Love Won (Winning at Love book 1) Page 12

  “See you later, Neil. Say hello to Mitch for me,” I say, smiling, and moving past him.

  “Have a great day, Eastlyn. Talk to you again real soon,” he winks, and I shudder.

  “Who the fuck is that guy, and why the hell did it look like he was salivating over the idea of watching you sort and wash your panties?” Coy practically growls, as he spins me around to face him. His nostrils are flaring, and his hands are now clenched tightly down at his sides.

  I can’t deny that I feel a certain rush of excitement at seeing him react this way. Ever since trivia last week, I’ve been admittedly more confused than ever about how attentive and flirty and fun he’d been. “Fishy behaviour,” is what Kami and I had called it the next day when we’d talked about the way both Keaton and McCoy had been acting towards us that night. Seeing him now—and how he reacted to Neil—is both thrilling and confusing in a whole new way. He’s never been one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, to ever let his guard down where I’d been concerned, except for that one time in my parents’ basement. The time I rarely allow myself to think about…

  “He’s a parent, one I’m sure you’ll see and hear from a lot,” I say, meeting his intense gaze.

  “You fucked him?” he asks, and, instantly, McCoy is the one I now want to throat punch.

  “Are you kidding me? I said he was a parent,” I grit, and reach out my hands, attempting to snag my laundry bags out of McCoy’s grip.

  I need space. I’m flabbergasted that he’d ask me such a question. I’m even more offended that the thought even entered his mind, as well as the fact that he’d actually voiced it. As if I’d ever cross that line. As if he shouldn’t already know the answer. Doesn’t he know me better than that?

  “I’m sorry,” he says, dropping the bags. He places both his hands on my hips and pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine, and sighs. “I can’t explain why I asked. Seeing him eye-fuck you in front of me pissed me right the hell off. I’m sorry I even asked that. I know you’d never. I’m so sorry, baby. Forgive me?” he pleads as he squeezes my hips, and I swear my knees go weak at hearing him call me “baby”. Nodding, I step in closer. I take a chance and wrap my arms around his waist. “I’ll forgive you, this time. Never be like that again though, or I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to my mother’s electric cake mixer, one at a time,” I say, then pinch his cheek. “Got me?”

  “Noted,” he chuckles, “I promise. Now, is there any chance I might get to watch you sort your unmentionables?”

  “Nope,” I shake my head, “you’ll be at the store getting me that Slurpee you offered while I do that alone,” I say in a singsong voice, stepping out of his tingling embrace and heading towards the counter to start emptying my bags, thankful—after all that—when I notice that we’re the only two people in the whole place.

  20

  Stick Man

  Once McCoy is back from the store with our Slurpees (mine blue raspberry, his Dr. Pepper), we sit reminiscing about old times as the washers and dryers foam and spin. He makes fun of me more times than not, but this time I laugh right along with him rather than let it embarrass me. It’s nice, but it reminds me how dangerous letting my guard down with this man is, when—unfortunately for me—it’s simply too damn easy and happens so naturally.

  Sitting here with him this afternoon, just the two of us, I long to hold on to this feeling. I’m happy. We’re the Eastlyn and McCoy I’d fantasized us being so many times growing up. Too many times, I wish I had the right to reach across the small table and touch him affectionately, maybe run my fingers through his brown hair with the pretence of removing it from his eyes. I want to sit in his lap and snuggle into his broad chest as we talk about music, our love of movies like The Goonies, The Breakfast Club, and Mallrats—ones we’d watched over and over again as teens—but I maintain a discreet distance. We end up talking about a few of my relationship mishaps, which makes him bark out a sexy laugh on more than one occasion. I think his favourite story was the one about “Dutch Oven Guy.”

  Finally, I work up the nerve to ask him about Lola, once it’s my turn to grill him about the girls of his past. “Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask, a bit apprehensive, wondering if all disclosures are fair game right now.

  “You can ask me anything, Sprinkles. I’m an open book to you. For now, anyway,” he winks, and my stomach dips.

  “You and Lola. What went wrong? I was surprised to hear you guys broke up, to be honest.”

