Some Sort of Love (Happy Crazy Love #3) (12 page)

“Me too. Guess what?”

Hiccup. “What?”

“I asked my sister to watch Scotty overnight next Saturday.”

“You did?”

“Yes, and she said she’ll do it.”

“Oh my God, that’s awesome!”

“What’s awesome?” I heard someone yell, maybe Skylar. Then, “Everyone look at Jilly’s red face! Is that from the scotch or the conversation? Who are you talking to, Jillian?”

“Oh my God. My sisters are so annoying. Hold on, I’m going into the bathroom.” A minute later, I heard a bang, like a door being shut. “There,” she said. “Now I can talk.”

“What are they annoying you about?”

“They’re teasing me about you. Apparently they can tell by looking at me today what I was up to last night.”

I laughed. “Really.”

“Yes. I am glowing, they said. I clearly got laid.”

“Well, good. I hope.”

“Yes. It is good. So tell me about Saturday. Can you stay over?”

“We’ll have all night.”

I heard a long squeal, ending in a hiccup.

“I’m excited!”

“Me too. What would you like to do?”

“Hmmm. Go out to dinner? Watch a movie? I never did get to watch Shawshank.”

I smiled, but the memory of everything we did on her couch made my cock start to stiffen. “We could try that again.” My fingers hovered near my zipper.

“I could be a good girl this time,” she said coquettishly. “Keep my hands to myself.”

“Jillian Nixon, don’t you fucking dare.”

She laughed throatily. “You know me better than that.”

It made me happy to realize I did.

We talked or texted every day that week, and my anticipation grew so intense you’d have thought I was getting married on Saturday night. By the time I was waiting to be picked up for dinner at seven, the butterflies in my stomach were so frenetic I could have taken flight. And I’d never been the kind of girl that obsessed over what she wore—I knew what worked with my body and what didn’t—but it had taken me all day to decide on an outfit. I’d even consulted my sisters.

“Something sexy,” said Skylar. “You want to knock him out the moment he sees you.”

“Something sweet,” advised Natalie. “You want him to see you as more than just a fling.”

In the end I went with a little of both, pairing a sexy black pencil skirt with a soft, slouchy gray top and a great pair of heels in my favorite shade of red. I was ready ten minutes early and stood peeking out my bedroom window looking for his car. I’d set the scene in my bedroom already—candles on the dresser, clean sheets on the bed, and condoms in the nightstand.

When I saw his car pull up, my heart started to pound. Without waiting for him to knock, I went out the door, and we met on the front walk.

“Hi,” I said, drinking in the sight of him in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a charcoal jacket.

He kissed me, sending a shiver up my spine, and stepped back. “I want to scold you for not letting me collect you properly, but you looked so good running out here to meet me I can’t even do it. Your legs kill me.”

I smiled. “Good.”

We’d decided on sushi at Red Ginger, a restaurant both of us liked, and drove there together in his car.

“I still can’t believe in the last three years that we’ve never run into each other,” I marveled on the ride there, “especially since we like a lot of the same places.”

“I don’t really go out that often. Scotty doesn’t like hot food or sitting still for long periods of time, so eating in restaurants is somewhat challenging.”

“Aha.” I thought for a second. “Actually I don’t either, unless I’m with my sisters or something.”

“What do you normally do for dinner? You mentioned you don’t cook much.”

“I’m embarrassed to admit this, but a lot of nights I eat takeout or leftovers right from the container.”

“Let me guess—standing at the kitchen counter.”

I hid my face. “Guilty. Sometimes I make it to the couch.” I held up one finger. “But I always pour my wine in a real glass. That’s a hard limit for me.”

He laughed. “Of course it is.”

“I do want to cook more often. My mother and sister Natalie are so good at it. Sometimes they bring me what they call ‘mercy meals’ because they feel sorry for me.”

He glanced at me. “Why should they feel sorry for you?”

“Eating dinner late and alone so often sounds sad to them, I guess?” I shrugged. “It’s always been the norm for me, though.”

He picked up my hand and kissed the back of it. “I’d like to change that.”

