Charlene Thornton was exactly as Fox described.
She wore big vintage eyeglasses with a rose tint, a long sweater wrapped around her slender body, and there were hints of gray springing out from her temples. The church hall was packed full of folding tables, and she walked through them, holding court, dropping witticisms on the bingo players as she passed, smoothing feathers that had been ruffled from their wait in the bad weather.
There was a pack of Marlboro Reds in her hand, though she didn’t seem in a rush to do anything, let alone go outside and smoke one. She seemed more inclined to use the pack to gesture or possibly as a safety blanket.
Hannah wasn’t prepared for the flinch Fox had warned her about, especially coming from his own mother. Or the fierce surge of protectiveness that permeated her, head to toe. It was so strong that she reached for Fox’s hand and wound their fingers together without thinking, her heart leaping a little in her chest when he not only didn’t pull away but tugged her closer to his side.
“Hey, Ma,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Good to see you. You look great.”
“Likewise, of course.” Before he could pull away, she caught his head in both hands, scanning him with a mother’s eyes. “Would you look at these goddamn dimples on my son?” she called over her shoulder, turning several heads. “And who is this young lady? Isn’t she just cute as hell?”
“Yeah, this is Hannah. She’s pretty cute, but I wouldn’t recommend messing with her.” His lips jumped at one end. “I call her Freckles, but her other nickname is the Captain Killer. She’s famous in Westport for going toe-to-toe with Brendan. And most recently for calling some of the locals ball sacs.”
“Fox!” Hannah hissed.
Laughing, Charlene released her son’s head and planted bent wrists on her hips. “Well, now, I’d say that deserves the best seat in the house.” She turned and waved for them to follow. “Come on, come on. If I don’t start soon, there is going to be a riot. Nice to meet you, Hannah. You’re the first girl Fox has ever brought to meet me, but I don’t have time to make a big deal out of it.”
Dammit. Hannah liked her right away.
And she’d really wanted to hate her after that flinch.
Charlene pushed her and Fox toward some chairs at the top of the hall, right in front of the stage where her bingo equipment had been set up, pulling some bingo cards and blotters out of her apron and dropping them onto the table.
“Good luck, you two. Grand prize is a blender tonight.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Thornton,” Hannah said grudgingly.
“Please! Let’s not stand on ceremony.” She squeezed Hannah’s shoulders, guiding her into one of the metal chairs. “You’ll call me Charlene and I’ll hope my son has the good sense to bring you around again so you have the chance to call me any damn thing at all. How about that?”
Leaving that question hanging in the air, Charlene sailed off.
Fox exhaled, looking chagrined. “She’s a character.”
“I really wanted to be mad at her,” Hannah said glumly.
“I know exactly how you feel, Freckles,” he responded, the words almost swallowed up completely in the shuffle of chairs and buzz of excitement around them. Across from Fox and Hannah sat two women who had erected a portable barrier between each other, ten cards spread out in front of them both, a rainbow selection of blotters at the ready.
“Keep your eye on Eleanor,” said the woman on the right, closest to the stage. “She’s an unrepentant cheat.”
“You just shut your mouth, Paula,” hissed Eleanor over the barrier. “You’re still bitter about me winning that Dutch oven two weeks ago. Well, you can shove that high-and-mighty attitude where the sun doesn’t shine. I won fair and square.”
“Sure,” Paula muttered. “If fair and square means cheating.”
“Is it even possible to cheat at bingo?” Hannah asked Fox out of the side of her mouth.
“Stay neutral. Don’t get involved.”
“But—”
“Be Switzerland, Hannah. Trust me.”
They were still holding hands under the table. So when Eleanor leaned across the table and smiled sweetly—bitter accusations apparently forgotten—and asked how long Hannah and Fox had been dating, Hannah’s answer sounded somehow fabricated. “Oh. No, we’re just”—her gaze locked with Fox’s fleetingly—“friends.”
Paula was openly skeptical. “Oh, friends, huh?”
“This is what they do now, this younger generation,” Eleanor said, straightening her cards unnecessarily. “They don’t do labels and no one goes steady. I see it with my grandkids. They don’t even go on dates, they do something called a group hang. That way there is no pressure on anyone, because God forbid.”
Now Paula just looked disgusted with the both of them. “Youth is wasted on the young.” She prodded the table with a bony finger. “If I was fifty years younger, I’d be labeling the heck out of anything that walked upright.”
“Paula,” Eleanor scolded through the barrier. “We’re in a church.”
“The good Lord already knows my thoughts.”
