Nothing More Page 6

  chapter

  Eight

  THE ENTIRE WALK HOME I keep thinking:

  A. That was weird.

  B. I can’t stand Aiden and his creepy white hair and long legs—what the hell does he want with her, anyway?

  C. He’s probably trying to convert her to the dark side—but I’m onto him!

  When I open the apartment door, I’m met by the thick scent of vanilla. Either Tessa has gone overboard on the body spray again or someone is baking. I’m praying for baking. The smell of it comforts me—my childhood home was always full of the sweetest smells of chocolate chip cookies and maple squares—and I don’t really want to be feeling this way about some body spray; the bait-and-switch would be too similar to what I just had with Dakota . . .

  I toss my keys onto the wooden entry table and cringe when my Red Wings key chain chips off a flake of the wood. My mom gave me this table when I moved to New York and made me promise that I would take care of it. It was a gift from my grandma, and my mom holds anything associated with her late mother above nearly everything else, particularly since there isn’t much left—especially after Hardin shattered an entire cabinet of cherished dishes.

  My grandma was a lovely woman, my mom tells me. I only have one really strong memory of her, and in it she is anything but lovely. I was about six at the time and she caught me stealing a handful of peanuts from a massive barrel at the grocery store in town. I had a mouth- and pocketful of them in the backseat of her station wagon. I don’t remember why I did it, or if I even understood what I was doing, but when she turned around to check on me, she found me cracking open shells and chomping away. When she slammed on her brakes, I choked on part of a shell. She thought I was faking it, which only made her more upset.

  I coughed the lodged chunks out of my throat and tried to catch my breath as she busted a U-turn right in the center of the highway, ignored the honks from understandably angry drivers, and drove my butt back to the store. She made me admit what I had done and apologize not only to the clerk, but also to the manager. I was humiliated, but I never stole again.

  She passed away when I was in middle school, leaving behind two daughters, who couldn’t be more opposite from each other. The rest of my information about her comes from my aunt Reese, who makes it sound like she was a tornado compared to the rest of my calm family. No one messed with anyone with the last name Tucker, my mom’s maiden name, lest they had to deal with Grandma Nicolette.

  Aunt Reese is a cop’s widow with big blond hair, teased and sprayed high enough to hold her abundance of opinions. I always liked being around her and her husband, Keith, before he passed away. She was always happy, always so funny, and she snorted when she laughed. Uncle Keith, who I automatically thought was awesome because he was a cop, always gave me hockey trading cards when I saw him. I remember wishing he had been my dad a few times. Pitiful, yes, but sometimes I just wanted another guy around. To this day, I remember when he died, and the gut-wrenching screams of my aunt resounding through the hallways, and then the way my mom’s face was so pale and her hands so shaky when she told me, “Everything is fine, go back to bed, sweetheart.”

  Keith’s death turned everyone upside down, especially Reese. She nearly got her home foreclosed on because she was just that sad. She no longer had any interest in life, let alone pulling out a checkbook to write a check from an account full of blood money her husband’s life insurance had deposited there. She wasn’t cleaning, cooking, or dressing herself; she always took care of her children, though. The toddlers were bathed and groomed, their little round bellies proof that she put her children above anyone else. Rumor has it that my aunt gave all the money from Keith’s death to his oldest daughter from a previous marriage. I never met her, so I couldn’t tell you if it’s true or not.

  Reese and my mom were close their entire lives, being only two years apart in age. While Aunt Reese has only visited Washington once, they talk on the phone a lot. My grandma’s death didn’t seem to affect Reese the same way it did my mom. My mom dealt with it with a gentle approach and a lot of baking. Still, it was hard on her, and this table that I just scratched is about the only thing she has left.

  Bad son, I am—

  “Hello?” Tessa calls from the kitchen, interrupting the picture of little Yodas swimming around in my head.

  I bend down to remove my shoes and spare the spotless, old wood floors. Tessa spent all of last week polishing them, and I learned quickly not to wear my shoes inside for a while. For every footprint, I swear she spent twenty minutes on the floor with the little polisher tool in her hand.