I looked over at him, my mouth falling open. How was it possible he was so hot and so sweet at the same time? Didn’t one usually come at the expense of the other? I’d never met a guy who was so good at both. I’d dated hot guys who couldn’t spell monogamy, much less commit to it, and I’d met sweet guys who lacked the dirty mouth and sexual heat I wanted.

No wonder I was falling for him.

Don’t let me hit the ground
, I thought, staring at our hands, which rested in his lap, fingers laced.
Catch me. Please.

• • •

That night, after half a lemongrass martini gave me a little extra courage, I asked about his romantic history. I didn’t want to pry, but I couldn’t understand how any woman, career-minded or not, could abandon a guy like Levi—let alone her own son. I was devoted to my job too, but that was too steep a price for me to grasp.

“How long did you date Scotty’s mom?” I tried to sound casual, but my stomach was jumping.

“About six months before she got pregnant, so about two years all told.”

“Was that your longest relationship?”

He took a drink of his Manhattan and winked at me. “Is this an audition?”

Embarrassed, I dropped my eyes to my plate. “No, of course not. I’m just curious.”

“Jill, I’m teasing.” His fingertips touched my wrist; the shortening of my name squeezed my heart. “Yes, it was. Prior to meeting Tara, I had one relationship in college that lasted about eight months.”

“What happened to her?”

“She went home for the summer and got back together with her ex-boyfriend.”

“That stinks.”

He shrugged. “Actually, I didn’t much care. She was jealous and drove me crazy with her constant questions and accusations. And she was always begging me to tell her I loved her.”

“Ah.” I picked up my drink. “And did you?”

“Tell her? Yes.” He sighed and took another sip. “But I didn’t actually love her. And I’m such a bad liar, she probably knew it.”

“Why’d you tell her if it wasn’t true?”

“I was nineteen and had the emotional sensitivity of a rock; she was pretty and liked to have sex. I thought I should tell her what she wanted to hear, and didn’t think it mattered that much.” He winced, closing his eyes. “God, I was really an asshole. I’m an even bigger asshole for saying it out loud, aren’t I?”

“No judgies,” I said honestly, setting my glass down. “Who’s emotionally sensitive at nineteen, anyway? I certainly wasn’t.”

“Maybe not, but you were a hell of a lot of fun.” His twinkling eyes caught mine over the edge of his glass, and my panties melted a little.

Over sushi and crab rangoon we shared favorite memories from our childhoods, and I learned that Levi had grown up in a tight-knit family that believed in tough love, easy forgiveness, and speaking your mind.

“Sounds like my family,” I said. “There’s not much we hold back.”

“Sometimes I wish they
would
hold back a little,” he confessed. “I know they mean well, and I’m sure they’re all better parents than I am, but I’m doing the best I can. And I know Scotty better than they do.”

“You’re doing an amazing job.” I reached out and touched his sleeve. “I know you are.”

He gave me a smile that warmed my insides. “Thanks.”

“Are you nervous about tonight? About him being away from home, I mean?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “But I’m not going to think about it too much. He seemed OK when I left, and I’ve been dreaming about this for a week.” He paused. “For eleven years, actually.”

“Ha!” I stuck a piece of sushi in my mouth. “Liar.”

“You’d know if I was lying. Believe me.” He picked up a crab rangoon. “So tell me about your family. I don’t even have to ask if you’re close to your sisters. What about your parents?”

“Yes. Everyone is disgustingly close, but like your family, we are very outspoken with each other and that can grate nerves. If I never hear ‘You work too much’ ever again, it’ll be too soon.”

He smiled. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Over sea bass and grilled tuna we shared firsts and favorites, and I learned that his first kiss had been at age fourteen (two years before mine), he lost his virginity at sixteen, (also two years ahead of me), and his favorite thing in the world was when his son rubbed his earlobe.

“That’s so cute,” I said. “Like a little sign.”

“It is cute. And I know he’s happy when he does it, which makes me feel so good.” He took a bite of tuna. “What about you? What makes you feel good?”

“Hmmm. I love laughing with my sisters. I love curling up with a good book and a glass of wine.” I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “And I feel pretty damn good when I’m naked with you.”

He smiled and leaned in too. “Then you’re gonna feel fucking amazing all night long.”

