Chapter 4 Rated Mature!

Getting up at 2 a.m. is fucking awful, but there are two things that make it somewhat bearable: I'm still on East Coast time, which means I get an "extra" half hour of sleep because I don't have to commute to the studio. The other reason is because one of the first faces I see at this godforsaken hour is Laura Peterson.

She's sipping coffee at the desk in her studio, wearing an ivory, three quarter length puff sleeve, blouse and her hair is perfectly coifed and pinned back. Her makeup looks professionally done right down to the lip liner. My eyes are drawn to the little smirk that surfaces when I appear on camera.

"Good morning, Bradley," she greets me.

"Morning." I know I'm blushing, but fuck if I can help it.

She's doing the broadcast literally in the house next door, and I will likely get to see her today. Not just see her but be with her. I can't let my thoughts stray too far down that road for fear my whole face will turn the same color as my rose colored blouse.

She texts me not long after our greeting. How'd you sleep?

Well, thank you. And you?

Very well, knowing—hoping—I get to see you later in the flesh.

I want to see ALL the flesh.

Naughty, she types.

"Alright, guys, we're live in 10. Good show," Julie says.

I have to take a few seconds to gain my composure after that little jolt of heat that coursed through my body.

The broadcast ends up being fine, but it's going to take time to adjust to a show without a teleprompter, hair and makeup, or a producer in my face. There were several frustrating moments with all the equipment I have to manage and the lack of face-to-face contact, but we'll eventually work through the kinks. Hopefully this virus will be eradicated within the next month or two and I can return to my normal life.

I knock lightly on the bedroom door. "Hal, you awake?"

He makes an unintelligible sound.

"Get up. We have to get our Covid tests in an hour," I announce. "We can have breakfast in town, then tour the recovery center."

"It's too early," he grumbles. "Can't I just sleep in?"

I flip the lights on. "Up. Now."

I don't focus on what might happen if I test positive—all I know is that I've not experienced symptoms, which I take as a good sign.

Hal and I take our bacon & egg breakfast sandwiches from a small café on Main Street to go. I wear a mask and a baseball cap the whole time not only as a form of protection from the coronavirus, but also so no one recognizes me. The last thing I need is for someone to post a picture online of me in Bozeman. If I thought the rumor mill was bad a few weeks ago, it would be awful if the public found out I was quarantining with Laura at her ranch.

Despite the chill in the air, we enjoy breakfast on a nearby park bench in the glorious sunshine, and then walk to the Madison Valley Medical Center. I've witnessed how Covid testing works on the news, including on several of my own segments, and it appears uncomfortable but not painful.

"Ms. Jackson?"

I stand and lift a hand. "That's me."

"Right this way."

There is only one other patient in the waiting room, and he appears to have an injured wrist. I realize I'm not in an Emergency Room right now, but when I was searching for Hal at Antioch Hospital, conditions were a hundred times worse with people lining the hallway coughing, sneezing and having trouble breathing. This feels more like a routine doctor's appointment. It confirms that either people in Bozeman aren't taking the virus seriously or no one is reporting to the hospital with symptoms.

I follow the nurse behind a door with a quick glance back at Hal.

"Have you had a Covid test before?" the woman asks.

"No, this is my first time."

She explains the procedure, then shoves the long Q-tip into my right nostril, turning it five times one way, then another five the other. "Let's get this side." She repeats the motion in my other nostril. "We're not accustomed to giving these tests without cause for alarm."

"I know but my job required that I get tested." I acknowledge that's not completely true, but Laura and I are co-hosts of the show for now, so it's partially accurate.

She pulls back as if trying to place my face. Something tells me she has no idea who I am.

I rub my nose. "When should I expect the results?"

"Dr. Morris ordered a PCR test. The results are usually available within a couple days, but I see there's a rush on your results." She reads something on a monitor. "You'll probably find out in four to five hours."

I have a feeling I know who put the wheels in motion to get the results sooner rather than later.

"What's a PCR Test?"

"It stands for polymerase chain reaction and is considered the gold standard in virus detection," she replies. "This one detects RNA, or genetic material, that's specific to the coronavirus within days of infection, even for people who don't have symptoms and is highly accurate."

I don't recall doing a segment on The Morning Show about the different kinds of Covid tests out there. Perhaps this is something I could bring to the producers.

"I appreciate the explanation," I reply, grabbing my purse off the table. "My brother is next."

"I'll follow you back to the reception area." She hands me a stack of masks. "Here are some disposable masks—use them when you're in public spaces."

