Chapter Eighteen

Kendall

The pillow underneath my cheek is soft like cashmere. So are the sheets covering my naked body, and I want to stay in this spot forever. I’m warm, snuggly, and—I take a deep breath—surrounded by the smell of fresh laundered—maybe even new—high-thread-count cotton and him.

Vaughn.

Vaughn with his skillful hands, multitalented mouth, incredible stamina, and decided disposition to make me feel special. After having me on the patio, the rest of our naked time was spent covering every surface in his room, moving through intimate positions that made me blush. And I may be a novice, but when he moved with slow, purposeful strokes inside me, our gazes locked on each other, I felt more than just a physical connection.

I blink my eyes open.

I’m not falling for him or anything, just extremely satiated.

Sunlight slips inside the room underneath the partially opened curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows. Last night Vaughn had wrapped me in his arms and shared points of interest lighting up the cityscape beyond the glass. When a shooting star had twinkled across the sky, we’d both caught the show. He’d said, since we saw the star together, we should make a wish together.

“Aloud?” I’d asked. “How will it come true, then?”

“I already got my wish tonight, so anything else is a bonus,” he’d whispered in my ear. It had tickled. In places besides my earlobe.

“Okay. What should we wish for?”

With his chin resting on my bare shoulder, he’d let out a deep breath. “Nude Mondays.”

“Be serious!”

“I am. Think about it. Everyone hates Mondays. But if clothing was optional, I bet it would become everyone’s favorite day of the week. Better than Friday.” Then he’d kissed the slope of my neck and we’d stopped talking.

I roll over now to smooth my hand across the spot he left vacant sometime this morning. Before we’d fallen asleep around two a.m., he told me I could sleep in as late as I wanted. He had to meet up with his trainer for a trail run at nine. I giggled when he made the cutest face and said he’d cancel, but doing so last minute meant a follow-up workout that would leave him sore for days.

Speaking of sore, I’m achy between my legs. An ache I’ll gladly suffer again and again. I smile at the reminder of the amazing night I had.

His bedside clock reads 10:07. Ten. Oh. Seven. I can’t remember the last time I slept so peacefully for eight hours straight. The Vaughn Effect is officially at maximum-strength potency. Sighing, I sit up, keeping myself covered. It’s then that I notice a plate on the nightstand, holding two of the chocolate chip cookies I brought last night. Beside it is a pink blossom that looks suspiciously like one of Aunt Sally’s carefully tended damask roses standing tall in a drinking glass half full of water. Propped against the glass is a plain white notecard with my name scrawled across it.

I fall back onto my pillow with the biggest grin ever in the history of grins. He carefully planned last night, but this? This is spur of the moment. If Vaughn keeps this up, my heart doesn’t stand a chance.

Heart? Uh-uh. Good friends with benefits, remember?

Of course I remember. But I roll out of bed anyway, dress quickly—sans panties, since I can’t find them—and then sit at the edge of the comforter and bite into a cookie. Sex multiple times obviously leaves a girl with an appetite.

My eyes stray to the rose. It’s in full bloom, and I can’t resist touching one velvety petal. Yes, there’s a whole bush full right next door, but Vaughn picked this one for me. Picturing him sneaking over to steal a flower puts a smile on my face. A little naughty, a lot charming, and totally Vaughn. He’s showing me all his sides even though I don’t think he’s aware he’s doing it.

And the note reads as follows… Kendall, has anyone ever told you that you sleep like an angel? You do. A sexy angel. Next time I promise to wake you properly. ~Vaughn

I read his words several times before tucking the note into my handbag. I don’t have the words to describe the joy they bring me. With my shoes and purse dangling in one hand and the flower in the other, I slip out his front door.

Dixie and Amber are sitting side-by-side at the breakfast bar when I walk into the kitchen. They both stop mid cereal spoon to their mouths when they see me. Even Snowflake looks up from chewing her dog bone to check me out. I swear she nods her head in approval.

“Looks like someone had her cherry popped,” Dixie says.

I’m pretty sure cherry describes the color of my cheeks. I put my things down on the counter and stand across from them.

“Pretty flower,” Amber says.

“Yes,” I say in answer to both their observations.