  “She didn’t want kids,” he said on a long breath, “and it was a deal breaker for me. I wasn’t going to spend any more time with someone who didn’t want what I wanted.” He peels the game sticker off his Slurpee cup, averting his eyes from mine.

  “I’m sure that must have been hard. You guys seemed so good together. Almost perfect, actually,” I admit honestly, despite the snag in my chest I feel at sharing that observation. But it’s the truth. We had all thought he and Lola were a good match, despite any of the residual feelings I’d had that he should have instead been with me.

  “Yeah, at first, but as soon as we moved in together, we started to annoy each other. We became more like friends than lovers. It was weird; I can’t even explain what changed between us. But the night she told me she’d decided she didn’t want kids, I knew we were officially done.” He expels a long sigh. I’m shocked with how candid and open he’s being with me. It feels as if this is something he’s wanted me to know for a long time. He seems almost relieved, the more he talks.

  “I’m sorry, Coy. I imagine it was hard.”

  “It was for the best. I know that now. My only regret is that I didn’t know then the things I know now,” he says, his gaze heavy on mine, and I can feel my heart beating like a jackhammer. I’m dying to ask what he means by that, but I don’t. I let it go, as he continues, “Within the first four months, we ended our relationship. We both agreed we were better as just friends. She left, I stayed. End of story.”

  Son of a bitch.

  Four months?

  I was stunned. Here I’d spent so long avoiding situations where I thought I’d see Coy and Lola together, knowing it would have killed me, and declined Keaton’s offers to tag along when he was going to visit McCoy in Brockville. All in the name of saving face and saving my heart from having to go through convulsions at seeing him and Lola together, when now I discover that they weren’t even still a couple! Maybe if I hadn’t been such a knob, Coy and I would be sitting here today, making out and waiting for our laundry, before going home to our place where we’d spend the rest of a lazy Saturday in bed. God, that was a hard pill to swallow. Had I been my own cockblocker all this time?

  Thankfully, I don’t get much time to dwell on thoughts like these as the last buzzers sound, alerting us that our final loads are dry. An alert which also means my time with McCoy is almost up, a feeling I hate more than I’d like to admit. Standing at the same time, we both head for our clothes.

  “Wow. Why haven’t I ever done this before?” I say, in awe, folding. “I’m seriously contemplating not replacing my dryer, and donating the washer. Four huge loads of laundry done in a fraction of the time. It’s magical. The time flew, and I was so productive!” I look with satisfaction at the neat piles of laundry before pulling out the last load.

  “I think it might have been the company you’ve kept that made it so magical,” McCoy grins, his smile slanted a little to the side, and I noticed once again that damn porno jaw of his.

  Square.

  Rugged.

  Sexy.

  God, how I want him.

  Tossing his head back in laughter at my expression, Coy moves to his dryer and pulls out the last of his clothes. A familiar Pearl Jam shirt falls to the floor, a shirt I’ve longed to steal since the first time I saw McCoy wearing it all those years ago.

  “I can’t believe you still have this. It still looks brand new,” I exclaim, picking up the black shirt and smiling at it, then at him. It’s the coolest T-shirt, fe
aturing the band’s iconic white stickman on the front. Rather than hand it over, I hold it up to my chest, admiring how—even though it’s been washed—McCoy’s scent still lingers on it.

  “This surely belongs over here,” I say, tossing the shirt among my own pile of darks.

  “Fat chance. That shirt is a classic,” he says as he reaches past me, his arm accidentally grazing my chest. It’s a move that makes us both suddenly breathless. “I’m…uh, just going to pop into the washroom, then I’ll help you load Judas,” he says close to my ear, before walking past me.

  I simply nod.

  “I still can’t believe you named that thing Judas Prius.” He barks out a laugh.

  “What’s funny, laughing boy, is that you just referenced him by name.” I try to toss a dryer sheet his way, but it simply flutters a few inches away and falls flat at my feet.

  “Try a sock next time, heavy hitter,” he mumbles, before walking in and closing the bathroom door.

  While he’s gone, I finish strategically piling my folded laundry into the hamper Mr. Fancy Pants Laundry Man has lent me. Deciding this is my chance, I shift towards Coy’s pile of ready-to-go clothes with the intent to “borrow” the coveted Pearl Jam shirt. As quickly and as non-rustling-sounding as possible, my mission is proving to be harder than I thought.