I shove them in my purse. "Thanks."

"Mr. Jackson?" she calls.

As I wait for Hal to finish up, I text Laura. Did you order a rush on my Covid test results?

I don't know what you're talking about, she types a couple minutes later.

It would have nothing to do with the sooner I get a negative result, the sooner we can be together? I ask.

Nothing at all.

My cheeks heat up, thinking about what's going to happen when we're together—it certainly won't be G-rated. It's not like Laura and I have had tons of sex, but what we've done so far has been nothing short of astonishing. She knows how to touch me in ways that make me squirm for a bit, then finishes with delicious release. When she wraps her warm mouth around my nipple, I just about come undone.

"All done," Hal announces.

His startling presence makes me jump in my seat. "Great."

We walk through the charming downtown area of Bozeman, and even grumpy Hal seems impressed by how cute the town is. Half an hour later, we tour the recovery center, and I'm impressed by the ambiance and the staff we meet along the way. We chat with one of the therapists, and I sense an instant connection between him and Hal. My brother was standoffish about coming here at first, but he looks content if not utterly happy by the end of our hour-long tour.

Before leaving, I confirm that both of our identities will remain confidential, and they assure me that's the case.

"What did you think?" I get behind the wheel of the SUV.

"It smelled nice," he offers. "Dr. Hill seems like a good guy."

"I liked everyone we met." I turn down a one-way street and head back to the ranch. "And the rooms are really spacious."

"I'm glad I'll have my own bathroom," he responds. "I wonder what the food is like."

"Did you grab a menu?"

He holds up one of three brochures. "Looks like they have something different every day."

"Kind of like a restaurant." I veer onto the highway. "What's on it today?"

"Breakfast is fresh fruit, yogurt and an assortment of muffins," he reads. "Lunch is a choice of ham, turkey or tuna sandwiches with a garden salad. Dinner is baked chicken with green beans and an orzo-pea salad. There's a note that says there are gluten free and vegetarian options."

"Sounds delicious."

He scratches his face. "I don't know about yogurt for breakfast."

"You'll be eating healthier than usual," I reply with a quick glance his way. "It'll be good for you."

"I sure as hell will miss bacon," he sighs but lets out a light chuckle.

"I'll roast a whole fucking pig if you come out of this thing with strategies to combat your addiction."

He grabs my hand. "I'll hold you to it."

Hal is in good spirits, which pleases me greatly. If I know he's not only getting the treatment he needs, but is also happy, I'll be at ease and able to focus more on work as well as my relationship with Laura.

It's funny how crises put things into perspective. When Hal went missing, I nearly lost my shit. Finding him was like arriving upon the bucket of gold at the end of the rainbow. Now that I think he'll get the treatment he so desperately needs, I can pay more attention to what I want in my personal life. That begins and ends with Laura Peterson.

As I drive down the highway with the radio on and my brother singing Friends in Low Places next to me, I find myself smiling. This could be a very good beginning for both of us.

There's a news break in the program, where the DJ talks about the new coronavirus numbers, then hands it off to an ABC news correspondent who speaks in dire terms about the rise in cases and hospitalizations. I know it's bad—I said as much on the show this morning, but suddenly my euphoria descends into fear.

What if one of us gets this virus? It's a terrifying thought. As usual, when my mind jumps to bad things, it doesn't stop on a singular item. I start considering other things that could go sideways, like my relationship with Laura. I shake my head and huff, hoping Hal doesn't see the internal fit I'm having. I need help coping with these feelings, and I hope Dr. Burke has suggestions on how I can manage the fear that often surfaces at the most inopportune times.

Over the next several hours, I meet with TMS producers and the technical team, and then I touch base with RJ to schedule some low-key Zoom appointments. We muse about when we'll return to our normal lives, but neither of us are optimistic at least in the short term. If this goes on longer than two months, we're going to have to talk about logistics and who I need on staff. Surely the pandemic won't bleed into summer.

My phone rings, and I notice an unknown number. I hesitate before answering, but it could be the medical center. "Hello?"

"Hi, is this Bradley Jackson?"

"Yes."

"This is Noreen Dodson from the Madison Valley Medical Center. I have your Covid test results," she says. "First can I verify your date of birth?"

I give it to her as I walk into the living room to see Hal flipping through channels on the television.

"And the last four of your social."

"6992," I reply. "What are my results?"

"Good news—you're negative," she responds.