  Given all the crap on New York’s streets, probably best to just always do that anyway, I guess—

  “Hello?” Tessa repeats, her voice closer now.

  When I look up, she’s standing a few feet from me.

  “You scared me,” she says, her eyes meeting mine. She’s been so nervous since someone broke into an apartment on the first floor a couple months back. She doesn’t say it much, but I can tell by her anxious glance to the door every time there’s a creak in the hallway.

  Tessa’s wearing a WCU T-shirt and her black leggings are covered in what appears to be flour.

  “Sorry. You okay?” I ask. The dark hollows under her eyes are evidence that she’s not.

  “Yeah, of course.” She smiles, shifting her feet. “I’m baking, and how can anything be wrong when you’re doing that?” Her words turns into a wry laugh. “Nora’s here, too, in the kitchen,” she adds.

  My brain skips past the latter part for now. “My mom would be proud.” I smile at her and toss my jacket on the arm of the chair.

  Tessa eyes it, but decides to let this slide. Aside from the cleaning, she’s a great roommate. She gives me my time and space in the apartment, and when she is here, I like her company. She’s my best friend and she’s not in the best place right now.

  “Yes!” I hear Nora yell.

  Tessa rolls her eyes and I shoot her a questioning look, to which she just she nods her head toward the kitchen.

  “Thank God,” she says sarcastically as I follow her into the kitchen.

  The sweet scent grows stronger with each step. Tessa walks straight to the small cart we call an island. At least ten baking pans are stacked on top of one another on the small space.

  Tessa lets me in on their reason for celebration. “She must have gotten this batch right.”

  “We took over your kitchen,” Nora tells me. Her greenish-brown eyes catch mine for a moment before she looks over at the mess.

  “Hey, Sophia Nora de Laurentiis,” I say, opening the fridge and grabbing a water.

  Hearing “Sophia,” Tessa opens her mouth to correct me, but then I think she gets my little joke and doesn’t say anything.

  For her part, Nora says, “Hey, Landon,” and barely looks up from her task.

  I try not to stare at the streaks of purple icing smeared on the chest of her black shirt, which is pretty tight, stretched out over her breasts, and the purple icing so bright . . .

  Look away, Landon.

  I look down at the purple mess in front of her, except it’s not a mess. It’s a three-layer cake, painted purple and covered in big lilac-and-white flowers. The center of the icing flower is yellow, dusted with glitter. The cake almost looks fake because the icing is so detailed. The candy flowers look as if they could actually have a lovely scent, and before I realize what I’m doing, I lean down and take a whiff.

  A small giggle sounds from Nora and I look up at her. She’s watching me like I’m animated.

  She’s really very beautiful. The high angles of her cheekbones make her look like a goddess. She’s exotic-looking, with her tan skin and light-brown eyes. Her hair is so dark, it’s shining under the buzzing light in the ceiling.

  I need to fix that light.

  A knock at the front door interrupts my stare-fest.

  “I got it,” Tessa says, then adds with a smile, “It’s so pretty, right?” She nudges Nora’s h
ip with her spatula and heads to the door. I’m happy to see her smiling.

  Nora blushes and turns her chin down. She hides her hands behind her back.

  “Indeed it is,” I agree.

  Reaching over, I cup my fingers under her chin and lift her face up to me. She gasps, full lips opening under my touch. My spine tingles when she jerks away.

  Whyyyy, oh why, did I just touch her like that? I’m an idiot.

  And embarrassed.

  An embarrassed idiot.

  This seems to be a recurring theme when she’s around. In my defense, she started the random touching the other day with the dark-fingernails-on-the-naked-stomach bit.

  Nora’s eyes remain on me. A touch of boredom is there, hidden behind the sheepish pride in her edible creation. I get the feeling that it takes a lot to please this woman.

  “What?” she says, like I’m halfway between being rude to and flattering her.

  I shrug. “Nothing.”

