So Much More (Made for Love #3) (27 page)

Instead, I call Daphne.

“Is this an update call? Because if it’s not, if you haven’t kissed her, I’m hanging up on you. I’ve got a novel I’m trying to finish writing and Care-Bear is
finally
asleep. I have
this much
energy left—I won’t waste it on you if you haven’t kissed her.”

“Well, hello to you too, Daph.”

“You think I’m kidding? You
obviously
don’t have children. You have until the count of three—”

She starts counting and my laughter won’t be contained. “Okay!” I cry out before she can hang up on me. “Yes. We’ve kissed. Many times, now. In fact, I should probably apologize for not calling you sooner.”

“Fuck yes! So you’ve kissed more than once? That’s great. Tell me you’re going out with her tonight. Tell me that I still have a friend out there whose Saturday night doesn’t consist of binkies and diapers.”

“I think you and Trevor need a date night,” I chuckle.

She frees a loud sigh. “I love my daughter with all my heart, you know I do; but I swear, she knows exactly when mommy’s trying to get laid, at which point she decides it’s a
marvelous
time to scream. She’s not wrong—except
I
should be the one screaming.”

I throw my head back in laughter. “Doesn’t she have an aunt and uncle who might be able to help you out with that?”

Now she groans pathetically. “Yes. And they’ve offered. But a part of me is afraid to be away from her for too long. It’s only been four months. What if she needs me?”

I know it’s not the same thing, but I think about LB. I think about everything that I left undone before I left tonight. I think of all the things that could go wrong tomorrow because I didn’t stay to prep for the one day of the week that I’m not at work from before dawn until after dusk. Then I think of the capable hands I’ve left to man my baby and I know that everything will be alright.

“They love her, Daph. That’s all she really needs—to be left in the hands of people you know will love and protect her almost as much and as well as you do. One night—one date—one great lay—you can handle it. You
all
can.”

“You’re right. Damn—you’re
absolutely
right.”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” I tease.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m officially out of brain power. If I fall asleep while you’re talking to me, don’t be offended. I need more Brandon-hearts-Sarah details. Lay them on me.”

I talk to her for a few minutes, telling her about the week we’ve had—skipping the intimate details. I describe the date I’ve got planned and she murmurs her approval distractedly. She really does fall asleep, which I find incredibly amusing, and I’m not the least bit offended. By the time I disconnect from the call, I see I’ve managed to kill another half an hour. Even still, it’s only a quarter after nine. At this point, I’m too anxious to sit around. I decide to hop in my car, make one more stop, and then pick up Sarah.

Rachael and I close up Little Bird without a hitch and I’m home by nine thirty—which is barely enough time to do
anything
. Suddenly, I’m wondering why I agreed to a ten o’clock pick up time.

Because any later and you would have gone crazy missing him
, my heart informs me.

It sounds like an exaggeration, but it’s really the pathetic truth.

Who says it’s pathetic? Why not romantic?

Okay. Pathetic. Romantic. Endearing.
Whatever
. I don’t have time to dwell on it as I have just thirty minutes to take the quickest shower ever and pretty myself up.

Thank God I washed my hair this morning.

My shower is more of a quick rinse and frantic shave. I’m out—without a cut to gripe about—in precisely seven minutes. I manage to lather myself with lotion in three, which is better than the
four
it takes for me to find the lacy pink panties that match the bra I’ll be wearing tonight.

I may be a virgin, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to treat myself. Every woman should own pretty underthings. Whether or not I take the time to
match
my panties and my bras on a regular basis, however, is a different story. Not that I have any particular plan to show off the underwear I took the time to match tonight.

Then again—I don’t have a plan to
not
show them off, either.

Removing
them, on the other hand…

As I pull my baby-blue t-shirt over my head, I replay what Brandon said to me before he left LB.

We won’t do anything you’re not ready for…

I tug at my shirt, making sure it’s straight. The fabric clings to my figure, the wide neck allowing me to show off
just
enough cleavage to be alluring but not slutty. I slip on my printed skirt, tucking in my shirt before strapping on my oversized belt. It matches the killer wedged sandals I plan on wearing tonight.

Once I’m dressed, I’ve got ten minutes to do my face and pack my overnight bag.

My stomach tingles as I remember the rest of what Brandon whispered into my ear earlier.

…you
will
be waking up with me in the morning.

My heart begs the question—
but will I still be a virgin when I wake up?

Okay, yes, part of the reason I’ve waited so long to have sex is because I’ve always been taught that I need to wait until I get married. It’s what us church-folks
do
. But I made the decision with Luke—I made the decision that I didn’t want to wait anymore. In the bible it talks about not awakening your sexual desire before its time, but I thought Luke had awakened it and I was ready. I was most certainly wrong about Luke being the one, but now I have Brandon and—
Good Lord—
he’s awakened a part of me I don’t even recognize.

