Page 18 of Signed With Love

Thank you.

He passes a water bottle over. He doesn’t offer a beer. I appreciate that he realizes I don’t drink and doesn’t push me. Jamison encourages me to just be myself around him.

Hope you like it. He opens the box and grabs a slice for himself, then passes me one. He had to have asked one of my parents, I’m assuming.

It’s my favorite. Thank you. Do you like it?

My favorite.

We spend the rest of dinner shoving pizza into our mouths and smiling to each other. I’m so happy I decided to do this. Even my stomach feels better with some food in it.

Chapter Eight

Jamison

I’m pretty certain I could sit across from Claire and do this all night. We’ve slowed down on the pizza and are now sharing stories back and forth.

I’ve learned that she loves running. She’s even run a marathon before. She hates bananas. Says they leave a funky taste in her mouth. And she can’t stand to be cold, which is funny because she loves Alaska. Her favorite soup is clam chowder. She will watch the sunset every day if she can. She hates the smell of cologne. She loves to read books.

Every detail is something new, something that brings me deeper into her world, and she demands something in return for every secret she shares.

She’s learned I hate running but could hike to the top of a mountain any day. That I hate bananas but not as much as eggplant. And lucky for her, I’m always warm. And of course, her mother’s clam chowder is the best. I usually catch the sunset every day while I’m flying home, so she should join me. And I never wear cologne. She shares with me all the books I need to read because, well, honestly, I don’t read. Her recommendation of Sean Weston’s latest novel is at the top of my list now.

She slides the paper back to me. It’s covered in a mix of her feminine scrawl and my chicken scratch. It’s her and me, poised and rugged combined.

Will you tell me what happened to your mother?

I cringe at her request. Apparently, we are past the easy get-to-know-you stuff. Diving into the heavy stuff. I hadn’t felt the weight of life bearing down on me from the moment I stepped into her house and saw her tonight. It’s edging its way back in with the thought of my mother.

I release a sigh and start writing. Her plane crashed over the Copper Valley four winters ago. I led the search and rescue, but we were too late. She died in my arms before I could save her.

I slide the paper back. Claire only takes a moment to read it before she jumps up and wraps me in her arms. I’m still sitting, so she’s hunched over with her arms around me. I stiffen because I’m so thrown by the fact she’s embracing me, but also because she’s literally shoving the side of my face into her breasts. It’s the best hug I’ve ever had. Not only is she sincere, but the soft curves of her body mold well to mine when my arms wrap around her waist.

“Sorry.”

I freeze. Her voice…it’s soft. So quiet I can barely make the sound out. It’s beautiful, so I pull back to see her, my hands resting on her hips. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. I never thought I’d hear her speak.

I’m shaking my head and wiping the tears from her face. Don’t cry for me, I beg her. I can’t sign or write with my hands occupied, but I know she’s reading my facial expression. She’s staring at me. Her pity and pain are so difficult for me to bear.

She rubs her fists in circles on her chest again and again. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry, she tells me over and over. She’s breaking my heart.

I’m okay. Watching Claire fall apart in my arms because of my pain is one of the hardest things I’ve ever seen. I’m okay, I sign for her again.

Now I need her to be okay. I place my hand on her hip and look up. The desire to touch her is overpowering. I shouldn’t. We’re just becoming friends, so I slide my hand away.

Let’s watch a movie, I sign, hoping that changing the subject will help. God, I hope it removes the sadness that covers her face.

She nods in agreement. Her breathing is more labored, but her tears are drying up, so I breathe easier. She uses the back of her hands to wipe the last remnants of moisture away.

Do you have popcorn? Claire asks.

I have to assume the sign is popcorn, anyway, but it fits as her fingers flick like kernels popping. I disappear into the kitchen to grab popcorn and more water for us. When I return to the living room, Claire gets comfortable on the couch and pulls a blanket from the side. It’s big and fluffy. Her brows lower, perhaps surprised my bachelor pad home has a fuzzy purple blanket.

Rylee, I sign. When my friends are over, Rylee prefers comfort. Claire nibbles her bottom lip, her teeth pressing into the stained lower one. The thought of biting it myself sweeps over me. She has me going from sad and heartbroken to picturing her naked in my bed. A constant roller coaster, but more of a rush than anything I’ve experienced before.

Now, to make sure she knows—with hope she sees us going that direction, against my better judgment—I’m single. Rylee’s a friend. Nothing more.

I stare at her and raise my brow when she doesn’t acknowledge my statement. As much as I know I’m not relationship material, I want to be for her. She makes me want to be a better man so I can deserve her.

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