  Did he not just fold it?

  “It should be right on top,” I mutter, hearing the hand dryer coming to life down the hall.

  “You about ready?” I hear as the bathroom door creaks open—the exact same moment I spot Stickman’s white hand protruding from the bottom of the pile. Heart racing at the possibility of being caught, I reach down, yank out the black shirt and toss it in the hamper with a dexterity I once heard Cypress Hill describe as like “a looter in a riot”.

  Then I turn calmly and reply, “Yes, I’m all set.”

  21

  Busted

  After deciding not to wear McCoy’s T-shirt right away, I’d safely stashed it in my drawer along with the rest of my laundry. I’m not quite ready to give in and admit just how far off the proverbial wagon I’ve fallen. And, apparently, it’s not the stealing but the wearing of his shirt tonight which would be crossing the line. So, instead, here I sit on my overstuffed bluish-grey couch with my laptop, my mind consumed with thoughts of Coy and the afternoon we spent together. Like an addict not ready to give up my drug of choice, I decide I need another hit.

  “Fuck it,” I whisper, clicking the blue Facebook icon on my desktop, watching the wagon roll off into the distance without me. Within seconds, without regret or hesitation, I find myself pulling up McCoy Grave’s profile.

  We’ve been friends on here for years, but I’ve made a point never to like or comment on his photos. Over the years, he’s liked the odd status update of mine, and made a few comments, but we’ve never been what you’d call active Facebook friends.

  Scrolling down his page now, I smile when I see that he’s been more social since returning home. I read his last few statuses, pausing on a few pictures of him and my brother. God, McCoy is a beautiful man. Clicking through the pictures, I can tell he really loves his sweet new boat. My silent stalking is going smoothly until about the twelfth photo.

  That’s when it happens. Reflexively, I click the “love” icon. I panic immediately, fumbling with my trackpad to “un-love it” as fast as I can. I can’t tell you what I was thinking, all I know is that I really do love that photo—one of McCoy standing in the middle of his boat, shirtless, his sunglasses flashing, and a dashing smile splayed across lips I’ve longed to kiss for so long. Taking a deep breath, I begin to relax, thinking I’m in the clear.

  It isn’t until my inbox signals I have a new message that I know I’ve royally messed up. Moving the cursor to the top of the screen, I click the icon and see his name pop up immediately.

  McCoy: What happened?

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself, feeling that familiar heat filling my cheeks. Of course, the jerk’s online.

  Eastlyn: What do you mean?

  I try to play dumb.

  McCoy: I saw a notification that you “loved” my picture, and then it was gone again?

  I sit, staring at his words. I’m at a loss about what to say or how to explain this one.

  “Dammit.” My hands start to shake as I contemplate whether or not I can get away with denying it, but we both know the stupid notifications don’t lie. I just got totally busted creeping his page.

  After a few beats of radio silence, I think I’m maybe dodging the bullet when three tiny dots appear in the window, letting me know he’s typing.

  McCoy: Why did you change your mind? Don’t you like what you see?

  Fuck. Me. Sideways. I screw up my courage and type back.

  Eastlyn: Why are you stalking Facebook? It’s Saturday night.

  I try the get-off-the-topic route, and think this is what Hell must feel like. I’m hot and sweating where I sit, my laptop perched on my knees, silently praying he lets it go.

  McCoy: This is clearly about your Facebook habits, Ms. Hatfield, not mine. Now tell me: do you or don’t you like what you see?

  Oh my shit. McCoy Graves is flirting with me via Facebook! I try to think of something witty to say, but come up empty.

  McCoy: Well?

  Eastlyn: Yes. I do.

  I wait with bated breath, that all-too-familiar drum of mortification pounding in my chest, watching and waiting for those three damn circles to appear. After what seems like ages, I see he’s finally responding.

  McCoy: Good. And, FYI, I like knowing you’re checking me out. I might have done the same a time or two, but I never let my finger slip, no matter how beautiful the picture may have been, no matter how much I’d like to feel the slip of my fingers where you are concerned.

