Boldly by Elise Faber

Chapter Twenty-Four

Hazel

“I’m sorry,”she murmured as they drove to his house.

He slowed at a stoplight, turned his head to gape at her. “For what?”

“I know you wanted our first time to be romantic,” she said, on a wince. They’d been driving about five minutes, plus the ten minutes after they’d fucked like rabbits in the back of the limo (gloriously), and for the last fourteen minutes, guilt had been eating away at her post-orgasm bliss.

“I wanted our first time to mean something.”

She winced again.

She was sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car, her bag in the trunk, silence in the cab. Her dress was unzipped, her coat half-buttoned, her panties having disappeared somewhere that she didn’t know for certain but suspected was in Oliver’s pocket, since he’d tugged them off when they’d been tangled on one high heel after the limo had stopped and they’d both roused themselves enough to realize they were back in the McDonald’s parking lot.

French fries.

Apple pies.

Suddenly, she had another craving.

Luckily for her, they hadn’t gone inside and added to her calorie count, nor had the driver opened the door. She had just parked along the curb and waited…

For a while.

Because it had taken them a while to separate, to deal with the condom and wrestle her dress so it wasn’t a tourniquet around her middle (but not zipped, because apparently the ripping sound she’d heard earlier had been her zipper being made non-functional—which, okay was hot as hell that he’d been so lost in her and what they were doing that he hadn’t been able to moderate his strength). So needless to say, it took them some time to restore their clothing into some semblance of decency.

Or at least so they wouldn’t get arrested for public nudity.

Only when they had their coats on—hers a requirement to keep her from being cited, his because he needed to cover a wet stain on his slacks (and maybe she should be embarrassed by that, but while she might feel guilty for hijacking his romance, she wasn’t embarrassed by the hottest sexual experience of her life—not in the least).

“I wanted our first time to mean something,” he said again, picking up her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “And it did. Because it was with you.”

Her breath caught. “But it wasn’t romantic.”

“You’re right,” he said softly, as he navigated his car to his place. “It wasn’t.”

Her heart squeezed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He’d had it all planned, and she ruined that by jumping him and suggesting car sex—though it was his fault, too, she supposed. He’d jumped her in that alley and—

“I’m not.”

He dropped his palm to his thigh, lightly squeezed his fingers around hers so she kept it there.

“I made it this big thing in my head because you deserve everything perfect, everything wonderful. I wanted this night with you to be that.” Another squeeze. “And it was, babe. Because it was you and me and us. So no, it wasn’t candles and flowers and me kissing every inch of your body, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t perfect.”

She sniffed.

He did his thing—brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “But I do hope you’re still not too full.”

Her brows drew together. “Why?”

“Because there is absolutely no way that I’m done with you tonight.”

Heat slicking down her spine, coiling between her thighs. She’d just come, and done it hard, but one rasp of his voice, that heat in his eyes, and she was ready all over again.

“Good,” she said, squeezing his thigh, “because I have more items to add to your Fuck List.”

His leg went taut below her hand.

And then he was laughing as he drove the rest of the way to his place.

She joined in.

But neither of them were laughing when they got up to his bedroom.

Because Oliver had made it his mission to tick those boxes of her fantasies, and he did it all night long.

“That’s okay, Mom,”she said into the phone. “But are you sure I can’t bring you anything? Soup? I’d be happy to drop by the egg flower soup from Golden Panda. I know it makes you feel better.”

Her mother’s voice was raspy, the bug that had her canceling Sunday dinner that evening evident.

“Your father already picked some up for me, Spiced Pecan. I’m going to rest up, and I’ll see you and Oliver in a couple of weeks.”

Twice a month they tried to get together for dinner.

Sometimes it was every Sunday.

Sometimes they went a whole month.

But the goal was every other week.

And this was that week. Her mom had been talking about the dinner she’d been planning for Oliver all week, texting questions about what he would and wouldn’t eat, what his favorites were, whether or not he’d gotten a date six through eight.

Which obviously he had.

Along with that fabulous date one.

And what seemed like a million dates in between, though really, they’d just spent the weekend together. In bed and cuddled close, ordering takeout in, and watching movies (albeit not documentaries about penguins).

Now it was Sunday at four. She was getting ready to make the half hour drive to her parents’ place.

And her mom had the sickies.

“I’m sorry, Sugar Snap,” her mom said. “I thought it was allergies with the season change, but now I’ve got a fever. Please, tell Oliver that I’m sorry.”

“Of course, Mom. But seriously, don’t worry about us. Just feel better. I’m not here next Sunday”—she had a conference she would be flying home from—“and I know you’re visiting your grandbabies the following weekend, so Oliver and I will be there in three weeks, okay?”

“He’d better bring an empty stomach. You, too. Because I’m going to bring my A game.”

Hazel smiled, even as she felt obligated to say, “Don’t go to any trouble.”

Her mom hissed out a breath. “By then the man will have probably gotten twenty dates, and I still won’t have met him. I’m bringing my A game, Lovely Lemon Meringue, and he’d better bring those abs and an empty stomach.”

Hazel chucked. “Okay, Mom. Rest up. I love you.”

“Love you, too, my Heavenly Éclair.”

She smothered a giggle because seriously, where did she get this stuff? Did she have a list? Because Hazel, for the life of her, couldn’t remember a time when her mother had missed an opportunity for a baked-good-themed endearment. Maybe she should start making a list, just to document the brilliance.

With goodbyes exchanged, they hung up, and Hazel turned to see Oliver leaning against the door to his bathroom, arms crossed, expression relaxed, though his eyes held a trace of concern.

Such a good man.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“All’s good. My mom has a bug, so she needs to cancel dinner.”

Oliver frowned and stepped closer. “Does she want us to bring her anything? Sprite, soup, crackers?” His frown deepened. “Or is it more serious? Should we take her to urgent care? The ER?”

Sucha good man.

He’d had one conversation with Hazel’s mother, hadn’t even laid eyes on her yet, and he was already trying to step in and take care of her.

The way he was raised should have made that difficult, the trauma of his injury should have increased that the urge to close down and protect himself. But he’d opened up to her, to her life, and he was all in—including caring about her mother. She knew part of it was because he’d had Alex and Teresa, that they’d laid the groundwork for him to know how good it could be to put trust in someone, to open up and accept love freely given.

But he’d lost them, too.

So, she understood the gift he was giving her.

He’d made a conscious choice to be vulnerable and invested, to allow her into his life and her into his.

Which was why Hazel was wrapping the precious gift he’d given her in bubble wrap and stowing it safely in a velvet lined box. She wouldn’t ever forget that he’d trusted her with it.

Wouldn’t ever forget to keep it safe.