Hannah looked at Fox, both of them practically shaking with unreleased laughter, their hands squeezing the blood out of each other under the table. They were saved from any further commentary about the downfalls of their generation when Charlene turned on the microphone, sending a peal of feedback through the church hall. “All right, you old buzzards. Let’s play bingo.”
* * *
It wasn’t a date (or a group hang).
They were just two friends playing bingo.
Just two friends occasionally holding hands under the table, his knuckle brushing the inside of her thigh here and there. At some point Fox decided the hall was too noisy to hear Hannah properly and he’d yanked her chair closer, pretending not to notice her questioning look. What the hell was he doing?
Was he one of those idiots who wanted something twice as much because he couldn’t have it? The director had asked her out. Pretty soon, they would be back in LA, and Sergei would have all the access to Hannah he wanted, while Fox was in the Pacific Northwest, probably staring at his phone waiting for her daily text message. Which is exactly how it needed to be.
And yet.
Every time Fox thought of Sergei holding her hand instead of him, he wanted to swipe an arm across the bingo table and upset everyone’s cards. Scatter them all over the floor. Then maybe kick over the church bulletin board for good measure. Who the hell did this motherfucker think he was to ask out Hannah Bellinger?
A better man than him, probably. One who hadn’t been cheapening himself since approximately one day after his balls dropped. Like father, like son. Wasn’t that why he wore the bracelet that was currently resting on Hannah’s thigh?
“Sweet Caroline. This is so addictive,” Hannah whispered to him. And he heard it easily, because he was sitting way too close, trying not to stare at those little curly wisps of hair that the rain had created around her face. Or the way she sucked in a breath every time she got to blot out a square. Or her mouth. Dammit, yes, her insanely lush mouth. Maybe he should just lean over and kiss it, the hell with the consequences. He hadn’t tasted her since that night of the cast party, and the need for another hit was unbearable.
“Addictive,” he rasped. “Yeah.”
Hannah’s eyes shot to his, then down to his mouth, and the thoughts that ran through his mind were not appropriate to have in front of his mother. Anyone’s mother, really.
This need for Hannah never went away, but it was especially heavy right now. Having her there was more comforting than Fox could have predicted. He forced himself to go see his mother occasionally, not only because he cared about her, but because that involuntary flinch validated his existence as a responsibility-free hedonist.
But Hannah . . . she was starting to pull him the opposite way. Like a gravitational force. And right now, stuck between Hannah and the reminder of his past, going in her direction seemed almost possible. She was here with him, wasn’t she? Playing bingo, singing with him in the car, talking. Decidedly not fucking. If Hannah liked him for more than his potential to give her an orgasm . . . if someone so smart and incredible believed he was more . . . couldn’t it possibly be true?
As if reading his mind, Hannah rubbed her thumb over the back of his knuckles, turning slightly and resting her head on his shoulder. Trustingly.
Like a friend. Just a friend.
God. Why couldn’t he breathe?
“Bingo!” crowed one of the women sitting across from them.
“Oh hell. Did I hear Eleanor call bingo down there?” Charlene said, whistling into the microphone and banging the mini gong she kept perched on her station. “Eleanor, you have been on fire these past couple of weeks.”
“That’s because she’s a filthy cheat!” Paula spat.
“Now, Paula, be a good sport,” Charlene scolded lightly. “We all get a lucky run once in a while. Eleanor? My handsome son is going to bring me your card so I can check it over, okay?”
Eleanor handed the card to Fox with a flourish, baring her teeth in a triumphant smile entirely for Paula’s benefit. Fox scooted his chair back, wishing the round had gone on longer so Hannah’s head could have rested on his shoulder for another few minutes. Maybe if he played his cards right, she’d sleep in his bed again tonight? The prospect of holding her while she slept, waking up beside her, made him eager to get home and see how he could maneuver it . . .
Christ. Who am I anymore?
He was trying to come up with a way to get Hannah into bed so they could have an entirely platonic sleepover. Did he even own a dick anymore?
She’d probably be dreaming of another man the entire time.
Counting the minutes until she went back to LA.
Fox handed the card to his mother, realizing he’d nearly mangled the damn thing in his fist.
“Thank you, Fox,” Charlene sang, leaning forward to cover the microphone. “You serious about that girl, son?”
He was caught off guard by the question. Probably because he’d never spoken to his mother about girls before. Not since he’d turned fourteen and she’d made him watch an online tutorial on how to apply a condom. After which she’d put an empty coffee can in the pantry and kept it full of singles and fives at all times. She’d told him it was there, pointedly, without explaining the exact purpose. But he’d known she was supplying him with condom money. Before he’d ever had sex, she’d predicted his behavior.