I cover my heart with a hand. "Oh, thank God."

Hal mouths, "Is that the doctor?"

I nod. "My brother, Hal Jackson, also got tested. Do you have his results?"

I put it on speakerphone, and she goes through the same procedure with him.

"I'm happy to report your results are also negative."

"Told you," he whispers.

"While these tests are accurate, they measure exposure three days after you might've come into contact with a person who has Covid," Noreen begins. "So, if you were in public yesterday or the day before, you might consider getting tested again in two days. Should I put in the request for you?"

I glance at my brother.

"Can you do that—order a test for us?"

"There's a note in your chart that you should be tested as often as necessary." I hear her shuffling papers. "As long as we're not overwhelmed with patients with Covid symptoms, which doesn't seem to be the case for now, you're welcome to come in for testing. It's best if you make an appointment."

"Great, thank you. Let's set something up."

We spend another five minutes on the phone, and Noreen warns us that this thing is far from over. She gives us tips on how to stay safe, and just like Laura mentioned, she says there will soon be specific mask-wearing and social distance guidelines from the CDC.

"Thanks again." I hang up and let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God we're ok." Immediately, I text Laura with the news.

"Do you think it's weird that the recovery center didn't ask about Covid?" Hal asks.

"It was on the intake form." I shove my phone in my pocket. "It didn't specifically ask if you've been tested, but it asked questions about symptoms."

"You filled it out for me?"

"That was back in New York." I pause and glance at him sideways. "You don't have symptoms, do you?"

He waves a hand. "No, I just didn't know if that was something the facility cared about. I mean, it sounds like a fucked up virus, so I thought they'd be more…I don't know…concerned about who's checking in."

"This whole thing might be just ramping up," I exhale a long breath. "Businesses and schools are scrambling to figure out how to handle it. I don't think anyone has answers yet."

My phone buzzes, and I quickly yank it out of my pocket and read Laura's text: Get your cute little Southern ass over here. I bite my lower lip, trying to curtail a blushing smile as I think about what's going to happen soon.

"I'm going up to the main house for a while." I stick the phone in my back pocket. "You'll be alright on your own?"

"March Madness is happening." He plops on the sofa. "I'm good."

"I'm not sure when I'll be back." I go to the bathroom to freshen up. "Plan to have dinner without me. There's a Salisbury Steak meal in the freezer." This is the shit we grew up eating, and while I detest the stuff now, it was a treat when we were kids.

"That one has the cinnamon apples, right?" he asks.

"I don't remember, maybe."

I brush my teeth, then run a comb through my hair. I dab on a little lip gloss before changing into dark denim and a light blue sweater. I take a look in the floor length mirror, then head into the living room.

"Don't wait up for me," I call as I grab my coat off the rack and walk out the door.

There's a small part of me that worries he'll leave, but I think he knows better. Nevertheless, I take the car keys just in case.

I shrug into my winter coat, wondering how long I'll need it as March wears on. I make my way up the path to Laura's house and glance at the rolling hills at dusk around the property. I wouldn't mind going for a walk with her so she can point out interesting things on the ranch. For now, that thought is on hold as I tap on the door eager to see her.

Just like last time, Laura answers with a wide smile. She's wearing Navy blue drawstring pants with a faded Hillary 2016 sweatshirt.

I hold up a mask. "I brought this just in case."

"You won't need that tonight." She saunters over, placing her hands on my arms and running them up to my shoulders. "At least not in my presence." Laura kisses me softly at first, then runs her tongue lightly across the seam of my mouth.

My heart swells as I readily part my lips and her tongue dips inside. I bring a hand to her face and she does the same on my right cheek. She tastes like Bourbon and candied cherries. Her tongue swirls in my mouth, and there's no hiding the noise I let out at the welcome intrusion.

She smiles. "Eager?"

"Very," I pant, not caring that I'm definitely not playing hard to get.

She kisses me again, then pulls away with a mischievous grin. "That will have to wait—I have big plans."

"But…" My façade crumbles—I thought the first thing we'd do is have sex.

"Yes?" She closes the door, then takes me by the hand leading me towards the expansive living room.

"Well, I…" I release her hand and stop short. "I'm just going to come right out and say it…" I wait for her to turn around and face me after my abrupt halt. "I thought we'd…" I motion a hand between us. "You know, have sex before doing anything else."

She takes one step towards me, both hands rising to my upper arms. "A warrior of the Light is never in a hurry. Time works in his favor; he learns to master his impatience and avoids acting without thinking."