Check, please.

Over coffee with Bailey’s we described our dream vacations (both of us were torn between the mountains and the beach) and described our perfect day.

“Hmmm, no schedule. I’d definitely sleep in,” he said, lifting his cup to his lips. “Then I’d make a big breakfast for Scotty and me, and maybe take him to an afternoon ball game. We’d eat a bunch of junk food and yell for our team and overpay for souvenirs. Then maybe a nap. Then I’d make dinner—Italian food, because spaghetti and meatballs are his favorite. Cold, of course. After that I’d take Scotty to the symphony. And there would be no tears, no meltdowns, no frustrations.”

Listening to him tell me about his favorite things and perfect day, I could see what he meant about balance—everything was about his son. “What about
you
?” I asked. “Do
you
like classical music?”

“I do,” he said, setting his cup down. “I didn’t know much about it until Scotty got interested in it. But I find myself putting it on at work sometimes, or in the car.”

“What’s
your
favorite meal?”

“You mean besides Jillian pie?”

My cheeks warmed. “Yes. Besides that.”

“I like red meat. Maybe a pan-seared rib eye with roasted potatoes.”

“I’ll remember that.” Although I’d have to learn how to pan-fry a steak. Roasting potatoes sounded easy enough, though. “And what about a perfect day that’s just for you? Would you still do the baseball game and symphony?”

“Just for me? Then no. I’d wake up with you, and we’d never get out of bed.”

I laughed, my heart fluttering madly. “That sounds nice.”

“And you? Perfect day?”

“Oh, I like the one you described, where we never have to get out of bed. Although we’d get hungry.”

“Well,
I’d
eat Jillian pie all day.”

I shook my head. “You’re a fiend. But I like it.”

“Good.”

“OK, last question. If you had a million dollars, what would you do with it?”

“A million dollars,” he mused, staring into his cup. “Honestly, I don’t know. The things I want most don’t cost money.”

I tilted my head to one side. “What do you want?”

He didn’t answer right away, and all other sounds in the restaurant seemed to fade away as he thought. “Mostly I’d like to stop feeling guilty.”

“Why do you feel guilty?”

“Different reasons. But I guess what I think of most often are the promises I made to Scotty the day Tara left.”

My throat got tight, and I swallowed hard. “Can you tell me about it?”

He played with the handle of his coffee cup as he spoke. “While she moved out, I took Scotty to the park and held him while I rocked back and forth on a swing, which always calmed him. I told him it was only going to be him and me from now on, and even though it would be hard sometimes, we’d be OK. I promised to take care of him, to be the best dad I could be, to give him everything I could. And I promised myself that somehow I would make up for the fact that I’d…” His voice trailed off and he took another drink of his coffee.

“You’d what?”

He set the cup down again, still staring into it. “That I’d brought a child into a fucked up relationship, that I hadn’t been enough to make his mother want to stay, that I was all he had.”

I took a deep breath, not at all sure I wouldn’t start to weep for him there at the table.

“And I try every fucking day to live up to that. To do right by him. By everyone I care about. But I feel like it’s not enough.” He took a breath and exhaled, finally meeting my eyes. “I wish I were more than I am.”

“Levi.” I reached across the table and took his hand. “You’re enough.”

He smiled, although I could tell he didn’t believe me, and glanced down at our hands. “I’m not, but you make me feel that way.”

God, I wanted to crawl over the table and get in his lap. “I know what that’s like, to feel like you’re not enough,” I said softly, still fighting tears. “But you are. I promise you. With me you are.”

He nodded, his eyes meeting mine again. “With you I am.”

The mood had shifted, the playful tone of our conversation replaced by a quiet intensity. He squeezed my hand, and I wondered if he wanted me as badly as I wanted him—needed him. And my need was different now. It wasn’t only physical—I realized at that moment how he made me feel like I was enough, like I was worthy of him, worthy of love. The way he wanted me, the way he shared himself with me, the way he was willing to change things in his life to be with me…he was spending a night apart from his son for the first time in years for me. How could I show him what that meant? How could I make him see what I saw—this gorgeous, giving man who worried so much about doing right by the people he loved? I needed him to know he was more than enough.