Or maybe he’d behaved a certain way because it had been expected.
Fox had never really considered that possibility. But over the course of the last week, there’d been a sense of emerging from a fog. Looking around and wondering how the hell he’d gotten to that exact spot. Empty hookups, no responsibilities, no roots digging into the earth. Had he been living this way too long to consider stopping?
You have stopped, idiot.
Temporarily.
Right.
With his mother’s question still hanging in the air, Fox glanced back at Hannah. God, every cell in his body rebelled at the idea of meeting another woman—not Hannah—in Seattle. But he’d tried to escape himself before and it blew up in his fucking face. It left scars and taught him a painful lesson about the impression he gave people simply by existing. And he wasn’t going to try it again, was he? For this girl who could decimate him by choosing someone else? In a sense, she had chosen someone else already.
“No,” he finally answered his mother, sounding choked. “No, we’re friends. That’s it.” He flashed her a grin that almost hurt. “You know how I am.”
“I know you came home from school every day since freshman year smelling like Bath and Body Works.” She chuckled. “Well, be careful with her, will you? There’s something about her. Almost like she’s protective of you even though she barely reaches your chin.”
He caught the urge to tell Charlene that, yeah, that’s exactly how she made him feel. Protected. Wanted. For reasons he couldn’t have fathomed before meeting her. She liked him. Liked spending time with him.
“I’ll be careful with her.” His voice almost shook. “Of course I will.”
“Good.” She switched hands covering the microphone so she could reach up and cradle the side of his face. “My darling heartbreaker.”
“I’ve never broken anyone’s heart.”
That was true. He’d never been close enough to anyone for that to be a possibility. Not even Melinda. He might have given his college girlfriend more of himself than anyone who came before, but they’d been nowhere near as close as Fox and Hannah.
Did he want to get even closer to Hannah?
If Sergei was out of the picture, what would closer look like?
A relationship? Hannah moving to Westport? Him moving to LA? What?
It all sounded completely ridiculous in the context of Fox’s life.
“And, Jesus, I’m not going to start now,” he added, shooting his mother a wink. “You want me to drop the blender off to Eleanor?”
Her smile dimmed slowly. “Are you sure?”
“I think I can handle it.”
Charlene hesitated slightly before hefting up the small appliance, clearance sticker still attached to one side, handing it to her son. Fox stepped down off the stage and made his way back to the table. Everyone turned to watch him go by—or look at the blender, rather—like vipers in the grass. He set it down in front of Eleanor, pretending he didn’t notice the tension at the table. Maybe if he ignored it, they would follow his lead.
Wishful thinking.
As soon as he set the blender down in front of Eleanor, Paula pounced.
Her bony fingers dug into the top of the box, but Eleanor was no rookie. She’d anticipated the move and started stabbing at Paula’s hands with her blotter, leaving blue marks on the woman’s skin. A hubbub ensued, bingo players shuffling around to get a better look at the action. Confident he could defuse the stressful situation—he was a king crab fisherman, after all—Fox inserted himself in between the women, giving them his best smile, in turn.
“Ladies. Let’s end the night friends, huh? Let me get you both a soda from the snack bar and—”
Eleanor swung the blotter and got him right in the center of the forehead.
Hannah gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.
And then her shoulders started to shake.
Could he really blame her for giggling? There was a giant blue dot in the middle of his forehead. He was a human bingo card. Weirdly, he was enjoying her happiness, even though it was at his expense. “Really, Hannah?” he drawled.
She dissolved into laughter, no longer trying to hide it. “Does anyone have a tissue?” she asked through her tears. “Or a wet wipe?”
“That’s going to take some scrubbing,” called someone from the cheap seats.
On her way around the table, someone pressed a pack of tissues into Hannah’s hand, and she continued toward him, almost stumbling she was laughing so hard. And before Fox knew it, he was allowing Hannah to take his hand and pull him out the side door into the cool, misty night.
The rain had stopped, but moisture lingered in the air along with the distant smell of the ocean. Streetlamps cast yellow beams on puddles, turning them into pools of wavy, windblown light. Traffic moved in a hush on the nearby highway, the occasional big rig letting out a long-winded honk. It was a setting that, over the last seven months, might have made him feel lonely and exasperated with himself for missing Hannah. But there wasn’t any loneliness now. There was only her. Opening the pack of tissues with her teeth, taking one of them out, and bringing the soft sheet to his forehead, her body still racked by laughter.
“Oh my God, Fox,” she said, moving the tissue in circles. “Oh my God.”