I wiggle my head from side to side, agitated by her ability to resist me when I've made it abundantly clear I want her. "What the fuck is that?"

"Paul Coelho, Warrior of the Light." She kisses me casually, then heads to the bar cart. "Drink?"

This woman never ceases to shock me. Most of the time, it's in a good way, but this time she's doing whatever the female version of cock-blocking is called.

I stick my hands on my hips. "I thought we were on the same page."

She tilts a bottle of Empress Gin over a rocks glass. "What page is that?"

"The one where I figured we were gonna get naked if my Covid test came back negative." I hear my accent slipping, getting more unrefined, dislodged by a twang of annoyance. "Which it did as you might recall."

She lets out one of her boisterous laughs that fills the cavernous room. "Oh, Bradley."

I snarl my lip, giving her an irritated look.

She uses tongs to place four ice cubes into each glass. I didn't confirm I wanted a drink; it's presumptuous of her to think I do even if it's true. It's evident she takes pride in anticipating my needs.

"You strike me as someone who reads the last page of a book before you even start just to make sure the ending doesn't disappoint."

"I don't do that all the time." I jut out one leg and cross my arms, frustrated that she's pinpointed my overall level of impatience. "Why would I read 300 pages if it doesn't end the way I hope it will?"

She brings the lavender-colored liquid to her nose, covering her mouth with the crystal tumbler presumably to conceal another laugh.

My nostrils flare. "You're really annoying me right now."

"I can see that." There's a calmness to her tone that makes me think she's unfazed by my…state; perhaps she's even enjoying it. She squeezes fresh grapefruit into the cocktails, gives each one a quick stir, then garnishes it with a wedge of the orange-fleshed fruit. "Just because we don't have sex the moment you walk in doesn't mean it's off the table."

Off the table? Is she considering not fucking me tonight?

"Trust me." She saunters towards me leading with her hips and handing me a glass. "It'll be worth the wait."

"So, you do want to have sex," I state rather than ask. "Just not at the moment."

Laura lets out a light laugh. "Of course, I do." She picks up a long strand of my hair as her face settles into a more serious expression. "Never more so than while there's a bee in your bonnet."

I'm relieved to hear that at least she wants me. "I thought that was a Southern expression."

"It's actually derived from the Scottish idiom a head full of bees." She takes a seat on the sofa. "It was first found in a translation of Virgil's Aeneid."

I sidle up to her and take in a big whiff of her woodsy perfume. "How the fuck do you know stuff like that?"

"I majored in English Literature at Vassar," she states, taking a sip. "I realize the idiom I mentioned is Scottish; I've read my Virgil. But unlike you, I've never skipped to the last page of a book."

I look up at her, all soft features and gentle angles as opposed to how she portrays herself on television. "You're the smartest person I've ever met."

She hooks an arm over my shoulders, tugging me closer. "I doubt that's true."

"Seriously, you are." I run a hand along the curve of her cheek, resting it there. "Which, by the way, is a real turn on."

She leans down, pressing her lips against mine. The smile that dangled from her mouth is replaced by desire as the kiss intensifies.

"I really like kissing you, Bradley," she confesses.

I rest my forehead against hers, sniffing gin and grapefruit on her breath. "Then how come you don't want to have sex?"

"Because it would be a chaotic experience." She lifts her head. "I'm not opposed to the occasional hedonistic fuck, but I want it to be more than that." She looks me in the eye. "You made the decision to fly 2,000 miles to be with me. I'd like to think this trip is going to be more than a series of casual fucks."

Just when I thought I had every right to be frustrated by her presumed lack of sexual desire, she says something like that.

I cup her elbow. "It will be."

"How do I know that?"

I sit back, annoyance once again flitting across my brow. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not asking you to define what we are to each other, Bradley," she responds. "You're so passionate…impulsive…fun. I love those things about you," she continues, letting her hand fall from my cheek.

I turn my legs, knees angled away from her. "What are you trying to say, Laura?"

"Initially, I thought this would be a relationship of convenience—we'd hook up when we were lonely or wanted companionship. Surely you were too…too fiery, too ephemeral to contain." She shrugs. "But things shifted over a matter of weeks if not days. I found myself smiling; laughing more when I was with you. Thinking about you when I was practicing yoga or in between segments of the show. Something I thought, no—I knew—would be complicated wound up being easy. Truth be told I've never had an easy relationship."

If this doesn't end the way I hope it will, I might've flown cross-country to get told it's all or nothing with this titan of a woman.