  I lick my lips, and her eyes scan my face, resting on my mouth. Her energy is kinetic; there’s something insanely electric about this woman. Before my thought can finish, she’s crossing the small space between us and has wrapped her hands around me, resting them behind my neck. Her mouth is harsh at first as her lips crush against mine. My mouth opens, welcoming her after I get over the initial shock of her action. Her lips are warm and her kiss is unforgiving as she slides her tongue over mine. I fight the urge to pull her closer and let the kiss soak into me. Nora’s hands are moving from my neck now. Her hands are small, but not dainty in the least. She has long, crimson nails today. She must get them done a lot. Her hands are sprawled out, rubbing against the tight muscles on my chest.

  Kissing, teasing, kissing.

  Kissing her is like touching hot wax. The brisk burn of surprise stings, but the burn quickly fades into the opposite, transforming into something else entirely, something softer. My hands find her hips and I push her body against the counter. Soft moans escape her, and her teeth bite at my bottom lip. My body responds before I can stop it. I try to take a step back so I won’t be pressing my arousal into her, but she’s not having it. She grips the top of my sweats and pulls me flush against her soft body. She’s swearing a tight shirt, and even tighter leggings. I know she can feel every inch of me pressing against her.

  “My God,” she breathes into my mouth.

  I sigh into her.

  She twists and pulls away, and instantly, I feel a pang of emptiness.

  Her red fingernail taps me on the tip of my nose and she smiles at me, cheeks red and lips swollen from our kiss. “Well, that was unexpected.”

  Her hand covers her mouth and she pinches her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger.

  Unexpected? You think so?

  I play it cool, leaning against the counter. I rest my elbows on the cold stone and try to think of something intelligent to say. My body is still humming, silent electricity shooting through my veins, while she looks like she’s completely unaffected.

  What was that about?

  I decide to be bold, like her. At least for a moment.

  “Why did you kiss me?” I question.

  She watches me, eyes narrowing, and takes a deep breath. The bottom of her shirt is pushed up slightly, caught on the tanned curve of her hip. She’s distracting me in every way without even trying.

  “Why?” she asks, seeming genuinely puzzled. Her hair escapes from behind her ear and she pushes it back. Her neck is exposed; it seems to be begging for my lips to cover her skin. “Didn’t you want me to?”

  Yeah, I did would sound desperate.

  No, I didn’t would sound rude.

  I struggle with the right answer. It’s not that I wanted her to kiss me. On the other hand, I didn’t not want her to kiss me. I’m confusing myself, so I know if I try to explain it to her, it will be an even bigger jumbled mess.

  As I stand there in stupid silence, she suddenly looks bored again, and I watch as the heat around her fades into a warm blur.

  But then she quickly changes the subject. “You should come out with me and my roommates tonight.”

  Okay . . .

  Part of me wants to continue the conversation and find out why she kissed me in the first place, but I figure that she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, so I won’t push it. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable or give her the impression that I didn’t enjoy it.

  I’m trying to learn how to “adult.” It’s getting easier each month, but sometimes I forget that instant intimacy is something only young people desire. If we were teenagers, her kissing me would automatically make us committed to each other in some way, but adult dating is so . . . so much more complicated. It’s a much slower process. It’s usually like this: You meet someone through your friend, you hit it off, you go on a date. By the end of date number two, you usually kiss. By five dates, you have slept together, twelve dates before you start sleeping over on a regular basis, a year before you move in together, another two you get married. You buy a house, a baby follows.

  Sometimes the last two are reversed, but most of the time this seems like how it goes. According to television and romantic movies. Sure, not for people like Hardin and Tessa, who clearly didn’t google the SparkNotes of Dating 101 and moved in together within five months of meeting, but still.

  “Is that a no?” she presses.

  I shake my head, trying to remember what we were talking about. Her roommates . . . Oh yeah, going out with her roommates.

  I look toward the living room when I hear Tessa talking to someone, and when I turn back to Nora, she’s stretching, holding her arms up in the air, exposing more skin. She’s tall and curvy; she looks to be at least five foot seven.