  I let out an audible “ohhh…” at what he’s implying.

  I will my brain to function, but I’m too taken aback to reply. Thankfully, Coy decides to put me out of my misery.

  McCoy: Goodnight, Sprinkles. I’ll see you at school on Tuesday. Enjoy the long weekend, and say hi to your parents on Monday. Sorry I’ll miss their Labour Day BBQ, damn brotherly duties. It’s always been my favourite.

  I feel a wave of excitement at our exchange. Holy shitcakes!

  And with his departing words, our first conversation over social media ends.

  I can’t wipe the smile off my face, even when I climb into bed an hour later.

  22

  Just a Little Sniff

  “How was the the big barbecue?” Kami asks, from the other end of the phone.

  I’ve been home for about an hour now. I’ve made my lunch for tomorrow, chopped fruits and veggies for the week, and am now starting to get ready for bed. Pulling my tank top over my head, I pad towards my dresser. Tomorrow is the first day of school, and although I know I’ll likely just toss and turn like I always do the night before the first day back, I’m trying to get to bed at a reasonable time.

  “It was fun, actually. My mom went all out, as per usual. You were missed. I think Keaton noticed you weren’t there. He manned the Jell-O shots station looking a little bored and mournful. He’s used to having his partner in crime there,” I tell her truthfully.

  In all the years that we’ve been friends, Kami and her family have joined us each year for our neighbourhood’s annual Labour Day street party. Except this year, rather than getting drunk with my brother and starting off the new school year a little worse for wear, she—along with her sisters and parents—drove up to Toronto to spend the day at her sister Faith’s new place. Faith’s starting at the University of Toronto tomorrow and had wanted everyone to see her new apartment and give her a sendoff.

  “I hated missing it, too. Yeah, Keat told me he felt a little overwhelmed being in charge of the Jell-O shots all by himself,” she says, and I can hear her smiling through the phone.

  “Ah, so, you two’ve spoken already, eh?”

  “East. Don’t do that. I told you, we’re friends,”
she scolds.

  “Still doesn’t mean I can’t try to push this along,” I respond, taking off my blue satin bra. I rustle around in the middle drawer where I keep my sleep shorts and tops. Grinning, I spy the Pearl Jam shirt I stole from Coy a few days ago peeking out from the bottom of the pile and decide tonight’s the night to put it on. Unfolding it, I see a dark swath of material falling to the floor.

  Underwear.

  A pair of Coy’s black boxer briefs is lying next to my bare feet, and I’m suddenly speechless. I can hear Kami carrying on about how summer went by too fast, and how she’d better get a good night’s sleep tonight. I can hear her, but I’m not listening, I’m not paying her any mind at all as I reach down and lift the boxers into my hands. I’m instantly inundated with visions of McCoy wearing nothing but these form-fitting briefs, standing in front of me, ready and willing, waiting for me to ravage him.

  “Anyway, it’s late. I better get going,” Kami says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Er…ee…ah, yeah, okay. I’ll see you in the morning,” I manage, holding the stolen goods tightly in my hand. I remember Kami trying to goad me into stealing a of pair Coy’s underpants so many times when we were younger. I bet she’d howl if I had the balls to tell her what I did (even though I didn’t exactly know I’d be getting a twofer), and that she’d have a few ideas of what exactly I should do with these bonus boxers. I guess what she doesn’t know won’t kill her.

  “You will, you lucky thing,” she says, “coffee in hand. ’Night.”

  “Goodnight,” I say, hitting end. I slide the Pearl Jam T-shirt over my head, and cuddle into its warmth, relishing the fact that the cloth which is now touching my skin has touched his skin so many times over the years.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I take a quick look around my room as if to make sure I’m truly alone. Still clutching the boxer shorts, I run my hands all over the soft cottony material, realizing how good they feel, how snug they might actually be on Coy’s slim hips and tight ass. I imagine how they might highlight those sexy V-shaped lines known as the iliac furrows, the Adonis belt, or—in Coy’s case—the Major Drool Inducers, the ones I’ve seen so many times when he’s worn swim shorts over the years. I picture how hot the boxers would look falling onto a heap with the the rest of his clothes…