Page 48 of Loving at 40

“Who do you trust? Who do you share your life with?”

“Jenna,” he whispers, a mix between a warning and something more.

“This can’t be a hard topic. You said you don’t have a girlfriend.” Was he lying?

“I don’t,” he states adamantly. “I guess I don’t have anyone I really trust.” He gazes back at the television screen, and his eyes narrow. The statement would hurt if I knew him better. Deep down, I want him to trust me, but we just don’t know enough about one another.

“Who defends you, Archer?” My eyes lower to the chain hidden beneath his tee. He glances at his covered chest as well, and we both think of the medal we can’t see. “More than St. Michael. Who watches out for you? Who safeguards your heart?”

His brows pinch when he looks up at me. “I don’t need my heart protected.”

“We all need our hearts protected.” I pause. “What’s your fear?” I don’t even know where this line of questioning is coming from.

Archer looks away again, taking a long minute to think. “That I’m not worthy.”

“Not worthy of what?”

“Of love.”

My hand reaches for his forearm. “Why would you say such a thing? Everybody deserves love, Archer. It’s what you do with it when it’s given that might be the harder decision.” Do you accept it? Do you reject it? Do you question it? Do you trust it?

Archer doesn’t answer my question but reaches out to tug me to him. I snuggle into his side, further pretending he could be my reality.

Unfortunately, ragged-run, single mothers fall asleep early on Sunday evenings, even on vacation, so I doze off. When Archer jostles me, I sit upright, realizing I’d passed out before the most important part of the movie. “How did it end?”

Archer swipes his fingers along the side of my face, brushing back my hair around my ear. “He adjusts. For her, he alters everything.”

The explanation sounds profound and romantic in his deep voice. His gaze stays on me a moment too long, where it turns uncomfortable, and I don’t know if he’ll kiss me or stand from the couch and leave me behind. He does a mix of both, leaning forward to press his lips to my temple before standing and leading me to his room, where we make out again like teens, and pretend for a little longer we could be something other than what we are—a simple layover.

+ + +

The next morning, Archer enters the apartment minus a T-shirt and covered in water droplets. He swims in the lake, and I better understand this form of exercise for his leg. My eyes lock on his chest. I’m standing behind the peninsula island cabinet in the small kitchen area as he slowly approaches me. My lips are still swollen from another night of kissing, and my body aches for more from him. Since the bathtub slash showerhead incident, he hasn’t touched me in a place that weeps for his attention.

A corner of his lip lifts as I can’t seem to pull my gaze away from appreciating his body. Glistening tattoos on his arms. His protective medallion at his chest. Solid legs. With a steady pace, he stalks toward me.

“Where are the girls?” he asks, noting the quiet of the apartment

“Next door. River’s giving me twenty minutes for a shower.” I saw River after another morning walk with the girls, and she offered to take them to her backyard, so I can have a few minutes alone.

“Twenty minutes, huh?” He comes closer, rounding the counter. In the small space, he’s quick to back me into the corner of the cabinets. My smile matches his growing grin as I’m turned on by the sight of him. My heart races. My palms sweat. I don’t have time to blink before Archer has a hand holding the back of my head, fingers in my hair.

“Want something from me, babe?”

“Yes.” I don’t finish the single syllable word before his mouth is on mine, wild and wandering. He’s kissing me like I’m the air he needs to breathe, only he’s filling my lungs with the oxygen of desire. My hips thrust forward, seeking more connection with him. His other hand lowers to cup my backside, squeezing one globe, tugging me against him as his mouth continues to conquer mine. Lips. Teeth. Tongue. He’s drawing me into him, taking what he wants from me, and I’m just as desperate. While kissing him is amazing, I want so much more.

My arms wrap around his back, palms flattening on his shoulder blades. Using his back muscles as leverage, I tug myself against his chest, the coolness of his skin seeping through my T-shirt. While one hand remains on my ass, the other slides down my body, like water cascading over rocks. He lowers his mouth to my neck. He’s slippery and a little stinky, but I want him. I want his mouth, his fingers, his thickness. He’s slipping his hand into the waistband of my shorts, stretching for the promise land when I moan.

“Ryan.”

Everything freezes. Archer’s hand at the top of my private curls stops. His mouth on my neck pauses. My hands on his shoulders stiffen.

“Shit,” I mutter. “I don’t know—”

“You thinking about another man when you’re with me, ’Locks?” Archer’s voice is hard, as rough as the night I accused him of something with my girls. He pulls back quicker than a match striking flint and stares into my eyes.

“He was my . . .” I never know how to label Ryan. He’s not my ex. I hate to say husband, as he isn’t that either, other than in my heart.

With his arms raised, hands above his head, Archer takes a giant step back.