Random Acts of Hope by Julia Kent Page A

dimples, on either side of his spine, far down enough to make that air in my throat stay stuck for a little longer.
    My hungry eyes took him in, starved for the sight of him, the scent of sweat and musk and Liam—the same laundry detergent his mom used all those years, the same cologne he’d worn since his freshman year of high school , the same biochemical pheromone combination that my nose sought out like a golden retriever in a dorm full of women all on their periods at the same time.
    “Hey,” he mumble d from across the bed. “You awake?”
    “Yes.” Was I ever. Liam McCarthy was in my bed. We’d fallen asleep last night, too overwhelmed to talk. Touch—affection, really—was the comfort we’d both asked of each other and received.
    Not forgiveness. Not sex. Not even intimacy, per se.
    Just…touch.
    It was a start.
     
    Liam
    My boner was so big it was going to burst out of my fly and go strangle some small contraband pet in one of the dorm rooms.
    Bed. Charlotte. Bed. Charlotte. We’d slept together without sex, her ass cradled up against my raging erection for hours, her breathing slowing until her body had relaxed against mine, the ultimate subconscious trust.
    And then I’d spent the last few hours with eyes wide open, reveling in the scent and the lush touch of her, that sweet heat against my body, in my arms.
    A man could starve without the love of a good woman.
    I felt like I was ninety-eight pounds and on the verge of death but didn’t know it. All these years.
    Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why hadn’t I even tried?
    Because she fucked some other guy and tried to pass his baby off as yours.
    The thought made me turn away. I pretended to be asleep as Charlotte sat bolt upright in bed and made cute little mewling sounds like she was having morning-after regrets. Except there was nothing to regret but the hours of hugging and cuddling.
    If anyone had a right to regrets, it was me. My blue balls were bigger than that kid’s in We’re the Millers , and I hadn’t had my nads chomped on by a tarantula.
    “Hey,” I said.
    Something gurgled in the distance.
    “Hi,” she said shyly, running her hands through her hair, then wiping her eyes with that funny way chicks do it, with the pads of their fingers.
    “What’s that sound?”
    “It’s my—”
    Beep beep beep.
    She jumped up and shut off her phone alarm. “It’s my coffeemaker. I set it every morning for ten a.m. after I’ve pulled weekend-night duty. That way I can get up, check logs, and really be done when my shift ends.”
    Duty. Log. Shift. I looked around the room and it felt familiar and foreign at the same time. Charlotte was a fucking grown-up. I was in her apartment—in a dorm, yes, but not a coed’s dorm room—and she had a real job, with a salary and benefits and the whole nine yards.
    Instant uncertainty slammed into me. It was not a good feeling. I stripped for money and played rock star on the weekends when we could get a gig. When did she become so mature? I’ll bet she had a 401 ( k ) and everything.
    “Do you have a retirement plan?” I asked as she started to walk out of her bedroom.
    She halted.
    “Huh?”
    “Never mind. Where’s the coffee?” I sat up and rubbed my neck. Shirtless. When had I taken off my shirt? She was still dressed completely, except for shoes. My pile of belongings was on the floor. I stepped in it as I stood.
    Nothing carnal had taken place. My poor, throbbing crotch snake told me that. Rubbing one o ff in her bathroom would take about three seconds, but that was kind of rude, right?
    Shit. What are the rules when you finally break five years of assholedom with the woman who owns your heart like it’s an appreciable asset but cheated on you and now you’re in her bedroom with a hard-on that extends into the next county ?
    No rules. I’d have to make it all up as I went along. Which was my life rule, actually.
    “Coffee?” she called out from the other room. It was a combo living/kitchen