"When you arrived yesterday, I confessed that you make me feel…alive, wanted." She sets her glass on the coffee table next to mine. "It's more than that." She takes my hand into her lap, rubbing my knuckles. "I want to respect what's happening between us."

"You can respect me in the bedroom, you know," I offer.

"I plan to." She kisses my cheek, then my nose, and finally my mouth. "Over and over again."

"And for the record, I didn't fly to Montana for a series of casual fucks." I feel the need to add. "If that's all I wanted, there are plenty of people in Manhattan who could've fit that bill."

She caresses my jawline with her thumb. "I'm confident that's true."

I side-eye her. "So, we're good?"

She lifts a shoulder. "We were never not good."

It's in what Laura is not saying that I have to dissect. She's admitting something larger than what I have the mental capacity to handle. Scratch that, I have the mental capacity, but I'm not sure if I have the emotional capacity. I told her back in my dressing room that I broke up with people in the past because I was afraid things were going to end. I've always had the end in mind, which is why I found it interesting when she mentioned the whole reading the last page of the book thing. Laura is a quick study—she's able to identify little nuggets of information without needing to ask direct questions—she observes to learn.

There's a nagging feeling buried deep inside me that if I go all in with her, she's eventually going to leave. I will have been vulnerable for no reason. I'm hoping this therapist can help me work through my issues, because it would be a colossal loss to miss out on a life with Laura Peterson.

She gets to her feet, holding out one hand. "I have a magnificent evening planned for us."

I need to lighten the mood. "As long as it ends with your head between my legs, I'm game."

"Bradley Jackson!" she says in her best offended Southern drawl. "You're very naughty."

I get to my feet to grab the drink I've yet to sip off the coffee table. "You bring it out in me."

She taps my ass, making me jump with a gasp.

I hand her one of the drinks before tasting it. "What makes this thing purple?"

"Empress Gin from Canada." She sniffs the contents before taking a sip. "It's infused with butterfly pea blossoms, which gives it this vivid lavender color."

I take another sip—it's delicious especially with the bitterness of the grapefruit juice.

"I discovered it on a trip to British Columbia when I stayed at the Fairmont Empress Hotel." She swirls the cocktail. "It's made with a signature blend of black tea they serve at the hotel."

"Did you buy it there?"

She leads me downstairs. "Yes, but they sell it at most well-stocked liquor stores."

"It's good; I like it."

One of the many things I find intriguing about Laura is her inexorable knowledge about everything. I've yet to see her trip up on a response.

"So, what's on the agenda for our 'magnificent' evening?"

We step into the game room. "First, if you're up for it, we're going to shoot some stick," she says, imitating me from yesterday's tour.

"I don't know if you understand who you're messing with," I offer in my own real accent as I walk around the pool table.

"I'll take my chances," she replies around another sip. "After that, we'll eat dinner. I don't eat red meat very often, but you've never had steak until you've had a Montana filet."

I grab a pool cue and glance at the tip. "Is that right?"

"You've heard of Wagyu beef?"

I nod, choosing a different stick.

"Technically, it can't be called Wagyu unless it's from Japan," she says. "There's a cattle farm down the road that sells the closest thing to Wagyu out here. They distribute to the finest restaurants across the country. The beef has this intense marbling and amazing flavor."

I take sip of my drink. "I couldn't tell you the last time I had steak."

She grabs the pool cue with red lines around the base. "I'd be shocked if you don't enjoy it."

"Is cooking something you enjoy?"

"When I have the time, yes, which is more out here than back in New York," she replies. "I can grill the fuck out of meat. Bobby Flay gave me a few private lessons."

My lips turn up. "Of course he did."

"When we're done with dinner, we'll sit by the outdoor fireplace and gaze at the stars."

I rub chalk on the tip. "Isn't it too cold to be outside?"

"I'll keep you warm." She kisses my temple before taking a sip of her cocktail. "Ready?"

"This drink is good and all." I tip the glass back. "But I can't play pool without beer—that would be a sacrilege."

She sets her glass on a wooden shelf. "I didn't realize there are drinking rules while playing pool."

I roll two stray balls to the other end of the table. "There are where I come from."

She points to a mini-fridge next to the foosball table. "There should be a variety of beverages to choose from in there."

I bend down to open it and see at least five different varieties of beer. "Do you always keep this refrigerator well-stocked?"

"There are two things I have in my house at all times." Laura pulls out the triangular rack. "Toilet paper and alcohol."

