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There’s the sound of vibration from my phone again, and my entire body freezes. Another call. They never stop, even on weekends. Fuck. I have to pick up today. There were agents at the festival, and it could be one of them. If there’s somebody who wants to pick me up, I can’t take the chance at missing them. That could literally change and save my life. I pick up my phone and fight the sick feeling I have as I slide my finger across the screen to pick up. “Hello?”
“Hello, Annabelle.”
My breath catches in my chest, and then eases. The relief flooding my system makes me sink down onto the couch. It’s Frankie, voice still rough and deep with sleep. It’s decently early on a Saturday. But I don’t mind, I was going to call him anyway. Even though it would have taken me a little time to track down his number. I don’t ask how he got mine—there are plenty of people in this town who would have given it to him before he even asked them for it. “I thought I told you that I was going to call you,” I say lightly, faking it.
“We did say that,” he says in that sexy rumble, and I find my body reacting to his voice. God, I’d forgotten what he sounds like early, when he hasn’t fully woken up. That growl has delicious shivers running down my spine, and I’m suddenly very aware of the jersey on my skin. “I’m just not as patient as I used to be.”
“I was going to call you today. Wanted to talk to you about some things.” I hate the way my voice has gone a little breathy, and I clear my throat to get it back. But it’s too late. Frankie chuckles, and I know that he can tell that he’s affecting me.
“How about we talk over breakfast?”
“That’s awfully soon.”
He makes a low sound. “That’s kind of the point. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I think it might kill me if I don’t see you before noon.”
Fuck. The thought of seeing him so soon, after thinking about him, wanting him. “Okay. Where do you want to meet?” I am so screwed.
“How about I come to you?”
I swallow. “Here?”
“I think we’ve had our fair share of public exposure for a few days.”
He’s not wrong. “Okay,” I say. “Yeah.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Make it twenty,” I say.
He laughs softly. “I’ll make it ten.”
The line goes dead. “Fuck.” I say it to the empty room. Coffee. I’m going to need more coffee. I run and put the pot on again, and sprint back into the bathroom to slap on some make up. I’ll change at the last minute. I can throw together some pancakes; I think that I still have some syrup in the cupboard, though I haven’t been grocery shopping in a bit because I’ve been busy prepping for the festival.
Thank God for instant batter. I have it mixed up in a couple of minutes and I’m pouring pancakes into the pan with ease. At least I won’t look completely inept. Though with ten minutes to prepare, I could have put out some toast and he probably would have been fine with it. But I find myself wanting to make a good impression. Wanting him to think good things about me and my pancakes.
I tidy things up a little bit, putting the pile of bill on the counter, hidden by a blank envelope. I close my laptop so he won’t see any of my job applications. I need him to think that I’ve got my shit together. Because I so want it to be together for him.
I’m flipping a pancake in the pan when there’s a knock at the door. It’s him. Here. Now. My heart starts to pound as I head to the door, and I open it. He’s there, silhouetted by the bright morning sun, and he’s stunning. The t-shirt he’s wearing is tight across his chest and arms—he hasn’t lost that delicious body in the time that we’ve been apart. I push open the screen and he steps inside, and then his eyes fall down my body.
Blood rushes to my cheeks as I remember that I didn’t change. I’m still wearing his jersey, the collar falling off my shoulder, and just little shorts underneath. The jersey is long enough that he won’t even be able to see them. To him, it looks like I’m wearing his jersey and nothing else.
Frankie’s eyes go dark, and I know that look. He’s both determined and turned on, and as he steps inside, I already know that he’s going to kiss me, and I know that I’m going to let him. He kicks the door shut as he pulls me against his body and his mouth crashes onto mine. Memories flood me, taking me back to when we were young and in love and there was nothing separating us. I don’t want to think about anything else—about his mistakes or my shredded life—I just want to feel him.
