Page 89 of Letting Go at 40

I need more time. This involves organization and planning. Your average date isn’t going to do for such an occasion.

Anna is willingly saying yes to me, and I just said no because if I’m only getting one night with her, I want it to be perfect.

For her. For me.

“I’m not saying no to you. I just want it to be . . . special.” I close my eyes hating how I sound like a virgin, saving myself for that one person. Being that Anna’s the one person I’ve wanted for an eternity, I’m not far off in my assessment.

“Okay,” she quietly whispers. Her head still remains forward, lowered toward her lap. I can’t see her eyes. “When?”

“Soon.”

My dick is still screaming at me. Soon should be now. This second. I’m so fucking hard and she’s so fucking willing, but that’s not how I want it to be.

I want Anna to be willing to open her heart to me, not just give me her body, and we aren’t there yet.

“I promise, it will be so good,” I whisper in her ear, nearly shivering with how incredible I’m certain it will feel to slip into her warm heat, lose myself in the depths of her.

To finally let go.

Chapter 32

8 Months Ago

January

A New Year Continued

[Anna]

He was rejecting me.

While I understood his reservation with Lynlee in the other room, my head could only wrap around the words from his mouth.

He didn’t want to have sex with me.

At least, not now. Maybe soon. The caution in his tone suggested it might never happen.

I’d put myself out there, telling him I was ready, and he stomped on the brakes.

Mason is safe for me. I thought he’d understand my hesitations and limitations, but maybe that’s just it. I’ve only been with one man. I’m certain I’d be the most boring lover. Pile on emotions, because sex was going to be emotional for me, and I’m a complication Mason doesn’t need in his life.

He offers to walk me home, which is only across the driveway, but I don’t want him leaving Lynlee. Instead, he kisses me long and tender at the top of the stairs, infusing the kiss with things I can’t read into the mixed messages he’s giving me.

Kissing. Yes.

Sex. No.

He watches me cross the distance to the front door. Without turning back to him, attempting to hold back the tears until I’m in my room, I enter my house to a commotion in my kitchen.

“Dude, chill,” Calvin warns someone. He’s home for winter break from college.

“I’m chill.” The slurred response comes from Bryce. My seventeen-year-old son.

I rush to the kitchen where Bryce drapes over the island. While seated in a stool, his arm is extended and his head rests on the side of his arm. His eyes are closed. His body slack.

“Is he drunk?” I turn on Calvin who doesn’t look surprised at my accusation.

“Where did you come from?” he asks, as if I’m the child and he’s the parent. Admittedly, I’m wearing my winter coat and jeans, and it’s evident I came from the front of the house not my room.