The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(74)

“Are you crying?”

“No.” She sniffs, definitely crying. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She pulls back, swiping at a stray tear. “Why are you here? Did someone say something?”

“Say something about what?”

She pales, wiping back a stray tear. “Nothing. I’m just—you’re here. I can’t believe it.”

I’m beaming, arms still wrapped around her waist.

“The bar association is honoring my dad tomorrow for thirty years of service, and it was a perfect excuse to hop on a plane and come see everyone.” To see her.

“I see.”

“Anyway, I know it’s late and I just showed up on your doorstep, but I was hoping I could stay here.”

“With me?”

“Is that all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I… we have so much to catch up on.” The door opens all the way and Anabelle steps aside, giving me room to enter the house. “Come in.”

I step up, stealing another kiss along the way, planting it on her surprised mouth. “Mind if I take this to your room? I’m so fucking tired—would it be weird if we called it a night early?”

I’m babbling but too tired to care.

“No! No, go ahead. I’ll just…I’ll…” God, she’s cute, stumbling over her words, bottom lip trembling. “I’ll just…”

I close the front door, locking it behind us, and reach for her. Wrap her in another hug, resting my chin on top of her head. She’s visibly shaken; whatever reaction I thought she’d have when she saw me again, this isn’t it. By now, I thought we’d be laughing in the kitchen, possibly ripping off our clothes and going at it hard on the table.

“I really didn’t think I’d see you again until Christmas.”

“I didn’t either,” I respond honestly because I had no plans to come to Iowa until the holiday calendar demanded I did. “Are you sure you’re okay with me being here? I can go stay with Zeke and Violet, or check into a hotel.”

“It’s okay, I’m just freaking out a little. Well, a lot.” Her laugh is coupled with nerves. “Sorry, I’m being awkward.”

Anabelle squirms to be released, so I give her space, picking up my two bags and following her to the bedroom I once called my own. Set my bags on the floor, next to the dresser, peeling off my socks.

“Mind if I jump in the shower? I’d love to wash the travel off.”

“Yeah, sure—just let me grab you a towel. Madison gets weird about sharing things like that.”

When she’s gone, I take a few seconds to survey the room, to see what she’s done with it now that I’m not living here anymore.

Same bed, different bedspread. Hers is white, with ruffles, fluffy and inviting. Same TV and TV stand. Same dresser.

She’s added a nightstand and a lamp, and I run my fingers along the books piled on top. The top one is a parenting book, which is weird since she’s a law student, but I move on to the dresser, thinking it must be for a friend. Remove my watch and set it down, cuffing my wrist with my fingers and massaging it.

“All set.” Her voice rings out from across the hall.

The shower is running when I hit the bathroom, and I shuck my clothes, ducking into the warm spray. God, it feels good; this whole trip was such a great fucking idea.

I stand for a solid five minutes, then spend another five washing my hair, lathering my pits, cock, and ass. Rinse. Shut off the water and dry off. I wrap the towel around my waist, grabbing up my dirty clothes by the armful.

Anabelle is on the bed, already lying down when I return, arms behind her head, watching me.

Close the door.

Toss my dirty clothes into a pile I’ll deal with later.

Bending, I dig in my bag for clean boxers and pajama pants before I drop the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. I glance over my shoulder to see if she’s watching, and note her eyes fastened on my ass with satisfaction.

Sliding into bed with her is oddly exhilarating, and I roll toward her, propping my chin in my hand. She does the same.

Smiles.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

She looks tired, like she hasn’t slept, so I reach out to stroke my thumb over the smooth skin beneath her eyes. “You look exhausted.”

Her smile is wobbly. “I am.”

“How are you? Really.”

I know she misses me and took my leaving hard, probably harder than she let on, always presenting me with a brave face in our messages and emails. At first, I was thankful for it—her fake smile made it easier to drive away from the house that day. Her shoving me off the porch toward my car allowed me to freely walk toward it, climb inside, and actually start the engine.

But the truth is, I secretly prayed it would break down before I was out of town that day. It didn’t. Everything went according to plan, and I was in Michigan before bed the next night.

“How am I.” It’s a statement, not a question, and she seems to consider it. “I’m…” Lets out a loud puff of air, tears welling up.

Anabelle rolls to her back, eyes trained on the ceiling. Reaches for my hand and places it on her pelvis, just below the waistband of her shorts, lifting the hem of her loose T-shirt.

Naturally, my hand begins a slow glide north, gliding over the warm skin I’ve dreamed about for days. Weeks.