  It’s distracting, for sure.

  “Where will you be going?” I ask. I don’t want to decline, I’m just curious.

  “I don’t know yet, honestly.” She grabs her cell phone from the counter and swipes her finger over the screen. “Let me ask. We have this group chat that I usually ignore because it’s mostly just three horny chicks spamming pictures of hot, naked men, but I’ll ask.”

  I laugh. “Sounds like my kind of chat.”

  I immediately recoil at my own joke, but humor fills her eyes. Why won’t my mouth just stay closed around her? I need a lameness filter. Though if I couldn’t say anything embarrassing around her, I probably wouldn’t have much to say at all.

  “Well then . . .” She laughs. My awkwardness is drowned out by the sound. Her laughter is light, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I want to hear the sound again.

  “Sometimes I try too hard,” I admit, laughing with her.

  She tilts her chin up at me. “You don’t say.” Her lips are pouty now, as if she’s testing me. It’s like they are begging me to kiss them again.

  Her phone starts to play the theme song from a show I immediately recognize.

  I raise one eyebrow. “Parks and Rec? I didn’t think you were the type,” I tease.

  I loved that show until the internet stole it from the actual fans and turned it into a cool, memeworthy thing that I can’t wrap my mind around.

  She quickly ignores the call, but the phone starts ringing again, and Nora immediately swipes to ignore it and puts the phone on the counter. I consider asking her why she did that, just to make sure she’s okay. I can’t help it. It’s become some sort of habit of mine, making sure everyone is okay. Before I butt into Nora’s business, Tessa walks back into the kitchen followed by a young man wearing a red work vest and utility belt.

  “He’s here to fix the garbage disposal,” she explains. The man smiles at her, looking at her for a beat too long.

  “We have a garbage disposal?” I ask. This is news to me.

  Both women look at each other and do that thing where women use their eyes to say, Oh, men! like back in the fifties.

  Not fair. I help with dishes. I load them. I scrub them. I dry the silverware if Tessa doesn’t beat me to it. So I’m not j
ust a dumb dude who doesn’t know there’s a garbage disposal because I’m lazy—I just hadn’t noticed it. Or used it. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever used a garbage disposal in my life.

  Nora grabs her phone from the counter. It’s lighting up like it’s ringing again, but she must have switched it to silent. Her eyes close and she sighs. “I better go,” she announces. Her eyes move back down to her phone. She shoves it into the pocket of her jacket, which is hanging on the back of the chair, and which she then grabs.

  I move to help her and hold the jacket behind her as she maneuvers into it. The repairman takes notice of her, watching her as she hugs Tessa and then kisses me on the cheek. Something hot, with a shot of bitter, boils inside of me as he stares at her ass. He’s not even trying to hide it. Not that I blame him for wanting to look, but come on, be a little respectful.

  Before I smack some manners into the guy, Nora gives me a wave and says, “I’ll text you when I know where we’re going!”

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested, and just a tad worried that she won’t actually text me. I don’t know how many options she has lying around. I don’t know my competitors’ stats—oh Lord, I’m comparing dating to sports. Again. I’ve repeatedly come to the conclusion that they’re not that much different, but I’m better off looking at things from a different angle.

  But why am I already jumping to the conclusion that Nora wants to date me? Because she kissed me, then invited me to go out with her?

  Yes, that’s exactly why. I can’t tell if this a regression in my “adulting” progress or not.

  When Nora is gone, Tessa looks like a little chipmunk that has just found a stash of nuts hidden under some leaves. “What was that about?” she asks nosily.

  I’m so used to her intrusiveness it doesn’t bother me. I run my hand over my chin, tugging slightly at the hair growing there. I lift my hands up in defense.

  “I have no freaking clue, she just kissed me. I didn’t even know she knew my name—”

  “She what!” Tessa shrieks.

  This little sip of gossip is enough to keep Tessa Young going for days. I’ll definitely hear about it later. My mom may hear about it, too.