Page 38 of Blind Side
I learned his body in the light—the places that made him gasp and the places that made him go still. The map of his body that I'd been constructing in my imagination for years, I could now confirm with my hands and my mouth. He was responsive and open in a way that undid me.
His hands touched me back, exploring me with a fervor that told me he'd been holding back as long as I had. He found the scar on my shoulder and kissed it. He found the sensitive spot below my ear and memorized it. He paid attention with the same instinctive, comprehensive skill he brought to reading rooms.
Being the focus of Jamie Hayes's full attention in this context was the most overwhelming experience of my life.
"Clay," he said, my name in his mouth. Not Abbott—Clay. "I can't believe I get to have this."
"You've always had it." I pressed my forehead to his. "You just didn't know."
An hour later, we lay in the tangled remains of the morning. The apartment was warm. Jamie Hayes was in my bed with his head on my chest and I was running my fingers through his hair.
"I have to call my agent," I said. "I'm going to withdraw the acceptance."
"I know."
"Jamie."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for asking me to stay."
He lifted his head and looked at me with an expression I would carry for the rest of my life.
"Thank you for staying," he whispered.
20
Jamie
Abbott called Marty from the kitchen. I could hear him, his voice low in that professional tone.
I was making coffee, standing in Clay Abbott's kitchen barefoot, and wearing his t-shirt because mine was somewhere in the living room.
I was making coffee in his machine with his coffee. I knew how he took it (black, the darkest roast he could find) and I knew where he kept the filters (top shelf, left side). I knew the exact ratio of grounds to water that he preferred, because I'd been paying attention for years.
"Marty, I need to withdraw my acceptance."
I could hear the pause on the other end, the silence of an agent who was about to ask a question he already knew the answer to.
"I'm sure," Abbott said. "I understand there may be consequences. I understand Denver will be unhappy. I need you to make it work."
He listened, nodding at something I couldn't hear. His posture, which I'd been watching from across rooms for years, was the composure of a man who had made a decision. There was no second-guessing.
"Thank you, Marty. I'll handle Chicago from my end."
He hung up and turned around. I was holding two mugs, his black, mine with cream and sugar. He looked at me standing in his kitchen in his shirt, holding coffee I'd made for both of us.
He crossed the kitchen and took his cup, his other hand covering mine where I held my own cup. His thumb rested against my knuckle, a small deliberate point of contact.
"Done," he said.
"Done?"
"Marty's handling the withdrawal. There'll be some cleanup. Denver won't be happy, and Chicago's front office will have questions. But it's done."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." He took a sip of coffee, making that small sound he made when his coffee was perfect. "You made it exactly how I like it."