I chuckle as I pull out a beer and read the label aloud: "Union Hall Brewery amber ale. Is this local?"

"It's on Main Street," she confirms. "I'll take you down there some time—if they're open during Covid."

Then it dawns on me as I twist the top. "Wait, aren't you supposed to do the show in a little while?"

"Eric's covering for me." She racks the balls.

"Was this a planned absence, or…"

"It was planned as soon as you texted me with your negative Covid result." She rolls them a few times on the green felt before lining up the yellow ball on a dot. "I wanted to spend an evening with you without interruption."

My mouth scrunches up and I'm both flattered and touched that Laura Peterson would give up her show to spend time with me. "Thank you."

She smiles as if it's no big deal. "I racked; you shoot first."

I stroke the stick and watch her watching me. I could see how this might be slightly erotic. "You mean break?"

"Shoot, break, whatever," she responds eyes darkening.

I put one foot in front of the other and bend over, leaning my forearm against the ledge of the table. "Care to put a wager on the outcome of our game?"

She sips her cocktail. "What do you have in mind?"

"If I win…" I position the cue between the groove of my thumb and index finger. "You have lunch with me and my brother tomorrow before I drop him off at rehab."

Her lips twitch—I sense she wasn't expecting this. "Fine." She folds her arms. "If I win, you spend the night."

I was not expecting that. While I came here this evening hoping we'd have sex, I had no intention of sleeping over. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that I worry Hal will do something stupid if I don't go back to the guest house.

"Deal," I respond reluctantly, hoping she's not as good at pool as she lets on.

I close one eye and take aim. Crash—the balls fly in every direction, and the 3-ball goes into the side pocket while the 7 rolls into the corner hole. "Solids."

She hides what I think is a worried expression by taking a sip of her diminishing cocktail.

"When I was probably nine or ten and it was my daddy's week to take care of us, he'd pick Hal and I up from school and bring us to this place in Glen Fork called The Mad Hatter." I move around the table and point my stick at the yellow ball. "One-ball, corner pocket." I line up again. "With a name like that all lit up in neon, I pretended it was a place in Alice in Wonderland. In reality it was a dingy old dive bar." I strike the ball with significant force, and it rattles into the hole. I call my next shot. "Obviously, Hal and I weren't supposed to be there, but my dad knew the owner. Other than a drunk person or two bellied up to the bar, the place was empty." I strike the ball, but it misses the pocket.

Laura surveys the table, pointing to one of the holes. "Ten-ball here." Her eyes find mine. "I'm listening."

"My dad would give us a handful of quarters and tell us to go play pool or darts." I take a swig of beer. "Hal and I would take turns, deciding which game we wanted to play. He always chose darts; I chose pool."

The ball finds its way into the pocket. "You went to a bar when you were a child?" She points her stick at the 15-ball, then silently shows me where she wants it to go.

"I didn't know any better at that age." I take another sip. "I mean, there were never other kids in the place, and it smelled like Skoal and cheap whiskey, but I didn't think we were prevented by law from being inside."

She misses the shot, then focuses on me.

I'm suddenly self-conscious after divulging such a private story, so I decide to end it there. "Anyway, that's where I learned how to play pool."

Laura reaches for me, hand landing on my upper arm. "I'm sorry."

"What's there to be sorry about?" I shrug it off with a forced laugh.

"Your childhood…" she begins. "Seemed rough."

"It was normal to me," I respond, eyeing the table more as a distraction than figuring out my next shot. "I didn't realize there was anything unusual about my upbringing until I started spending time at my friends' houses." I point the stick at the 2-ball. "Twelve-two combination." I hit the first ball that bangs the two into the pocket.

"Were your friends' parents what most people would consider normal?" she asks.

"Most of them were still married and treated each other with respect." I hit another ball, missing it by an inch. "I had no idea families could be so…functional."

She puts both hands on my shoulders, then leans in wordlessly kissing me.

I pull back, scanning her eyes, wondering if what I see there is pity. "You don't need to feel sorry for me or anything," I say through a timid smile. "I've made my peace with the way I was raised."

"Have you?"

I step out of her embrace. "There are some things I wish were different but wishing gets us nowhere."

Laura doesn't redirect her attention to the pool table even though it's her turn. "How'd you get through it?"

"Hal," I reply without hesitation. "If it weren't for my little brother, I don't know where I'd be right now."

