I know what her lips feel like now. We’ve kissed. If you even really call what we did kissing. It was PG-13 stuff, quick pecks on the lips. And fuck if those stolen touches, the almost frantic fumblings with her, wasn’t the hottest thing I’ve done in recent memory. First touch of her lips and I was hard. The second, I’d wanted inside her. I’d needed it.
Crazy thing is, it had been so unexpected—her kissing my cheek, me snatching a little taste of her mouth in return—that I’d been coiled tight as a spring, unable to move or do anything but steal a few more kisses like a greedy, horny bastard afraid of having the whole opportunity ripped away from him.
And then it was. She pretended the whole thing was just for show.
Bullshit.
Question is, what do I do about it? Call her on it? Let it ride?
I’ve never been struck by indecision before. In football, you hesitate, you’re done. We train, run drills, practice until reaction is muscle memory and instinct. There is comfort in that. Hell, there’s comfort in knowing that you’re one of the best at something. I know I’m not the best quarterback in the world. Not yet. But I’ll get there. Perfection in this sport comes with experience and finding your groove.
But with Chess. I might as well be in the peewee leagues. I’m bumbling around, not knowing the plays or how to read a line. It’s frustrating as fuck. And I cannot fuck up. Not with Chess. She’s too important.
I’m at a crossroads here.
A small voice inside me is whispering to cut and run while I still can. That’s the easy solution. No failure there. I can back off, treat Chess as a casual friend. The kind I call every couple of months when I have some free time and nothing to do.
That was Dex’s advice, and the man is a master strategist.
Leave Chess alone. Go back to being alone.
I watch a surfer paddle out, calling to his buddy. Their voices are thin on the air, the surf crashing to the shore. Sun glitters off the curve of a wave, turning it murky, turquoise blue.
I feel old. Not yet thirty, not yet in the full groove of my career, and suddenly I feel so fucking old. Apart from everything. I could have been a dad.
Would she have had my eyes? Would she have hated green peas like I do?
My fingers dig into the sand. It’s cold and rough just below the surface.
The sound of my phone ringing has me dusting off my hands.
I reach for it, expecting Chess. “Hey, I’m down at the beach.”
“Ah, okay.”
It isn’t Chess.
“Britt?” I actually look around as if expecting her to pop out of the sand.
“Yes, it’s me.” She pauses. “You thought I was someone else?”
Well, obviously. But I don’t say that. “What’s up?”
I have no idea why she’s calling, but I don’t like it. It feels like one of those woman traps that end with her crying and me generally feeling like a heel.
“I…ah…” She clears her throat. “Look, I don’t like how we left things.”
This is why I’m terrible with women. Because I have no fucking clue what she means. She asked me if my mom had invited to spend the holidays with us. I told her no. What else is there?
My silence must be too long because she makes that sound again, as if she’s trying to push her words past some blockage in her throat. “There were things I wanted to say, Finn. But I got distracted, upset.” A soft, half laugh escapes her. “It was difficult seeing you again.”
Again, I feel like a shit for rushing her out. I pinch the bridge of my nose. A headache is coming on. I need to get back to my parent’s house. I’ve been gone too long, under the guise of making a wine run.
“I know it’s hard,” I tell Britt as gently as I can. “I was… I was just thinking of her.”
A lump rises swift and painful in my throat, and I swallow convulsively.
“You do it too,” she whispers thickly.
“Sometimes.” My fingertips press against the hot skin of my eyelids. “At random moments.”
“The other day, it hit me that she would be old enough to eat baby food now.” Britt’s voice trembles. “And I had to pull over my car and cry.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
The beach is cold now. I get to my feet. I don’t want to be here anymore. I need to get home.
Chess had gone off to take a nap, jet lag catching up to her. But she’ll be awake now.
“Could we meet for lunch or something when you come back?” Britt asks, pulling me back to the conversation.
Fishing my keys out of my pockets, I rest the phone on my shoulder, holding it in place with my cheek. “You’re still in New Orleans?”
“Yes. I’ll be here for a while.”
It makes no sense. Britt’s home is in London.
“I’m out for the week.”
“I’ll be here next week,” she says.
When I don’t say anything, she presses again. “I want to see you. And I…I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.”
I don’t point out that she called me. This feels off. No, it feels like she’s working her way up to asking me out. “Britt, I don’t…”
“We share something, Finn. There is no one else in our lives who understands it the way we do. I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”
The desperate pain in her voice is too much for me. With a sigh, I turn on the jeep and pull out of my spot. “All right. Text me next week and we’ll set something up.”
As soon as I hang up with Britt, I toss the phone on the car seat. I’m not looking forward to that meeting at all. Sharing with her doesn’t make me feel better. There’s only one person who does that. I turn onto the main road and head for Chess.
I can’t let her go. It’s too late for that now. But I can give her space.
Either she takes that distance and pulls away. Or she’ll find it as unnatural as I do now. Instinct tells me it will be the latter. I fucking hope so.
Chapter Fourteen
Chess
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