“What? You’ve never seen a geriatric hit job before?”
Her peal of renewed mirth rang through the quiet parking lot and shot his heart up into his mouth. “You tried to tell me bingo needed crowd control, but I didn’t believe you. Lesson learned.” She was giggling so hard, she could barely keep her arm up, the appendage repeatedly dropping to her side. “You were so confident, the way you stepped in between them.” She dropped her voice to mimic him. “Ladies, ladies. Please.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Apparently you’re not the only one who’s immune to me, huh?”
He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but it was too late to trap the words.
They were out there, and Hannah wasn’t laughing anymore.
Wind blew through the scant space between them, whispering and damp in the silence, making more of those perfect curls at the sides of her forehead. And Fox realized he was holding his breath. Waiting for her to let him down gently.
He forced a chuckle. “Sorry, I meant—”
“I’m not immune,” she breathed. “I’m far from immune to you.”
The soft admission made his knees feel like fucking jelly, but right on the heels of that, he went hard. Everywhere. Each one of his muscles pulled taut, his cock turning thick in his briefs. “How far?”
Sandbags weighing down her eyelids, she let him see the answer. Her thirst for him. And in response, her name caught in his throat, his tone one of surprise. Relief.
Slowly, Hannah moved more thoroughly into the shadow of the building, turning and leaning back against the wall, reversing their positions in a deliberate dance, taking her time tracing the planes of his face. Wrecking him with her simple, perfect touch. The way she curled her fingertips into the collar of his shirt and drew him down, down, so they could exhale roughly against each other’s mouths.
“Kiss me and find out.”
He made a halting sound and moved, unable to stop himself now that he’d been given permission, catching her hips in his hands and gradually pinning her to the brick barrier, molding their lower bodies together until she whimpered.
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Jesus.”
Where the hell to start? If he kissed her mouth first, he swore he might eat her whole, so he zeroed in on her neck, fisting her ponytail and tugging left, giving himself a clear path up to her ear and breathing a trail up that incredible softness, finishing his exhale just beneath her lobe. He savored her cry greedily, rejoicing in the way she went limp between him and the brick wall, her fingers twisting in the front of his shirt for purchase.
Still—still—worried he might implode if he actually allowed himself the singular flavor of Hannah’s mouth, he nonetheless attacked those parted, waiting lips, groaning brokenly as her taste sank into his bones, made him light-headed.
God. Oh God.
He wrapped his tongue around hers and pulled hard, once, twice. He sensed her awareness, her anticipation, her hips squirming where he kept them stationary on the wall. Her movements rubbed against his erection, working him the hell up. So intensely worked up, so eager to fuck, he recognized immediately that he’d never, not once, wanted anyone like this.
Hannah was good. Hannah was right.
Being inside her would be a celebration, not merely part of a routine.
There was nothing typical about this. Or practiced. It was a spontaneous combustion of the urges he’d been suppressing where Hannah was concerned, both physical and emotional, and that implosion bred an urgency in him.
Now. He needed her now.
Fox dropped his hips down and lifted her slightly, creating friction against her sex, and her eyes rolled back, hands pulling him closer. Their mouths moved in a frantic rhythm, tongues meeting in long strokes, his hands traveling down her hips and up the valley of her sides, sensitizing the smooth skin beneath her shirt. Making her wet and pliant. He knew that truth like he knew the sea.
“You a virgin, Hannah?” Fox rasped, lightly scraping his teeth up her throat.
“No,” she whispered, eyes dazed.
“Thank God,” he growled, growing impossibly harder. Hungrier. “Once I’m good and deep, I don’t think I’ll be able to slow down.”
He surged up with his hips again, watching her face closely, memorizing her tiny gasps of air, relishing the way her tits dragged up and down on his chest, nipples erect. God, this sweet, horny girl. He couldn’t wait to get her out of that bra and panties. Get her splayed out, nothing in the way of his tongue, his fingers, his cock. She’d be screaming down the motherfucking building tonight—
A shrill sound splintered his thoughts apart.
A phone ringing.
No. No, phones had no place here. Phones didn’t matter.
They were part of reality, and this . . . this was way better than any reality he’d ever known. One where he didn’t feel like an actor phoning in his part. But the sound kept up, over and over, vibrating where their hips met until, finally, they broke apart, foreheads pressing together as they looked down at the source of the noise. “M-my phone,” Hannah stuttered, breathing hard.
“No.”
“Fox . . .”
“No. God, I love your fucking mouth.”
