wilson popped his head into the bedroom.
“You don’t drink coffee? Is it because you don’t like it or is it because you’re not old enough?” he asked as though he was afraid of the answer.
“Well I guess I am old enough to drink it,” Summer sat up. “I will have it the same as you do.”
He tilted his head at her with a scold. “Do you drink coffee, Summer?”
“No,” she said. “I want to try it.”
“You do not want to drink it like I drink it,” he said.
“Why do you put a shot of whisky in it?” she asked incredulously.
“No, who does that?” he asked.
“My mother on occasion if you must know. That’s why I don’t drink it. I am afraid of picking up the wrong mug,” she said.
The admission upset her. A flutter of grief flowed through her. She put her forehead to her fingers. Wilson was sympathetic.
“Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll give you a taste of mine and if you like it you can have it otherwise I think you might like it with at least a little cream.”
He turned once again, this time with coffee in hand. She sipped it and detested it. He was right again and she was starting not to like that. She was young, sure; but she was not a baby. She was a grown woman. She proved that more than once the night before.
“Milk and sugar please,” she said. “On second thought. I don’t need anything. I’ll get dressed. You can take me home.”
“Hey,” he said.
She detected the apology in his voice but she just didn’t want to hear it. She was catching on quick that he wasn’t as in love with her as she was with him. He thought she was too young for him and he wanted to tell her so.
“It’s not that I don’t like you,” he tried to explain any way.