A beat of silence passes and then the three of us start giggling like…well…sisters. Don’t get me wrong. I have no delusions about us being best friends. But there’s a connection here. One I hope we can continue to cultivate.

“So? How was it?” Amber asks, pushing her bowl of cornflakes to the side.

“Amazing,” I breathe out. “All three times were amazing.”

Amber lets out a victory whoop and throws her arms in the air like her team just scored the winning field goal. “Three times, Miss Dixie. Pay up!”

Dixie makes a face. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I owe you twenty bucks. As for you, princess”—she points a finger my way, but I see a definite grin lurking beneath her sore-loser expression—“there’s a fine line between glowing and gloating. He’s hot. He’s good in bed. Enough said.”

As if mere words could stop me from glowing or gloating. But for once the old nickname doesn’t sound like an insult. It’s lost its bite because now I’ve done something she can relate to. Possibly even respect. But more importantly, I respect myself. There will be only one first, and I chose a guy who viewed that as an honor. When he looked at me, it was like no one else existed.

My stomach flutters at the memory. “Enough said? So you don’t want to know he was super-attentive? Or that he wiped out my insecurities thirty seconds after I walked through the front door? Or he made me laugh as hard as he made me come?”

“Just don’t fall for him,” Dixie says around her last bite of cereal.

“I won’t,” I quickly say, and disavow all knowledge of the little voice in my mind that whispers it’s a lie. I can’t listen to that voice, and I have no plans to share it with my sisters. Brit is waiting for my call, so she’ll remind me I need to figure out my own life before thinking about a relationship with someone. She’s beyond excited about Vaughn and me having a good time together, but she’s also sensible. Cautionary when it comes to getting too attached when I’m the temporary neighbor and he’s got goals that collide with mine.

“Gotta shower,” I say to cut off any more discussion from either Dixie, Amber, or the whisper in my head. I scoop my stuff up off the counter and take the stairs two at a time to my room. Once inside, I close and lock the door. I strip off my clothes. In the confines of the cream-and-white tiled shower, my muscles and mind relax under the hot water.

I know what I’m doing, right? And what I’m not doing. This is my summer of self-discovery, and Vaughn is an important and unexpected part of it. Being with him released me from the burden on my heart. Mostly. The next step is accepting law school. There are lots of things I can do with a law degree besides practice law. That I can’t think of what those are isn’t cause for concern. I’ll have three years to figure it out.

The thought hurts and helps at the same time.

…

“Good morning!” I walk into Art In Progress on Monday with two iced coffees, one silly grin over memories of my first dirty text, and a gigantic breakfast burrito for Candace and me to share. “I brought sustenance.” She’s been working overtime to get ready for the exhibit, and as the kick-ass assistant I am, I support her efforts with caffeine and carbs.

She looks up from behind the reception desk to give me a quick smile. “Bless you.”

“Is everything okay?” More lines than usual crease her forehead. I hand her a coffee then slide a chair over to the desk. I pull the warm burrito, already cut in half, out of the brown bag. The smell of egg, cheese, and cilantro wafts to my nose.

“I just hung up the phone with Josie. She has the stomach flu,” she laments.

“Josie?”

“Our art teacher. She was supposed to teach a class this morning. The kids are putting the final touches on their paintings for the exhibit.”

“You don’t have anyone who can substitute?” I take a sip of my drink.

“Not on such short notice. And I’d do it, but I’ve got a list a mile long of things to get done before Wednesday and have a meeting with our publicist in an hour and then the framers are coming to start framing the artwork and the lighting company is after that and then the photographer—”

“Did you forget you’ve got me?” I ask, not the least bit offended I seem to have been overlooked. Two days together is hardly enough time to put me at the forefront of her thoughts.

Candace lets out a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I did, kind of. You have no idea how happy I am that you’re here.”

“Tell me what you’d like me to do today and I’ll do it. You have no idea how happy I am to be here, too.”

“How do you feel about teaching?”

“Done.” I peeked in on a music class last week and I’d venture to say “teaching” is a loose term. The students are afforded a lot of creative freedom, and they seem to thrive on it. Guidance might be a better term than teaching, and I can do that. I’ve done my fair share of paint-by-numbers.