She holds my gaze for a beat, then moves to the other side of the table. I wonder if she's thinking twice about him, maybe just maybe giving him credit for being my saving grace when we were younger.

"Thirteen-ball, side pocket." She makes it.

"Enough about me." I take a swig of beer. "I know next to nothing about your childhood."

She takes another stab and misses. "Not much to tell."

"You had a perfect childhood—no drama whatsoever?" I question suspiciously.

"My father was a venture capitalist; my mom was an attorney—still is." She opens the mini-fridge, bending at the knees and pulling out an IPA. "They were rarely home, but when they were, they argued…a lot."

I lean my hip against the pool table and listen closely.

"Almost every day for probably two or three years, my father would come home long after my mom and I finished dinner and they would argue for hours," she starts. "It was everything from taking out the trash to who was supposed to pick me up after school the next day. They'd mostly fight in their bedroom, but I could hear it from almost anywhere in the house."

"Sounds familiar." I give her a pained expression, and suddenly it seems like she regrets telling me her story.

"I've probably divulged too much."

"Why?" I wobble my head from side to side. "I told you a story about my childhood—it's alright to share something about yours."

She leans her back against the wall and sighs, and I can tell she's debating whether to stop or to press on.

"It's not like I'm going to tell your secrets to anyone," I offer. "You can trust me."

She stares at me for a moment as if judging if that's really true. I've given her no indication not to trust me, so she continues. "My parents placated me with elaborate gifts—everything a child could want." She lowers her head. "But I didn't want the latest Atari game or even the Shetland pony they gave me for my 10th birthday. I wanted my parents to love each other—to love me."

I've never seen Laura Peterson this vulnerable. There's a sense of pride that swells within me that she's trusting me with such personal information.

"I'm sure they loved you."

"They divorced when I was 15," she finishes, ignoring my statement. "I was mostly raised by a nanny." She pauses and glances at nothing in particular. "I wanted for nothing except my parents' attention."

I nod, though her focus isn't on me.

"They weren't interested in spending time with me." Laura tosses her bottle cap into the trash can. "I spent most of my childhood in my room, reading. That's where my interest in literature developed."

I feel bad for her, but in my experience, money doesn't solve everything, but it sure as hell helps.

"When I came out to them, both on separate occasions, my dad pretty much disowned me." Laura props her stick against the table. "He wrote me out of his will."

"That must've been painful," I reply, chin dimpling at the thought.

"I never wanted his money." She takes a sip of beer. "I allowed them to pay for my education, but when I got my first job as a reporter, I didn't accept another dime."

I'm impressed by her fortitude. I had no idea we'd share a similar disdain for our parents.

She picks up her stick and blinks at me. "I don't think I've told anyone other than my therapist about that part of my life."

Laura seems to have built a fortress around her, and I'm honored she'd share such information with me. I can relate to erecting walls and refusing to allow others in for fear of exposing too much of myself and having it used against me later.

I rub her arm. "Your parents fighting—is that why you hate chaos?"

She nods. "That's a big part of it, yeah."

"Still," I say. "I'd much rather have your upbringing than mine."

Laura steadies herself in the shooting position, but her eyes latch on to mine. "My dad didn't take me to bars when I was in elementary school, but then again, he didn't take me anywhere. I'd have given anything to spend time with him whether that was at a bar or in my own backyard."

She has a way of tugging at my heartstrings like no one I've ever met. I don't tell her that my father was abusive or a practicing alcoholic—I've kept that locked up inside for years. The only person who knows those things is my brother. It's going to take a lot for me to divulge such private moments to a therapist; I hope I have the courage to follow through.

She misses the next shot, then grabs her beer bottle, bringing it to her mouth.

I sink one more ball into the side pocket, and now all I have left is the 8-ball. "You ready to lose, Ms. Peterson?"

"That's not an easy shot," she challenges.

I position the stick behind my back in order to get the best angle, and I'm well aware of the way my breasts jut forward as I line up the pool cue, practicing the shot a few times. I stand on the toes of my right foot, all but sitting on the ledge of the table, and I glance at Laura. I swear she just licked her lips as she takes in the scene before her. I strike the 8-ball, and it glides into the hole with a satisfying clatter.

"Hal will eat whatever you put in front of him; I'd like a club sandwich."

"Fuck," she mutters as her head tips back. "I'm glad I don't have a dart board."

I laugh as I rest my pool cue against the wall, then make my way towards my opponent. "Good game."

"Mmm." She wraps her arms around my waist. "You weren't kidding—you're good."

