“Just keeping it real,” she said, and closed her eyes.
The aftermath was quiet, shared soap and turns under the rain head to rinse, then he fiddled with the controls until the water pulsed from the body jets and gathered her close, turning his back, then hers, to the little geysers.
“Are you staying?” she asked when they were toweling off.
“Is that an option?” he returned, his wet hair laying forward as it never would when dry.
“Yes,” she said, too tired, too satiated, too afraid of the future to hold that ground. She’d longed for not just sex with Jamie but the softer moments, the dating moments, watching movies, making meals. Cuddling. For the next twenty-six days, she wanted to fall asleep with Jamie’s bare skin next to hers.
“Then I’m staying,” he said, and left it at that.
She crawled into bed and flopped on her side. Jamie sprawled facedown next to her and spent a good thirty seconds writhing around in the sheets like a dog rolling in the grass.
“What are you doing, you fool?” she asked.
“These sheets. Jesus. You sleep on Navy sheets for a decade and then try these.”
“Eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton,” she said. “Enjoy.”
He settled down and tucked the sheet around her ribs, then closed his eyes.
“Was it worth it?”
The words were out before she could stop them, smacking of the pleading reassurance her mother wanted from a man. Wasn’t I good enough? Just tell me what you want, baby, and I’ll make it happen.
“Was what worth what?” he asked, his face already slackening into sleep.
It didn’t matter, of course. She could have been the best he’d ever had, and he’d still leave in a couple of weeks, go back to San Diego and the life of a modern warrior. She didn’t even hope to be the best he’d ever had, just wanted to know that she hadn’t embarrassed herself. “Nothing,” she said, and curled up on her side. “Good night.”
Chapter Four
The next morning, Jamie watched Charlie sleep, and hoped it wasn’t too creepy.
He’d fallen asleep in her bed, so maybe it was okay to absorb the way the early morning light, gray and watery with the rain that was in the air, lay across her face and hair. She was lying on her side, facing him, as he studied her face, looking for signs of the girl he’d fallen for all those years ago. Charlie, as usual, didn’t give him what he expected; she didn’t look younger when she slept, or more innocent, but then again, she’d never looked innocent. When your dad was in the wind and your mother was routinely arrested for petty theft, innocence wasn’t something you could afford to retain. And look at her now. A pro basketball star, a degree, money in the bank, and a mission in life. Watching her with the students the day before made him both proud and scared.
Proud, because she was going to make a difference in those girls’ lives. She ran her team like he ran missions, all out committed to the people in her care, and the girls obviously worshipped her.
Scared, because his fantasy of swooping back into Lancaster and whisking Charlie Stannard off to San Diego’s sunny beaches wasn’t going to happen.
Even her house spoke to her putting down roots. Classic Craftsman homes occupied lots all over the East Side, but Charlie’s was recently renovated. Fresh paint, new windows. He wondered if she’d added home renovation to her skill set, chosen the colors, opened up the living space, stripped and sanded the hardwood floors. It wouldn’t have surprised him. When Charlie made up her mind to do something, it happened.
If she didn’t make up her mind that they were happening, it wouldn’t matter how deeply, madly, truly he wanted her. They wouldn’t happen.
Her breath hitched, then shuddered back out again. She slept like a mummy, her arms crossed over her chest, her loosely curled fists jammed up under her chin. The sheet was caught under her arm, revealing only the upper curve of her firm breast, but that was enough. Her musculature was so erotic, sensitive skin over toned curves, the dip and swell of shoulder, collarbone so tempting to touch, but he didn’t want to wake her. So he left bare millimeters between his fingertips and her shoulder, then the strong line of her jaw, the delicate hairs on the secret curve of her ear when Pitbull’s “Time of Our Lives” blared into the pearly morning light.
He jerked his hand away. Charlie’s eyes popped open, wide, startled, staring up at him blankly.
“It’s Jamie,” he said.
Her eyebrows pulled down. “Did you forget your own name over night? I know who you are,” she said, her voice husky with sleep.
Jamie snorted, then looked at the clock. 6:27 a.m. “Why six twenty-seven? Why not six twenty-five or six thirty?”