Page 50 of Tempt

There is no good explanation for why I feel so desperate at losing a few hours out of our weekend. We see each other more than I’ve ever spent with any previous boyfriend.

But there’s an anxiety deep inside me that won’t go away. Like we need more time together, more conversations, more connection, before taking the final leap and admitting…all the things one might be reluctant to admit about a guy who one is head-over-something for, but super nervous about saying what that something is because of historical dysfunction.

His.

Mine.

Ours.

Instead of dwelling on feelings that are best left unnamed, I wipe my happy-sad eyes and I throw myself into a hot shower to erase the evidence that I’m a giant suck. Also to get myself squeaky clean for the terrible things Sam’s going to spend the afternoon doing to me.

After my shower, I try to get a bit more work done, but I finally give up on that and do all the pre-boyfriend-visit things like change my sheets, put beer in the fridge, and re-stock the condom bowl beside the bed—and the mini one in the bathroom, for eventual shower sex.

Then I dress in sexy lingerie, and because it’s winter in southwestern Ontario, I cover that up with two layers of unsexy warmth. I’m only a ten-minute walk to the train station, but ten minutes in the freezing cold is still too much.

And still Sam is worth it.

Sam, who a decade earlier had been the worst boyfriend ever to my best friend. Sam, who made the worst decisions possible for a very long time.

Sam.

I never would have imagined.

And there’s that feeling again, the scary I-don’t-want-to-say-it feeling.

Because he’s also the first boyfriend I’ve ever had who straight-up owns all of his feelings, good and bad. Who catches himself in any kind of white lie or “harmless fib”, because he knows they aren’t harmless.

He’s also the first guy I’ve ever dated who has been up—or down—for literally anything I want to do in the bedroom. Or what I wanthimto do tome. Like pretend I’m too scared to sleep alone when he rescues me in a dark, forbidden forest.

Think of the filthy, happy sex, Hazel.

Oh, I am.

This week I had a chimney sweep come and service my rarely used fireplace. Yesterday I bought two bags of firewood so Sam can role-play my woodcutter fantasy this weekend.

“I wrote you another story…”It has become my calling card. They aren’t all forhim, technically. But he enjoys every single word.

And I enjoy the reactions I get.

That happy thought keeps me warm all the way to the train station. I get there with a few minutes to spare.

They drag by like hours.

The hot, prickly, confusing tears threaten again when the train finally pulls in, but the sheer joy at seeing him stride through the doors—finally—wins out.

I throw myself into his arms as he drops his bag beside us.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmurs against my mouth.

I squeeze him tight. It doesn’t matter. He’s here now. “I missed you.”

Three little words. Not the really big, truly scary ones, but they’re raw and honest, and that’s scary enough. He goes still around me, then his arms squeeze back. Big, strong, secure. But also shaking, just a little.

“Sam?”

He kisses me again, his lips soft. “I miss you, too. All the time. This is hard.”

We’re in the middle of the train station. This isn’t the place, but whatever. We weren’t supposed to ever talk again. He was supposed to be all wrong for me.

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