Their lips clashed again, battling to get the best taste, before she pulled her mouth away, neck losing power, eyes glazed over. “We can’t just . . . here. We c-can’t.” She visibly struggled to form coherent thoughts, and Christ, could he relate. His head was overflowing, taking every particle of common sense with it. “Your mother is inside and there are things, like talking things, we have to do. I think?”
“Talking things,” he exhaled gruffly, holding her chin steady, tipping it up so he could look at her beautiful face. “I talk to you more than I’ve ever talked to anyone, Hannah.”
She blinked. Softened. “I want you to. I love that you do.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But . . .”
Her phone rang again, and he gritted his teeth, needing to hear what was going on in her head. Maybe it would help him figure out what was happening in his own. Because as far as he could tell, he was getting really damn close to either ruining his friendship with Hannah or being turned down again.
He loathed both of those options.
Sleeping together would mean potentially hurting her feelings when he couldn’t give her any more than sex. And it would be a cold day in hell before he asked this girl to be friends with benefits. If another man suggested that to her, he would deck the asshole. How could he do the same?
Or she might not be immune, but didn’t want him like this. Not enough, anyway. The lust might be there, but her willpower was strong enough to overcome it. Because ultimately she wanted someone else.
His chest lurched, a nerve starting to jump behind his eye.
“Go ahead and answer it,” he rasped, easing her against the wall and backing off, turning to shove a handful of fingers through his hair.
Better to have her take the call than deliver him that blow, right?
“Shauna,” Hannah said a second later into the phone, her breath still a touch labored. “Please tell me you have good news.”
A long pause.
She sucked in a breath and turned in a circle, patting her pockets as if looking for a pen somewhere on the rain-soaked ground. Fox opened the notes application on his phone and handed it to her, nodding when she gave him a grateful look. Hannah stopped moving abruptly, both devices lighting up her face. “Tomorrow?” She shook her head. “No way they could pull that off. No way I can pull that off. Right?”
What? Fox mouthed.
She held up a finger. “Okay, could you send me their contact info and the address of the recording studio? Thank you! Thank you so much, Shauna. I owe you.”
Hannah dropped the phone to her side, looking almost as dazed as when they were kissing. “What’s happening, Freckles?”
“The band I want for Henry’s shanties? They’re leaving on tour in two days. For six months. They’re going to be in the studio tomorrow recording some reels for Instagram and—”
“Reels. You lost me.”
“It’s not important.” She waved the phones. “They like the material I sent and can work through the night on arrangements. Lay down a demo of the tracks tomorrow. The money I offered is a lot for an indie band to pass up. So is the opportunity to be on a film soundtrack. If Sergei likes what they do, they’ll make time on tour to come back and record for real.” A few seconds went by. “I mean, I could wait and try to find an LA band. But I know the way Sergei works and he’ll lose interest in the whole idea if I don’t move fast.”
Hannah swiped her thumb over the screen of her phone, tapping. She closed her eyes when a woman’s throaty growl filled the air outside the church hall, accompanied by twin fiddles and a snare drum—hand slowly lifting to her throat, the mouth he’d so recently kissed curling into a smile.
“This is them,” she said. “I’m definitely going to Seattle.”
Fox realized he was smiling back at her, because his heart wouldn’t let him do anything else when she was happy. “No, Freckles. We’re going to Seattle.”
She brightened. Actually brightened at the news he’d be coming along. Did she really think he’d let her travel alone? “But your fishing trip . . .”
“Not until Wednesday morning. That gives us the entire day tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she breathed, shifting, then reaching out a hand for him to take. Leaving it there for a long moment, her expression vulnerable until he grabbed on, his throat in a manacle. Hannah hesitated to move back toward the bingo hall right away, and Fox sensed their earlier discussion was far from over. The same way a red sky meant rain was coming, Hannah needed every loose end tied together. And in this case, the loose ends were inside him. She wasn’t going to stop digging until she found and identified them one by one.
Part of Fox was relieved as hell that she cared enough to try. But the rest of him, the man who guarded his wounds like a junkyard dog, had his back bunched up beneath the collar. She was either going to pour salt into those wounds by rejecting him . . . or force him to suture himself. Was he even close to prepared for either one?
No.
Since college, his defense mechanism had been to bail out before he could be patronized or reminded he was only good for one thing. But bailing wasn’t going to be possible with Hannah. Not in the way he usually did it—by pulling a disappearing act. God no. He didn’t want to disappear on her. But he could put a stop to this snowballing expectation of sex between them. Now. He could do that before she pulled the rug out from under his feet. Because with Hannah? He wouldn’t survive the landing.