I string mine over her shoulders. "I'm good at other things, too."

She arches a singular brow. "I might need a reminder."

We kiss against the rim of the pool table, and I feel wetness begin to pool in my center. Laura runs her palms over my ass, aggressively pulling me closer, and I touch her warm skin underneath her shirt. My fingertips glide up her torso until reaching her breasts.

She pulls back and stares, wiping a strand of hair out of my face. "Thank you for sharing all that with me and for listening to stories about my own fucked up childhood."

I nod and don't break eye contact. My mind quickly returns to our conversation in the living room. "We don't have to…I mean, not like this."

She backs me against the pool table, fingers digging into my hips, and I get the sense she wants me to sit on the ledge. "You can't line up for a shot like that and expect me to keep my hands off you." If it wasn't obvious what her intentions were before, it certainly becomes so when she unzips my jeans and all but hoists me onto it. "If ever there was a time for hedonistic sex, this is it."

My mouth latches on to hers in a sloppy, indigent kiss. She tastes like juniper berries and beer, and I can't get enough. I tug roughly at the hem of her sweatshirt until she understands I want it off.

I suppose she wants to even the playing field as she pulls my sweater up and over my head.

There will be many opportunities for us to have ordinary sex; right now I this needs to be raw and rough and hard. She sucks my nipple through the black, lacy fabric and my head falls back with pleasure. Somehow, Laura is able to shimmy my jeans off and dips a finger into my folds. The smirk she issues tells me she's pleased by how ready for her I am. She wiggles it just a bit, and I buck into her hand.

She smirks. "Definitely eager."

"I've been waiting all day for this." I kiss her again.

She places a string of kisses down my body until getting on her knees. My hips thrust forward at the anticipation of what she's about to do. Laura scoops the material of my underwear aside and takes in a whiff before sticking her tongue in my folds.

I clutch the side of the pool table and inhale a sharp breath. I place a hand on the back of her head as she takes her sweet time licking me.

Laura doesn't speed up despite my gyrations, and without warning, the sweet release of an orgasm is upon me. She nibbles my sensitive clit, then soothes it with her tongue, and I'm gone. The orgasm takes over every inch of my body as I spasm out of control.

"I did not expect that," I say through heavy breaths.

"Oh, come on." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and gets to her feet, standing between my legs. "You've been angling for sex since the moment you stepped inside."

"Yeah, and you basically gave me blue balls."

She lets out a throaty laugh, and I can't help but smile at how much I love the sound of Laura Peterson's genuine laughter, particularly when I'm the cause of it.

"I still haven't seen your bedroom," I note, reaching for her.

She kisses me, and I taste a slight bitterness on her mouth. "Soon."

It thrills me to no end thinking there will be more of that in the near future. It's going to take a while, a long while, to get to a point of not wanting to fuck her multiple times a day. If I play my cards right, hopefully that'll become reality.

"You're really good at that," I mention, hopping off the edge of the pool table.

"Sex or billiards?"

"The former." I snort, shrugging into my jeans. "You could use a few pointers at pool."

She slips each arm into her sweatshirt. "Are you willing to teach me?"

"And give away my secrets?" I pull my sweater over my head. "Not a chance."

"There must be something I can beat you at."

Once I'm fully clothed, I reach for her. "You're better at sex than I am."

She huffs. "I beg to differ."

"You can disagree all you want." I run my fingertips from her cheek down to her neck. "You're incredible, Laura. Not just the sex. I mean, you're really good at that, but…"

She kisses me with an earnestness I wasn't expecting.

"I know what you were getting at earlier," I say, returning the kiss, then pulling back to look into her hazel eyes. "I know I don't seem like the relationship type with my fiery disposition and everything I said about walking away before things got serious with any of my past relationships, but…I want this, Laura. I really do."

She issues a soft almost relieved smile. "When you showed up on my doorstep…" She cradles my jaw with her left hand. "It was like a hologram. After I left New York I'd convinced myself that our relationship had run its course, then there you were on my fucking porch," she breathes out a slight audacious chuckle.

"My whole life, I've been paralyzed by fear and panic and this constant fucking feeling that I wasn't good enough to deserve this kind of…attention," I admit, squeezing her other hand.

"You deserve it." Her fingertips cascade down my neck, hand settling on my shoulder. "You do."

I lower my eyes, wishing I could accept her compliment at face value. "It's going to take me a while to come to terms with that—to let someone care for me."

Her lips linger on my forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."