I let us both inside and unclip the dog’s leash.
When I straighten, my eyes find Sabrina in the kitchen, and my heart stops with a pang of longing. She’s already changed out of her dress and into tight black pants and an oversize sweater, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Ugly green socks are on her feet, her hair’s pulled back from her face in a messy bun, and she looks . . . beautiful.
I’ve seen her out of her work clothes before, seen her hair in the same messy knot, but only when I’ve surprised her by showing up unannounced. Tonight, she knew I’d see her like this when I brought the dog back up.
I suppose it could be a warning sign that she lets me see her in an outfit so obviously nonseductive, but if that’s her plan, it’s backfiring. Nothing could be more seductive than the realization that she’s willing to let her guard down around me.
Finally.
She glances up, a faint smile on her makeup-free lips. “I’m making tea. You want a cup?”
I hate tea, but I feel myself nod.
She looks at me more closely. “You’re soaking wet.”
I glance down. “Yeah. I’d ask if you have any extra men’s clothes stashed around, but I’m not entirely sure I want to know the answer.”
“Yes, because I’m sure you’ve been celibate since we first met,” she says, dropping a couple of tea bags into a pot. “I’ll get you a towel.”
It’s more my sweater that’s wet than anything, so I pull it off and set it over the back of a chair. I’m standing in just my undershirt as she reenters the living room, tossing a towel at me.
“Thanks.” I run the towel over my wet hair. “Where’s Juno?”
“Post-poo-in-the-rain routine usually involves rolling on her back on my bedroom rug for a solid five minutes. I’ve learned not to question it.”
Sabrina uses her phone to turn on music, and the soft sounds of a female jazz vocalist I’m not familiar with fill the room. She grabs two mugs and carries them and the teapot into the living room.
Setting them on the ottoman that doubles as her coffee table, she stares at the teapot for a long moment before looking up at me, her expression thoughtful. “Can I ask you something?”
I sit beside her on the couch, careful to keep my distance, terrified of ruining the fragile truce between us. “Sure.”
She turns her attention back to the teapot and pours the tea. “Are your parents why you’re dead set against marriage?” She smiles faintly and hands me a mug.
I nod in thanks before answering her question. “Probably.”
“Probably it’s because of your parents?”
I nod. “I mean, it’s not quite as simple as my seeing how fucked up their marriage was and making a vow never to follow in their footsteps. But over time, being a part of that—and I was a part of it, not that they ever bothered to notice—it wears on a kid. Hell, it wears on an adult.”
I’m braced for the usual lecture—that my parents’ mistakes don’t have to be my own, that I can’t live my life in reaction to someone else’s missteps, etc. etc. Everything that every woman or girlfriend has tried to tell me over the years until I finally gave up altogether and made it clear that I didn’t want a relationship, period.
But Sabrina doesn’t give me any of that. She simply nods. “I get it. As much as I’m rooting for Lara and Ian and wish them the best, the truth is I’ve seen a hell of a lot more messed-up relationships than I have good ones.”
I take a sip of tea. I still hate it, but the warmth is nice, I guess.
She gives a rueful smile at my silence. “Too cynical?”
“No,” I say slowly. “I don’t disagree. It’s just odd to hear it out loud, from someone else. Especially someone who’s not as anti-marriage as I am.”
“I’m in favor of a certain type of marriage,” she clarifies. “The quiet, no-drama kind that doesn’t lead to messiness.”
“What about sex?”
She looks up sharply. “What about it?”
“This arrangement with your future husband. Does it involve sex?”
“I’d hope so.”
I run my tongue over the front of my teeth, surprised at just how much the prospect of her marrying and sleeping with someone else bothers me. I shake my head. “Sex and living together. Sounds a lot like a real marriage to me.”
“It is,” she says matter-of-factly. “Just without the power to hurt each other.”
“But wouldn’t it get complicated if you throw sex into the mix? Emotionally, I mean.”
“We did it,” she says, cutting me with a direct look.
“Did we?” I sit back. “Seems to me there was plenty of emotion there, just not a gentle one.”
She turns her head toward me. “Hate?”
“Not hate. Never hate. At least not on my part.” I smile, letting my gaze drift over her features. She looks younger without her makeup. Softer.
“Anger, though,” she says.
“Sure. Some of that. A lot of it, maybe,” I agree.
“You ever wonder why? What we were mad at?”
“I’ve always had a pretty good idea. We hooked up the first night we met, I said something stupid the next morning, you got pissed—rightfully so,” I rush to add when she looks ready to interrupt. “And after that . . .” I trail off and take a sip of tea, which, for the record, tastes like dirty water.
“We couldn’t quite figure out how to get along,” she finishes for me.
“You’re one hell of a complicated woman.”
“And yet you didn’t leave.”
“What do you mean?”
She leans forward and stares down at the mug she has yet to sip from. “I’ve said so many awful things to you, and you to me, and yet you watch my dog when I’m gone. I agree to help you get your life back on track. We look out for each other, even when we’re trying desperately to avoid each other.”
“Don’t forget about the excellent sex.”
She smiles, and it looks almost shy. “Yeah. Excellent sex.”
I reach out and take the mug from her hands, setting it on the ottoman, setting my own beside it. “We going to talk about the fact that I kissed you tonight?”
“I’ve decided to overlook the breach of contract. You’ve got one hell of a home life there, Cannon.”
“I do. But what’s your excuse?”
“For what?”
“For kissing me back.”
She gives me an annoyed look. “We’re not talking about that.”
“Good,” I say simply. “Because talking’s not at all what I had in mind.”
Then I reach out and haul her to me.
22
SABRINA
Saturday Night, September 30
I know.
I know.
We’re not supposed to be doing this anymore.
What’s more, this was my rule. My decision that if we agreed to play pretend relationship, we’d cut our enemies-with-benefits out of the equation.
A rule I decided to break the second he reached for me.
For that matter, I think I decided to break it the moment I asked him to stay for a cup of tea instead of sending him right back out into the rain.
My brain’s screaming, Fool. My heart’s screaming, Mayday.
But my body . . . . it knows what it wants—what it needs—and it has always needed him.
I’ve tried to find the same elusive pleasure with someone else, but nobody makes me feel as cherished as he does. Even through the anger, the frustration—or maybe because of those feelings—Matt Cannon’s hands on me deliver a sort of pleasure that’s somehow both soothing and earth-shattering.
His mouth moves restlessly over mine, one hand on the back of my head, the other pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me close.
“I’ve missed this,” he murmurs, his lips gliding under my chin, nuzzling my jaw. “I’ve missed you.”
His words send a thrill through me, and though I’m not brave enough to say them back out loud, I’ve missed him, too. I show it as best I can, my head dropping back to give him full access to me, my back arching into him.
“Where’d you get this awful sweater?” he murmurs, pulling the thick turtleneck to better get at my neck.
“Thought you could use a challenge. Builds character,” I say a little breathlessly as his warm hands slip beneath the sweater.