“Whatever angel sent you to me, I’m very grateful.” She pulls back the paper covering her burrito and brings the stuffed tortilla to her mouth. “Thank you.”

“I could say the same to you.”

She tilts her head to consider me. She hasn’t asked me to elaborate on the traumatic event I mentioned to her when we met, but I’m certain she’s thinking about it now. If she’d asked me last week, I probably would have declined. But today, I’m okay with it. Actually—I put my burrito down—I’d like to tell her.

“When I was seventeen, I made a huge mistake and got behind the wheel of my boyfriend’s car after winning a game of ‘Who’s more sober?’ Unfortunately, as it turned out, we both lost. I hit a tree and suffered minor injuries, but he went through the windshield.” I talk for another minute, appreciative when Candace doesn’t look at me with pity or disgust. She doesn’t judge. She asks a few questions like, how long before I stopped having dreams in which Mason miraculously recovered and life went back to “normal”? A couple of years, I tell her, and in saying so, realize it’s true. The life I’m living nowadays feels “normal.” My hopes and dreams spring from who I am and where I am now.

When she wants to know if there’s any salsa in the takeout bag—as if a kick-ass assistant like me would neglect to bring salsa—just like that, we fall back into comfortable conversation, talking about the list of things that need to be done in the next forty-eight hours. The more we discuss, the more excited I get. I can’t wait to show her what I’m made of. I’ve never shied away from hard work.

At ten o’clock my summer class starts. “Hi everyone, I’m Kendall, and I’ll be overseeing your class today. How was your weekend?”

“Good,” they return.

“I can see you’re just about done with your paintings and have put a lot of hard work into them.” I walk between the four teenagers sitting on stools in front of easels. The theme for the exhibit is “The Power of Us,” and on each canvas is the artist’s unique rendition.

“Would you please introduce yourselves?” I ask.

“I’m April.”

“Javier.”

“Brooklyn.”

The fourth student, a boy whose light brown hair is bisected with a scar several inches long, doesn’t say anything.

“His name is Will and he doesn’t talk,” April tells me.

“That’s okay,” I say, a sharp pang stabbing my heart. Not pity, but concern. For the first few days after the accident, I barely spoke a word. It was easier for me to keep things bottled up inside. “Can you hear me, Will?”

He nods.

I ache to know all of the stories in this room, and maybe with time I’ll get to hear them. April, Javier, Brooklyn, and Will look to be around sixteen or seventeen, close to the age I was when I crashed Mason’s car. I’m not sure I believe in fate, but if my aunt hadn’t asked me to house-sit for the summer, I wouldn’t be standing in this room right now, trying to hear these kids and trying to help them.

“It’s nice to meet all of you,” I say. “Your artwork is beautiful.” It truly is, but I stall in front of Will’s piece, awe overcoming me. He’s chosen to use charcoals instead of watercolors like the others, and the depth and detail are amazing. The drawing depicting three young girls playing with a large black-and-white dog is so lifelike it’s as if I could reach out and touch them.

Are they girls he knows? Sisters? Friends? Will’s focus is fixed firmly on his picture, his shoulders hunched in concentration. Whether from his memory or imagination, it’s remarkable and tugs at something in me. My eyes see the girls as Dixie, Amber, and me, bonded in a way we never were at that age, but maybe are heading toward now. Seeing it leaves me a little sad about our past but hopeful about our future. I have no idea how much Candace is charging for these works of art, but I want to buy this one.

“Where’s Josie?” Brooklyn asks.

“She has the stomach flu.” I resume walking around the easels, impressed by each picture. The talent varies, but that’s not what this is about. It’s about the artists pouring out their feelings, and that mission is accomplished—in the colors, shapes, shades, and clarity.

April stops painting. “Will she be okay for the exhibit?”

“I’m sure she’ll try her best to be here,” I say, moved by the concern. This group may be here because they need emotional support, but that hasn’t stopped them from caring about someone else.

I could easily pull up an easel and join them.

