Page 24 of Never Pucking Ending

But if he listens close enough, he may be able to hear the wild drum of my heartbeat as it tries propelling out of its cage.

Slowly, I sink back onto my heels and look at him through my lashes. His eyes are dark as he stares at me, his nostrils twitching once before he almost involuntarily leans forward to close the distance between us again.

My heart lurches into my throat when I think he’s going to kiss me but stops short. His forehead rests against mine, the tips of our noses touching, and he remains there. I can feel it—the indecision in the air. The thick contemplation about whether or not to close the gap once and for all.

And dear baby Jesus do I want him to.

I want him to grab my face and pull me into him. I want him to wrap my legs around his waist and lay me down on this couch. I want to feel his lips against mine and know what he tastes like.

Maybe it’s the show’s fault for amping us up. We could be worked up from the delicious scenes between the main characters. Or maybe it’s just easier to write it off that way.

I hear him swallow, then see his eyelashes flutter closed until he huffs out a long breath.

Defeat.

Withdrawal.

He pulls away then, putting an efficient amount of space between our bodies.

“I’m glad you like it,” he rasps, clearing his throat and looking away. Then he stands, quickly making his way to the door. “I think I’m going for a run.”

My eyes widen. “It’s the middle of the night.”

All I hear is, “I’ll wear my reflective belt,” before the front door closes hard.

He never changed out of his sweatpants.

*

At some point while the masseuse works on the knotted muscles in my shoulders, I drift off to sleep. I only come to when I hear the end of my mother say, “…don’t you think?”

It’s not the first time today I’m unintentionally tuned her out. We arrived at the spa at eleven this morning, after stopping to get brunch where bottomless mimosas were offered to us. I couldn’t resist the apple cider mimosa with the cinnamon sugar rim when I saw it on their special’s menu.

Pair that with a night of tossing and turning, an MIA stepbrother, and a very skilled massage therapist’s hands, and I was falling asleep within the first hour of being here.

“Sorry,” I apologize groggily, realizing she’s probably been talking for a while now. “What did you say?”

She sighs from the table a few feet away where she’s getting a Swedish massage. “I said my friend’s son is in contracting and has been looking for new gigs now that he finished his latest project. I told her I could ask if you needed help with your store.”

I frown into the head rest. “Which friend?”

“Jennifer. Does it matter?”

The last time she wanted one of her friend’s kids to meet Jesse, he went full stalker mode. So, yes. It matters. “I don’t want a repeat of the Karley situation. She and her son were batshit crazy.”

I can hear the instant defense in Mom’s voice when she replies, “I had no idea that would happen. Nobody told me that her son was a superfan.”

The snort escapes me before I can help it. “It isn’t even that he was a superfan. He was a fan for the opposing team. He wanted to make Jesse’s life hell and play mental games with him, so he choked during his game. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a documentary about that psycho one day.”

I know Mom feels bad about that, but there is no way any of us are forgetting that in this lifetime. “I apologized for that a million times and don’t talk to Karley anymore. Plus, you know Jen’s son. You used to play in the sandbox together when we’d go over to their house.”

Wracking my brain for any recollection of that is fuzzy at best. I do vaguely remember Mom having a friend with a cool swing set in their backyard. There was also a slide, a small trampoline that we were never allowed on after another kid fell and broke his leg, and a sand box.

My brows wrinkle. “Was he the one who always used to pick his nose? Or the little boy who used to try dumping sand down my dress?”

Mom scoffs. “He only did that because he liked you and wanted your attention.”

If my eyes were open, I’d roll them. “We need to ditch that narrative. Why are we letting little kids believe people being mean to them means they like them? Hello toxic masculinity.”