Capturing Peace (Sharing You 0.5)(13)

I considered calling my mom for about five seconds before I realized how ridiculous that was. I’m twenty-two. I have a free night for the first time in a long time, and I want to call my mom? When did I turn into an old lady?

Walking to the coffee table, I bent and grabbed at my phone, determined to call one of my friends. But instead I was opening up Keegan’s texts and scrolling up until I reached the number. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed the number and hit CALL.

“Hello?”

“Distract me,” I blurted out.

There were a few seconds of silence, before his deep voice asked, “Duchess?”

Goose bumps covered my body, and I swear to God I had to stop myself from whimpering. This morning replayed through my head, the way his lean, muscled body had been covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The way his chest had felt under my hand. His tattoos.

I hated tattoos. Hated them. But I’d wanted to trace every one of his. I’d wanted to study every picture and word covering his arms and chest. I’d wanted to see what the letters on his fingers spelled out. I’d wanted to watch his tattooed hands as they touched me.

Bad. Bad. So bad. Calling him was the wrong thing to do.

Clearing my throat, I tried to put force behind my words, but I failed miserably. “I’ll hang up if you call me that again.”

He laughed softly. “Reagan.”

“Yes?”

Another laugh and I had to sit down on the couch when my legs started shaking. “You’re the one who called me. Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Oh, um. I need you to distract me.”

“Parker go to his friend’s house?”

I made some sort of affirmative noise, worried that if I said it out loud, I’d start freaking out all over again.

“Do you want me to come pick you up?”

“No!” I shouted, and scrambled to find something to say. “I—I just—can I just come over?”

I didn’t want him in my apartment. This was my place with Parker, and having Coen here didn’t seem right. If he came over, if he got comfortable being here, that would be a step in the direction of letting him into Parker’s life as well. I didn’t care that he’d met Parker . . . I was already over what had happened this morning; but I wasn’t ready for him to be here yet. And if we went out and happened to run into my parents or their friends, I would never hear the end of it. My mom would start planning a wedding the second she knew his name. Or maybe when she got over me actually bringing someone into Parker’s life.

“Sure . . . ?”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to go out.”

“Okay,” he said carefully. “Well, yeah, you’re more than welcome to come here. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“All right, we’ll order something when you get here.”

I stood there playing with the ends of my hair for a few seconds before I said, “This isn’t a date.”

“Of course not,” he said, his tone amused. “It’s a distraction.”

“Right.” A very, very bad distraction.

He gave me his address before we hung up, and I ran into my closet. A part of me told me to go in my yoga pants and shirt, since that’s what he’d seen me in earlier and I didn’t want him to think I’d dressed for him. But another wanted to look like more than a tired mom when I was around him.

After going through three outfits, I settled on a pair of short black shorts and a light gray off-the-shoulder shirt. Casual, and comfy . . . and hopefully I didn’t look like I had tried as hard as I did to look both. With a quick touch-up to my makeup, I grabbed my phone, purse, and keys and left my apartment before I could talk myself into staying there instead.

During the ten-minute drive there, I tried to make myself turn around the entire time. Even as I walked up to his condo, I kept chanting to myself how bad of an idea this was, and how I needed to go back home. When he answered the door in low-slung jeans and another black shirt, I almost turned around and walked away.

Such a bad idea.

“You look beautiful.” His dark eyes slowly raked over my body before resting on my face again.

“This isn’t a date,” I reminded him again, and he laughed.

“And you still can’t take a compliment.” Opening the door wider, he stepped back to give me room. “Come in, I’m starving.”

I stood there for a few seconds before barely turning back toward his driveway. “Maybe I should—”

Coen grabbed my hand and pulled me into his condo before shutting the door behind us. “Stop second-guessing everything. You wanted a distraction, and I’m hungry. So we’re going to have our it’s-not-a-date-it’s-a-distraction night, and you’re going to learn how to relax.”

“I know how to relax.”

“You sure about that?” he asked, the rise of one eyebrow challenging me to argue.

I couldn’t.

HOURS LATER, WE were full on pizza, and had been watching movies on Coen’s TV. I’d laughed more tonight that I usually did in a week’s time, and as the hours had passed, I’d slowly felt myself relaxing into him. Something about his easygoing laugh, his no-bullshit attitude, and mesmerizing eyes had left me leaning into him more, and enjoying his company . . . and being terrified of that.