…

The house is dark when I get home. I flip on the lights and try not to trip on Snowflake, who is underfoot and barky about being left alone in her big, comfortable house with her millions of dog toys. I scoop her up and fuss over her as I make my way to the kitchen for something to quickly curb my major hunger pains. Luckily, the kitchen just happens to be Snow’s favorite room in the entire world, so she settles in my arms and switches from annoyed bark to excited bark. “Are you hungry, girl? Me, too. And unlike one of us, who has three live-in servants to see to her meals, I’m running on half a breakfast burrito, which is way under my normal calorie intake.” Not that I thought much about food today. I was having too much fun substitute teaching and helping to prep for the art show.

Still holding Snow, I open the cupboard where Sally keeps the dog treats, dig out one shaped like a fish, and let Snow inspect it. She approves by biting off the tail. Great. I put her down with her feast and scan the room. The plate of chocolate chip cookies is right where I left it on the kitchen counter. I peel back the clear plastic wrap and take one of the remaining two, only to hear a greedy whimper at my feet. I shake my head at Snow. “No. This is my treat. That’s yours,” I say, and use my foot to point at her biscuit. Then I bite into the cookie. Snow grumbles and then turns tail, takes her biscuit, and runs off.

As I eat both cookies, my thoughts stray to Vaughn and the smile on his face when he devoured the ones I brought him. I’ve probably smiled a dozen times today thinking about his killer green eyes and the words that come out of his sexy mouth.

Licking crumbs off my fingers, I notice a lined piece of paper with writing scrawled across it. I reach over. Snow has been walked and received her “good walk” treat. Don’t let her con you into giving her another.

Oops.

Dixie and I are at the ArcLight for a movie. Text if you’re home before seven and want to join. A & D

I glance at the digital clock above the stovetop. It’s seven fifteen.

I’m not too disappointed but wish I’d known sooner so I could have tried to meet them at the theater. Looks like it’s a turkey sandwich then bed for me. Just as well, since tomorrow will be another insanely busy workday. My lips twitch in anticipation.

I startle when there’s a knock on the kitchen door. It’s Vaughn. And oh my God, is that a pizza box in his hands?

“Hi!” I say, opening the glass door and trying to act like he isn’t the best thing since, well ever.

“Hey. Pizza delivery.” He gives me a quick kiss on the mouth before striding inside.

The pie smells delicious, but he smells better. Which is crazy given my love of carbs, but apparently I’m not the only one who notices because Snowflake charges into the kitchen to bark with joy and dance around his feet.

I don’t blame her. “Thank you. I’m starving.”

He puts the box down on the counter, and I notice things Snow will never properly appreciate, like the way his T-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders. The guy is dangerous coming or going. And I’m hungry for more than food now.

“Me, too,” he says, turning to look at me. My legs go weak at the blatant hunger in his eyes.

I think he wants more than pizza, too.

“What kind did you get?” I manage to perch on a barstool without flinging myself into his arms.

“I wasn’t sure what your favorite toppings were”—his gaze bounces around the kitchen—“or who else might be joining this pizza party, so I took the safe bet and went with cheese only.”

“Dixie and Amber went to a movie, so it’s a pizza party for two. And I love just cheese.” And you.

Whoa. So not an appropriate thought. I lift the box lid and give Vaughn a slice before taking my own. He pulls a chunk of crust from his piece, shows it to Snow, and then tosses it into the hall with a “Go get it, girl!” before I can say, “No! She’s already had two treats.” Oh well. Off she goes. I’m in such a hurry to stuff my face and hide my affection for him anyway, that I burn the roof of my mouth.

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” I fan my hand in front of my face. “It’s hawt.” I need to chill out. It’s normal for friends to feel attachment, so I don’t need to burn my tongue off in order not to accidentally blurt out something inappropriate.

“How about we slow down, Speed Racer, plate our food, and take it to the couch?”

I nod. Then watch as he takes care of everything, including glasses of water and napkins. I follow him to the family room where we sit facing each other on the sofa. There is no end to how long I could stare at him.

“This is really good. Thanks again,” I say.

“Welcome. I’m glad our timing worked out.” His attention hasn’t strayed from me for even a second, his eyes keeping us connected and making my body heat. He’s a pretty intense friend. Just saying.

