His hand snakes up from my waist and he drags his palm up my body, over my stomach and then over my breast, slowly…painfully. I shiver and he does it again, this time a little slower than before. Goose bumps bloom along the trail he makes and I’m thankful my clothes keep his hand from my skin. I feel raw and sensitive just from this. If he were touching me skin to skin, I think I’d do something embarrassing like break out in a sob.
His lips leave my mouth and descend down to my jawline, to my neck. My head falls back against the door—the same one I was attempting to flee through just moments ago—and I squeeze my eyes closed, savoring every sensation rippling through me.
“Yes.” I sigh when his mouth descends even farther and he kisses my breast through my clothes.
We are this close to going past the point of no return against the hard metal door when a shrill whistle blasts through the gymnasium. We leap apart. I pry my eyes open and spot a middle-aged coach standing in the doorway on the opposite side of the gym. He has a volleyball in one hand and his whistle in the other—the whistle he is still blasting at full volume.
“Jesus,” Adam mutters under his breath.
I reach down to straighten my shirt and then brush the back of my hand across my mouth. I’m shaking—maybe from being caught, maybe from what we were just doing.
The coach finally lets his whistle fall back against his chest.
“We’ve got competitive volleyball practice in here in 20 minutes,” he shouts. “Clear out.”
Mouse barks at him, and I leap for his leash before he can take off running.
We heed his orders and ‘clear out’, awkwardly and silently. Adam follows me out into the parking lot, but I have nothing to say. He just finished telling me he wasn’t ready to date, and then we made out hardcore. Makes sense.
“Listen, back there—”
I groan. I’m mentally and physically exhausted. If he starts up again about how much space he needs or how unprepared he is for dating, I won’t be able to control my temper.
I whip around and cut him off. “Adam, save it. We aren’t dating. I get it. Whatever that was—” I shake my head. “It was nothing, okay? I’ve already forgotten about it.”
He doesn’t speak up to correct me, and I’m thankful for that. Out here, in the empty parking lot, he’s partially cast in shadow. He doesn’t look like Polite Adam, the man who loves animals; he looks like Seductive Adam, the man who just pushed me up against a door and had his wicked way with me. In other words, we’re in dangerous territory.
“I’ll see you around,” I mutter, turning straight for my car.
I don’t release my breath until Mouse and I turn back out onto the main road. That was…the most confusing half hour of my life. A therapist would have a field day with that exchange. Me? I don’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole.
The traffic light in front of me turns yellow and then red. I slam on my breaks and glance down at my right arm propped on the steering wheel. It bears the mark of Adam’s hand, from where he held me against the door. Already, it’s fading. By the time I get back home, it’ll be gone, but I can’t wait until then. I scrub at the skin with my other hand, making my entire forearm red until it all blends together.
There. He’s gone.
The light turns green and the car behind me lays on its horn.
“I’m GOING,” I shout to no one.
When I turn down the street toward my apartment complex, I don’t turn in. I pass the parking lot twice, looping around the block and contemplating my options. I could leave right now. It’s not as if I have a life going here. I could drive until I hit Houston, Austin, Dallas. I could keep going until I hit another state, another country. I could start over somewhere and wipe the last few years from my memory.
And maybe I would have if Mouse hadn’t whined from the back seat, reminding me of my responsibilities here, of all the reasons I’m stuck in this tiny town and this tiny life.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ADAM
“
Adam , we would have invited a mannequin to lunch had we known you’d be this quiet.”
I glance up from my untouched turkey sandwich and find my mom and Kathy eyeing me suspiciously, waiting for my reply.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” I say, shrugging off their concern.
It’s been a few days since my incident with Madeleine at the YMCA, and she hasn’t replied to my phone calls or text messages. The tables are reversed, and I don’t like it.
This morning, I was summoned to lunch by my mom and Kathy, and I couldn’t turn them down. I don’t have room in my schedule for another impromptu appointment courtesy of my mom and a stuffed bird.
We’re eating at a deli down on Main Street, just across from Madeleine’s real estate agency. I didn’t pick the restaurant, but I did pick my seat at the table, facing out, toward the agency. We’ve been here for thirty minutes and I haven’t seen Madeleine once. She must be eating at her desk or out with a client.
“If it’s nothing, then why aren’t you eating?” my mom asks. “I’m almost finished.”
To prove her wrong, I pick up my sandwich and take a massive bite.
“Alrighty then.” Kathy laughs. “Diane, did I tell you I saw Madeleine at the grocery store the other day?”
I pretend to be enthralled by my sandwich.
“Oh? No, you didn’t.”
Kathy nods. “Yeah, just for a second. We were both about to check out, but she stopped and struck up a conversation with me. I half expected her not to remember me since she and Adam weren’t at the barbecue that long.”
My mom hums. “She’s such a nice girl.”
“So nice.”
It doesn’t feel like they’re trying to get under my skin, and yet they are.
“Can we talk about something else?”
My mom laughs. “Sure. Why don’t you come up with something to talk about?”
“How are the girls?” I ask Kathy, knowing exactly what I’m doing.
Kathy is obsessed with her daughters, and she’ll talk about them nonstop if you get her started; it’s a tool I’ve used quite a few times at awkward family dinners when my mom is intent on aiming the focus on me and my life.
“Oh they’re good! Did I tell you Allie lost another tooth?”
For the next thirty minutes, I tune them out and slink back into my thoughts about Madeleine. I know I screwed up last week. From the beginning, I knew Madeleine was someone I could be interested in, so I did my best to respect that. I tried to be polite and distant. Obviously I had moments of weakness, but nothing as terrible as what I did to her in that gymnasium.
I was trying to do the right thing. I was so sure that turning her down and explaining that I wasn’t ready to date was the gentlemanly course of action, but then why did it feel like the exact opposite? Seeing her expression when I turned her down for a date broke something inside of me. She looked so defeated, so utterly embarrassed. No woman wants to be made to feel undesirable.
But that’s not Madeleine’s problem.
She’s too desirable.
I want to be with her. God, I would have taken her against that metal door if that coach hadn’t interrupted us.
And that’s the problem. I tell her one thing and do another. I can’t blame her for being angry with me—I’m angry with me.