“Hollyn,” he says with a strangled sigh.
Bringing the bottle back to my lips, I take one more swig and then offer it to him. He mimics my consumption and then drops the bottle to the floor, the clatter of the glass against the hardwood the only sound in the apartment.
My hands betray me as they lift to cup his strong, chiseled jaw. The light blond scruff decorating his face feels rough under my touch, but familiar. His blue eyes, although tortured, are quite beautiful with waves of cerulean running through them. He’s tall, built, but not intimidating, more inviting with the way his hands grip my hips, his fingers pressing into my clothed skin, holding on for dear life.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say, not even sure that it’s true.
“This is so fucked up.” A lonesome tear cascades down his cheek. “I can’t fucking do this. It’s too much, Hollyn. It’s all too much.”
“You can do this,” I say, leaning in some more, gripping his cheeks tightly so he’s forced to look me in the eyes. “You’re strong, Jace.”
He shakes his head. “Not as strong as I need to be.”
“You’re strong to me.” My thumbs caress his skin, my toes lifting me up closer to him, the walls closing in around us, lifting the tension to an all-time high.
Glancing down with heady eyes at my lips, he then leans forward, meeting my lifted face.
Our noses connect, our foreheads press against one another, and our hands hold on to each other as if we are lifelines.
Questions fly around my head, but I block them out as I take a deep breath and inch closer. Wandering hands roam up my back, past my shoulder blades, up my neck, and into my hair where his fingers twist, pull, and play with the long strands.
“Fuck, Hollyn. Will this deathly feeling ever end? Will I ever feel normal again?”
“I have no idea.” Moving just a centimeter closer, I say, “I want to believe it will get better. I need for it to get better.” I pause and whisper, “Make it better, Jace.”
Taking my lead, he gingerly presses his lips against mine, tentatively exploring, never pushing too hard, but kissing me gently. My name is a whisper on his lips. Mixed with passion, hurt, pain, guilt, and anger, our lips meld together in a frenzy, searching for closure, a closure we try to find between our locked lips, rather than in the unknown.
I hold on tight, a war of emotions raging within me as I explore his mouth as well, opening slightly for his tongue. Just enough that when his tongue meets mine, a throaty moan slips out.
And just when I think he’s going to make it better, it gets so much worse. Guilt consumes me, images of Eric flooding my brain with the taste of Jace still on my lips.
What have I done?
Ripping myself away from him, I grip my forehead in total shock. I just kissed Jace Barnes. I kissed another man, a man who is not my husband.
And for a brief moment, I enjoyed it.
What kind of woman does that make me?
A cheater, that’s the kind of woman I am. A cheater.
DAISY
“Thank you, Grams, but I really have to go.”
“Are you rushing me off the phone?”
“No, I would never.” Yes, yes, I am. I’m rushing Grams off the phone because my Dear Life meeting has already started. When she called, I was nervous something was wrong, so I answered before I walked in the doors of the church hall. What she wanted to talk about? My choice in footwear today when I came to visit her. Apparently she wasn’t too keen on my new ankle boots. She said they were impractical for the winter and didn’t want me breaking an ankle.
To say she was a little shocked by my appearance today is an understatement. She nearly fell off her bed. It was a reaction I expected, since she’s known me to only wear baggy clothes she handed down to me. Modern Daisy was a surprise to her.
Nervous at first, I almost didn’t visit, but I told myself this is the new me and she’s going to have to accept it. And accept it, she did, besides the ankle boots, apparently. She was a little confused at first but once I told her about my day with the girls, her confusion turned into joy—joy for me and my new adventure.
“Now you’re going to tell me where you got that belt, right? I would like one for myself.”
“Grams, why do you need a belt? You wear elastic pants.” I small giggle pops out of me.
“You never know when you’re going to need a belt. You know belts aren’t just used for clothing.”
What is she talking about . . . Oh my God.
“Grams, is this about that book series you’ve been reading?”
“Christian likes restraint.”
“Christian is also a fictional character. You’re acting like he might leap out of the book.”
“Don’t even tease.” She sighs. “The belt isn’t for book Christian, but rather for movie Christian. What if I run into the actor one day and I’m sans belt? How embarrassing that will be.”
“Ah yes, because I do believe Hollywood actors wander around senior community centers, looking to rip belts out of crocheted purses only to restrain the elderly for sexual favors.”
“Oh, you little smart-mouthed girl, this world has tainted you.”
“Me?” I laugh. “You’re the one afraid you’re going to die before all your erotic movies come out.”
“It would be such an untimely and unfair death.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “I can’t deal with your movie complexes right now. My meeting has started, I have to get in there.”
“Okay. But watch where you’re going with those boots; black ice is a killer of hips this time of year.” I fail to mention that I’m not a seventy-year-old woman trying to get around and slipping on black ice probably won’t require me to have a hip replacement. It’s all about choosing your battles with Grams.
“Noted.”
“Oh, and say hi to Carter for me. Ooo, la, la.”
“Don’t say that.” A blush fills my cheeks.
“Oh pish, he can’t hear me.”
“Yes, but I can and I’m turning bright red. I have to go. Love you, Grams.”
“Love you, dearie.” Her chuckle rings through before I hang up. I stick my phone in my purse and press my hands against my cheeks, willing them to calm down.
Just the mention of Carter’s name has my body heating up to record temperatures and not because of how attractive I think he is, but from the way he treated me the other night. I felt like I was something special, like I could actually mean something to him.
When we arrived home, he sat on his bike, steadying the vehicle with his powerful legs while I thanked him. It was a sight I will never forget: his jet black hair highlighted under the moonlight, his leather jacket lightly flapping in the breeze, and his eyes deeply fixed on me while I shook my hair from his helmet.
We exchanged good nights, I said thank you, and for a brief moment in time, I pictured him pulling me in by my hand, spiraling me into his chest, and running his hand through my hair right before he kissed me. Unfortunately, instead, he nodded at me, put his helmet on and took off, leaving me wanting so much more and wondering. Does he want the same thing?