“How did your final audition go? It was today, right?”

He runs a hand over his smooth, angular jaw. “It went well, I think.”

“What did they have you do?”

“Another actor and I were put into a room and thrown a bunch of scenarios, like this person is going to move forward, this person is not, this person is a great singer, and then we had to improv what we’d say.”

“You are a smooth-tongued devil, Vaughn Shaughnessy. I bet you slayed every single one of their scenarios.”

“I must have done okay because then they called me into a room by myself and said, ‘The judges just tore a performance to shreds and the contestant’s father passed away two weeks ago, go.’”

“Oh my gosh, that’s horrible. What did you say?”

He scans the room like he’s looking for the answer. “I—um—I said bravery takes different forms, and tonight you showed us one of them. Getting up here, continuing to compete, made a whole lot of people really proud of you. They’re rooting for you to come back strong next week.”

Smooth-tongued doesn’t begin to cover it. “How did you come up with something so perfect off the top of your head?”

“I don’t know. I tried to say what I’d want to hear if I was the contestant.”

“You nailed it.”

“I hope so. The new set is sick, by the way. Regardless of what happens, maybe I can get you in to take a look around.”

“Can’t say no to that.” Pizza sauce smudges the corner of his mouth, so I wipe it away with the pad of my thumb.

He puts his plate on the coffee table, and waits for me to finish my bite before taking my plate and placing it atop his. “Can I get you to say yes to my next question, too?”

We lean toward each other. It’s slow-motion torture. It’s also safe to say I will agree to all his requests. And that’s a fairly frightening realization, especially considering I thought all the scary parts of this…whatever this is…were behind me. They’re not, though. Each step I take with Vaughn is new and leads down an unmapped path. Are there landmines here? Do I care? “What’s the question?” I mutter.

“Put this on me?” Somehow he’s produced a condom packet in his hand.

Oh my. If this is a landmine, I will gladly throw myself on it. Lifting my brows and fluttering my lashes, I ask, “Anywhere in particular?” We inch closer.

“Considering it’s extra large, there’s only one place it will fit.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. Any more than I can help how I break eye contact to glance down at his lap. And then my eyelids flutter. I can’t believe he’s hard—full-mast hard—and we’ve yet to really touch since his quick hello kiss. I’m immediately turned on knowing I do this to him. “Wow. You must really like pizza.”

“Pizza I can take or leave, but you I’ve got to have. Now.”

“Right here? On my aunt and uncle’s couch?”

His naughty smile doesn’t quite protect me from the unadulterated longing in his eyes. “I’ve had a dirty fantasy about you and this sofa for several weeks now.”

Now I do, too, but there are big gaps between my fantasies and my actual know-how. “I’ve never—”

“You’ve got this, sweetheart.” The naughty smile softens into something that matches the look in his eyes and destroys me completely. “You’ve got me.” Our noses touch and then…

We can’t get our clothes off fast enough. Hands seeking, roaming, tugging off shirts and unzipping jeans. Mouths fusing, tongues tangling, teeth nibbling. When Vaughn gently bites my lower lip, I feel it in my breasts and between my legs.

I’m naked and flat on my back seconds later. He straddles me, offers me the condom.

I pull my hand back as if he’s holding out a blowtorch or a scalpel or something else I’m not qualified to handle. “I don’t want to accidentally mangle anything. I like it too much to hurt it.”

He laughs—a little strained—and places the rolled latex on my palm. “I’m hurting already, Kendall. The only way you make it worse is by not touching me.”

Well, when he puts it like that…

I lift the condom and place it like a cap on the blunt smoothness of his crown. Sensing my nervousness, he talks me through rolling it over his long, thick member. His penis is a work of art—an erotic masterpiece of strength and sensitivity. Sliding my hand along the length awakens a complex and powerful string of nerves running from my fingertips to my core. I’m wet and ready.

“Perfect,” he whispers before he props one of my legs over the back of the couch and the other over his shoulder. His fingers find their target to test my readiness and then he’s thrusting inside me in one smooth stroke. “Fucking perfect.”

It is.

His hands slide to the back of my neck to bring my mouth to his. His kiss is firm. Hot. Possessive.

It’s everything.