Page 57 of The Alternate Captain
“Wow. That’s a long list of things to scratch out,” I say.
“Yeah, but go with it,” he says, and I watch his fingers drum gently on his knees.
“I guess I’d be hoping that we’d be seeing how things went. I haven’t really thought about it.”
A huge lie of course. I mean, I haven’t been planning our wedding or anything, but I’ve definitely thought about what it would be like if we were seeing each other. Properly.
“And the age gap?”
“Well, I-I mean, it wasn’t a problem before, was it?” I say.
He looks at me, and I swallow.
Things had started out as ‘just a conversation,’ with us pushing it aside. But when the flirting began, all mention of it was quickly forgotten.
“And my dick problem?” he says, looking straight ahead again.
I flame red, and Johnny’s body language tells me he’s not overly enamoured by his question, either.
“I don’t know the entire story I guess, but from what you told me, it seems quite focused on your ex—but it doesn’t bother me, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s something I could, I don’t know, maybe help you with. Try to overcome it together.”
I’m mortified. Completely and utterly. But I’ve said it now.
“You’d want to do that?” he asks, keeping his eyes forward.
Honestly, I’m so relieved that we’re having this conversation in the low light of his car. “If you’re implying that I would only want single-sided fun in bed, then...”
“Sorry. I guess that’s what I’ve had in the past—”
“Are you telling me none of your ex-partners have wanted to even try to give you a good time?” I say.
“I guess I’ve been with selfish lovers,” he says, dropping his voice, and I reach over the console to grab his hand, squeezing it in mine.
“Sorry, my hands are rough as—”
“Feel these,” I say, passing him my left hand. The tips of my fingers are tough and calloused from the years I’ve spent pressing into the fingerboard of my cello.
“Damn,” he says, and then he brings my hand up to his lips and kisses it so gently, it sends a tickle through my bones.
He lets out a breath, then the screen of his console lights up with an incoming call. ‘Ryan Preston’. Not a minute passes before ‘Liam Preston’ calls, then, ‘Paul Hutchinson’.
“Ah, shit. I’m sorry about this,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Shit.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“I’m supposed to be hosting an afterparty. And some of the guys have gone to my place and I’m obviously not there.” He frowns at the screen of his phone before looking back up at me. “I’m going to have to head back. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. We can talk another time. Or you can just text me or whatever. If you want to.”
I nod. Because Idowant to.
“We’re on the road tomorrow but—I’ll call you, okay?”
“Sure.”
He takes me back to my place, and he stops outside, looking right at me for a second before his attention is steered away.
“Wait. Is someone coming to fix those windows?” he asks.