I want him.

It’s not just the horny princess in me talking, either. The fact that he wants me just as much—it makes me feel more sexy and desirable than I ever imagined I could feel. I don’t think I can ignore that. I don’t want to squander it. I don’t want to stifle it. I want to
embrace
it—I want Brandon to have it, to have
me
.

I’m falling in love with him. Call me crazy. Crazy. Infatuated. Hopeless.
Whatever
. I’m not a liar and neither is my heart. It doesn’t matter what anyone says, what matters is how I feel—how Brandon makes me feel. In barely two weeks, he’s somehow taken my aching heart and made it race again.

I can’t say what may or may not happen tonight when we’re all alone. I’m not sure whether or not I’ll be brave enough or bold enough to follow the moment wherever it may lead us. All I know for sure is that I cannot wait for him to get here. Simply being in the same space as him makes me happy.

I have to force myself to concentrate as I hurriedly apply a bit of makeup, wishing to avoid impaling myself with my mascara brush. What I manage in five minutes isn’t
glamorous
, but it’s better than my five a.m. efforts, which will have to suffice. I contemplate doing something other than
nothing
to my hair, but after I run a brush through it, I decide down is good enough. Just as I’m headed back to my room to pack, there’s a knock at the front door.

Time’s up.

T
HE T-SHIRT THAT HUGS
his chest reads:
Real Men Eat Cupcakes
. The grin that spreads across my face is for two reasons. First—because I love how his sense of humor has found its way into his sense of style. Second—because I love how he can make a
t-shirt
look hot as hell. He’s matched the charcoal-gray T with a pair of fitted blue jeans and army green, high top boots that hang open around the top.

It isn’t until my eyes meet his that I realize I
totally
just checked him out from head to toe—and he saw every second of it.

“Right back at ‘cha, Sunshine,” he says with a wink. Before I can find my words, he surprises me by revealing a bouquet of flowers he’s hidden behind his back. They’re beautiful and I immediately step forward to catch a whiff of their delectable aroma.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “They’re gorgeous.”

“You’re welcome.” He leans down and gives me a quick kiss. “Why don’t you put them in water and I’ll grab your bag.”

“Oh. About that.” He straightens up before I can finish, worry tugging at his brow. I quickly reach for his hand before I assure him, “I’m going to pack one, I just haven’t yet. I ran out of time. So, how about
you
find a vase and put those in water and
I’ll
go gather my things. Anyway, you’ll have just as much luck finding a vase in there as I would,” I say, nodding back at the kitchen.

“Okay.”

I reach for a kiss and he responds without hesitation. As he heads to the kitchen, I hurry to my room. Assuming that we’ll be headed to church and then brunch with Row in the morning, I search my closet for the appropriate attire. When I find an outfit that satisfies me, I grab a few things from the bathroom and shove them in my bag as well. Just before I zip it closed, I spot the shirt Brandon gave me to sleep in the other night. I think about bringing it with me, but I’ve been wearing it to bed all week. It probably could stand a wash—and if I need something to sleep in tonight, I’m not above swiping another T from his collection.

“I was looking for that,” he says softly, slipping his arms around my waist.

I jump, startled by his silent approach, but then relax against him. “Looking for what?”

“My shirt.”

I hum a laugh, turning around to face him. “It’s mine now.”

“Is that right?” I nod and the grin that makes his hazel eyes sparkle brings about my goose pimples. “Good to know. Are you ready?”

“Mmhmm.”

He reaches around me to zip up my bag and throws it over his shoulder before taking my hand. I weave my fingers between his, wishing to be locked to him, and grab my purse as we head out for the night.

We end up back in Old Town and he takes me to a jazz bar that I’ve never been to before called Spades. It’s a hole-in-the-wall place shrouded in dim, romantic lighting with a piano, a drum set, and a bass fit snuggly into the far corner of the room. Right now, there’s no music playing, but Brandon tells me that they must be on a break. He snags us a booth near the band. When he slides in next to me instead of across from me, my stomach tingles, in love with the fact that he doesn’t want to be too far away from me either.

“Are you a big jazz fan?” I ask.

“I’m not a connoisseur or anything, but I like this place. What about you?”

“When I was in college, I lived with my best friend and her twin. Avery is a cellist—”

“Right, Daphne’s friend.”

“Yeah, that’s her. She got me into that genre of music—classical and jazz. I don’t listen to it as much anymore, but I definitely appreciate it.”

“Well, I’ll admit, I didn’t really bring you here for the music.”

“No?”

“No,” he says with a smirk. “They’ve got this cake—” I gasp, suddenly excited, and lean in closer to him. He laughs, wrapping his arm around my shoulders before planting a kiss in my hair. “I love that about you.”

“Love what about me?”

“How excited you get about baked sweets. You don’t even know what kind of cake it is.”