“And you and Liv stayed together, at least for a while?”
“Until sophomore year of college, yeah. It took us a couple extra semesters to make it through, but we managed. Liv studied engineering, and she got a job offer in Seattle almost right after she graduated. She didn’t want to take Elodie away from me, and I didn’t want to be away from either of them, so moving was an easy decision to make.”
“And then you wound up at KSEA.”
“Not right away,” he says. “I networked a ton, freelanced a ton. Became friends with the guy who used to have my job, who put in a good word when he moved to ESPN. I don’t think Edible Arrangements makes a big enough basket to thank him for what he did for me.” A pause as he reaches out to help me with the stubborn wrapper of a Twix. “I still have a lot of residual anxiety from all of it, I guess. I don’t talk about Elodie much at work because I don’t want to have to explain how old I was when she was born. I don’t want anyone leaping to the conclusion that because I was a teen dad, that must make me a fuckup.”
“You are absolutely not a fuckup.” I place my right hand on his arm. “Russell. You’re not.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide her. And I love being a father. I love Elodie—she’s the most important person in my life. So when you met Elodie, and then Liv showed up, I just . . . shut down.”
“I get it. I mean, I haven’t been through it, but I understand why, and I’m not judging you. I wouldn’t.” As if of its own accord, my hand strokes up and down along his arm. The meds must be making me loopy, giving me this freedom to touch him in ways I may not have been brave enough to do otherwise. “Thank you. For telling me.”
“I wanted you to meet her,” he says. “And that was before I knew you were as into show tunes as she is.”
I try not to linger on what it might mean that he wanted me to meet her. “She’s got great taste.” Slowly, I move my hand away, dropping it back to the bed. “You and Liv are still close? That’s pretty impressive.”
“It took a while to get there, but yes, I guess so. I never wanted to be the kind of parents who made things hell for their kid by not being together, so it’s been a huge relief. There were a couple years where it was awkward with the two of us, but maybe because we’d been friends for so long before Elodie, we eventually found our way back to that. We alternate custody every other week, and so far we haven’t had any problems with it,” he says. “Liv got married a few years ago, and they had a baby last year, Clementine, who Elodie absolutely adores. We’re a complicated family, maybe, but it works.”
“They all seem wonderful. Truly.”
He gives me this half smile, and I want so badly to make this equal, to let him in the way I softly knocked and asked for his secrets. It’s different from how I’ve felt with guys before, and sure, that could be the meds, too, or maybe it’s that I feel this distinct sense of calm around him. But the way I’m lying down, my shirt is twisted behind my back, and I can’t move without jostling my arm.
I must make some kind of noise because Russell’s face turns serious again, that cute furrow appearing between his brows. It’s a good thing he wears glasses—without that barrier, the lovely blue of his eyes would be far too powerful.
“You okay, weather girl?”
God, that nickname. Why does it sound even sexier at night in a hotel room? “Yeah, I just—I might be more comfortable in pajamas?”
“I could help you change,” he says, and then quickly adds: “Only if you want me to.”
My burgundy sweater is across the room, but I’m still in a button-up. Jeans. A belt.
It’s a lot of clothing to need help with.
“Don’t sound too eager to get me undressed,” I tease.
A flush creeps onto his cheeks. “I swear to god, that’s not where my mind was going.”
I snicker as I lift myself off the bed and stumble toward my suitcase, digging through it one-handed before producing my pajamas, a short-sleeved Henley and a pair of shorts that I know for a fact are see-through. When I catch my reflection in the mirror above the desk, all my bravado vanishes. I should put the hotel room ice bucket over my head—I’d look cuter. “I’m a mess right now, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not,” he says, and even if he’s just being nice, I don’t hate hearing it. “I don’t think you could look like a mess even if you tried.”
He moves closer, until there’s only a foot and a half of space between us, and reaches for my belt buckle. My most innocent clothing item. He undoes it as delicately as if it were made of glass, and instead of letting it thump to the floor, drapes it on the armchair next to my suitcase. Then he carefully un-Velcros my sling, placing it next to the belt so neatly, I have to wonder if this is how he does his laundry, too.
“What next?”
“Shirt,” I say, because my arm is begging to be free.
“Cute pattern,” he says about the tiny clouds. “Very on-brand.”
He gets to work unbuttoning, starting at the top, his face close to mine. Long lashes and citrus and body heat. He pauses after each button, the briefest hesitation, and I realize it must be because he doesn’t want to hurt me. He’s maybe six inches taller than I am, so he has to duck his head, but every couple buttons, he flicks his gaze to mine, as though checking in with me. Each time, I give him what I hope is a reassuring half smile. This is okay, that smile says. I am not at all aroused by this.
When he reaches the last one, I let out a long, slow breath. It takes some wincing and maneuvering to extricate my arms from the sleeves, and then he folds the shirt next to my belt and sling. A split-second too late, I fling out my right hand to cover my bra.
I’m in a hotel room with Russell Barringer, wearing jeans and a pink lace push-up.
“Do you, uh . . .” He swallows hard, staring at my tiny pile of clothes. “Do you want your bra off, too?”
With the three brain cells I have left, I consider this. Do I want Russell to take off my bra? It’s a rhetorical question—obviously I do. And undoubtedly I’d be more comfortable sleeping without it.
I pause for too long, imagining his fingertips running along the straps, sweeping up to the nape of my neck and then back down my spine.
“If you could just unhook it in the back, then I should be able to get off on my own.” Freudian slip. “Get it off on my own.”
“I can do that.”
The warmth of his hands on my skin is too good. Like everything he does. Again, he takes his time. Logically, I realize he can’t notice my nipples tightening to almost painful peaks, and if he hears the hitch in my breath, he probably assumes it’s because of my injury. I melt into his touch as he unhooks me with deft fingers, wondering what he’d do if I turned around. If he’d take me in for a few moments, admiring every curve and dip and freckle, or if he’d be so overcome with want that he’d need his mouth on me right away. Under different circumstances, I’d want him to push. To pull. To grip me hard and sear my skin.
Unfortunately, the meds swimming through my bloodstream are stronger than my libido.