The Last Strike by A.R. Henry
Chapter 18
“You’re coming to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving.”
I’m standing in my entryway holding my front door open looking at Weston. It’s been a week since the hiking incident, and we haven’t seen each other since. We’ve texted a few times, but other than that I hadn’t seen him at school or otherwise. I honestly thought he was avoiding me, and since school let out yesterday for the holiday, I thought the trend was going to continue. That was until five minutes ago when my doorbell rang, and I opened it up to see him standing there.
His hands tucked into athletic shorts, signature baseball cap on but backwards, and his UTK t-shirt drenched in sweat were all telling me that he either just came from practice or working out.
“What?” I asked, trying my hardest not to sound breathless as I raked my gaze over him. Hoping he wouldn’t notice my obvious perusal, but I wasn’t so lucky.
“Eyes up here Cherry Bomb.”
I quickly snapped my gaze back to his face. I knew my cheeks were bright red, and I silently cursed myself for being so obvious.
He smirked and I asked again, “What?”
“You’re coming to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving.”
Not a question. Not an invitation. A statement. Like I have no plans for the holiday.
“What are you talking about? Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and I’m going to my parents’ house. We always watch the parade together while I help my mom cook lunch.”
As I say this, I realize we’re still having this conversation on my front steps, so I move out of the doorway and motion for him to come inside. Closing the door behind him, he wraps his arm around my wrist and pulls me to my living room then sits us both on the couch. He doesn’t release me as he settles back and uses his other hand to grab my remote and turns on the Netflix show we had been watching together the last time he was here for dinner.
He must take the questioning look on my face to mean I’m wondering why he picked that show to watch because he asks, “You don’t like this show anymore? Or did you finish it without me?” He looks genuinely hurt when he asks the second question, like he would be upset that I watched our show without him.
But my look has nothing to do with the show.
Even though I did finish it without him. But I’m not telling him that, I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
I’m looking at him like that because I’m wondering how we got here. How did I not notice that this man moved into my heart and took up residence?
When did I fall in love with him?
How did I not realize?
I guess it happened slowly over time, and my heart and brain have finally decided to gang up together and knock some sense into me.
Seeing him at home here makes me realize that I had missed his presence so much over the past few days. I didn’t even notice until now, but I had been looking for him every time I came home. Like he belonged here with me. Seeing him here, on my sofa, holding my hand, and watching TV with me is such a simple thing but it’s everything to me. He belongs here, with me.
He’s shown me slowly over these past few months in the ways he takes care of me, watches over me. Like when he brings me my favorite Italian and knows my pizza order without asking. Like when he fixes the locks on my doors. Like when he held me and whispered reassurances in my ears.
I was in love with him.
But I can’t tell him that.
So instead, I ask, “What’s this about Thanksgiving?” Like the little chicken I am. Completely avoiding his questions about the show, and my internal thoughts and feelings. “You know that’s tomorrow, right? And if you invite someone the day before it’s totally obvious that you forgot to tell them.”
He cracks a small smile that I know has to do with my argumentative attitude. I just can’t seem to get rid of it when this man is involved.
“I didn’t forget. It’s fine. We’ll go to your parents for lunch, and mine for dinner,” he says in a way like we’ve been doing this for years. Then turns his attention back to the TV. “Now be quiet Cherry. I want to hear if Charmaine is really having Jack’s baby.”
That’s right. I got him hooked on Virgin River. It’s so damn good.
I smile at his bossy face, and I must stare too long because he turns back to me, takes in my expression, and gives me an equally goofy looking smile back. Then he says, “What are you looking at baby?”
I don’t even try to hide it.
“You.”
His goofy smile turns into a genuine one, and then cracks my already splintered heart wide open.
“You don’t have to go with me to my parents if you don’t want to. I thought you liked it when we had dinner with your parents, so I wanted you to meet mine, but if you’re not ready I understand.”
Gah, wasn’t he just the freaking sweetest?
I smile sweetly and scoot closer so that I’m pressed into his side. “That’s not it. Of course I would love to meet your parents. I hope they show me baby pictures.”
He groans, “Don’t make me tickle you Court. I know your weakness, and I’m not afraid to manipulate it.”
I smack his chest playfully, but when I start to pull my hand away, he holds it there. We stare into each other’s eyes for a minute, and my heart races to match the beat of his under my palm. I open my mouth not sure if at this moment I should tell him how I feel, but before I can, he raises the remote without looking, and starts the show again.
I’m the first to break eye contact, and angle my body back towards the TV, resting my head on his shoulder. We stay like that until our pizza comes and we eat on the floor with the boxes opened on the coffee table. When I start yawning every other minute Weston finally takes pity on me and tells me to go get ready for bed while he cleans up.
I change into one of Weston’s baseball shirts that he must have left here. It comes down to the tops of my thighs, and I think, only for a second, about whether or not I should put shorts on, but decide against it.
I leave the bathroom expecting to go back out into the living room to tell Weston goodnight, but he scares the hell out of me when I open the door. He’s standing on the other side, his shirt already discarded on the floor, propped up against the doorframe waiting for me.
His arms are folded against his hard, muscled chest. His biceps flex as he rakes his gaze over my body. “You look damn good in that shirt.”
My mouth is hanging open, and I should probably check for drool, but I can’t move.
His eyes are ablaze with obvious desire, and when he unfolds his arms from his chest, I think he’s going to finally make a move, but instead he yanks me by my wrist out of the doorway. He moves past me into the bathroom but turns around to take me in once again. I see his hands flex and his nostrils flare like he’s holding himself back, but he doesn’t act on it. He just closes the door quietly, and I hear the water running in the sink.
I get under the duvet, sitting back against my headboard, and grab my phone off the nightstand to set my alarm. I spend a few minutes scrolling Instagram before I hear the bathroom door open. Glancing up, I freeze letting my phone fall to my lap. We’ve slept together before, and I knew that he was only in his boxers the last time because I could feel it, but it’s a completely different story when I can see him wearing them.
My throat closes as I greedily watch him walk over to me. He’s closer to forty than thirty but looking at him like this you couldn’t tell. He’s built like a Hemsworth brother from his huge arms to his six pack to his calves. It’s incredibly clear that he works out and works out hard. There’s not even a little evidence of bloating from the pizza we devoured tonight.
I know he sees me checking him out, but he doesn’t comment. He simply climbs in next to me, turns my lamp off, and pulls me into his chest. I go willingly, and he runs his hands through my hair a few times and kisses my head. I'm asleep before I can even tell him “Goodnight.”