Falling For Us Again

7. LONGING

Chapter 7

LONGING

Jenna

I’m standing in the old Hartlow fairground, the place where so many of my childhood memories were made. The sky is painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun sets, casting a warm glow over everything. The sounds of laughter and music float through the air, and I can almost taste the cotton candy on my tongue.

Suddenly, Dylan is there, standing in front of me. His green eyes lock onto mine, and there’s a softness in his gaze that makes my heart flutter. He steps closer, his presence comforting and electrifying at the same time.

I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and my breath catches in my throat.

“Jenna,” he whispers, his voice low and filled with longing.

Before I can respond, he cups my face in his hands, his touch sending shivers down my spine. His lips meet mine in a gentle, tentative kiss, and the world around us seems to fade away.

The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent and demanding. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as our bodies press together.

The fairground disappears, replaced by a secluded spot by the lake, another cherished memory from our past. The water glistens in the moonlight, and the air is filled with the sounds of nature.

Dylan’s hands roam over my body, his touch igniting a fire within me. His lips trail down my neck, leaving a trail of burning desire in its wake.

“Dylan,” I moan, dampness pooling between my thighs as my body throb with need.

He responds by pulling me closer, his hands finding the hem of my dress and lifting it over my head. His mouth moves lower till he finds a nipple and pops it into his mouth, suckling. I arch into him, the sensation is overwhelming, and I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of passion.

Pushing my panties aside, he finds the nub of my desire and rubs it in circles. I moan deeply, grabbing the back of his head greedily sucking at his tongue. His finger slides into my wetness…

A loud, jarring noise shatters the moment. My eyes fly open, and I’m back in my bedroom, my heart pounding in my chest. The noise that pulled me from my dream was my phone ringing loudly beside me.

Groaning, I reach for the phone, my fingers fumbling as I try to silence the intrusive sound. My nipples tingle as they rub against the silky fabric of my pajamas, and my panties are soaking wet.

It’s just a dream Jenna.

The screen lights up with Aunt Mila’s number, and I swipe to answer.

“Hello?” my voice sounds husky with sleep and lingering desire.

“Jenna? Are you still in bed?”

My heartbeat steadies as I recognize her voice. “Aunt Mila, hi. You do know it’s only 6 am.”

“6:00 AM? It’s 10:00 AM, sleeping beauty. Although I’m happy to see you’re getting plenty of rest.”

My eyes snap open, shaking off the remnants of the dream. “What?” Sunlight floods the room, temporarily blinding me as I shut my eyes and sink back into the bed. “What the heck?”

“Well, at least you’re catching up on your sleep. That’s something.”

“I guess,” I shrug. I can’t remember the last time I slept past 6am.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine. No nervous breakdowns. At least not yet.” I don’t mention the vivid dreams and scandalous thoughts about Dylan.

As if reading my mind. “Have you seen Dylan?” she asks, not missing a beat.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?” I ask, my brows furrowing as I catch the suggestive tone in her voice.

“Oh, come on, Jenna. Don’t be coy. Tell me.”

“Well,” I clear my throat, feeling a bit shy. “He looks good.” I scoff to myself, “good” is an understatement. He’s hot, even hotter than I remember. Just the thought of that body does things to me that I can’t put into words.

I can hear Aunt Mila trying to suppress a laugh on the other end of the line. “Ah, I see... so sounds like he’s pretty hot.”

I shake my head to shake of the spell he seems to put me under.

“Aunt Mila! I didn’t say that.”

You don’t have to dear. I can read you like a book.

“Aunt Mila, stop it. He hates me, and I feel the same.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Hmm.”

“I need to go now. I’ve got someone coming to help with the lawn in an hour.” I leave out the inconvenient detail that it's Dylan.

“Alright, honey. Call me later.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too, dear.”

After ending the call, I sit up in bed, running a hand through my hair. The vividness of the dream lingers, and I can still feel Dylan’s touch, his lips on mine. It’s unsettling how real it felt and how much my body responds to the mere thought of him.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching to release the tension in my muscles. As I move around the room, getting ready for the day, my mind keeps drifting back to the dream.

Maybe it’s the unresolved feelings from our past, or perhaps it’s the recent interactions we’ve had. Either way, it’s clear that Dylan still has a profound effect on me.

As I head to the kitchen to make some coffee, I remind myself that it was just a dream. But the lingering heat at the thought of his touch makes it difficult to convince myself that it doesn’t mean something more.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a deep breath, trying to focus on the tasks ahead. My phone buzzes with a notification, reminding me that Dylan should be here at any moment.

Just as I’m finishing my coffee, I hear a car pulling into the driveway. Peering out the window, I see Dylan stepping out of his truck, looking every bit as hot as he did in my dream.

My heart skips a beat, and I feel my nipples instantly turn into tight buds. I take a deep breath, willing myself to remain composed.

"Hey," he calls out as he approaches the porch. There was no smile or smirk on his face this time, and he barely glances at me, his eyes roaming over the grass instead.

"Hey," I reply, forcing a smile. “Thanks for coming over to help."

He looks at me then, his brows creased to a frown at my gratitude. “You’re welcome,” he says before looking around once again. "I'll get started on the lawn."

I watch as he walks to the back of his truck, retrieving the lawnmower. He handles it with ease, his movements confident and sure. As the lawnmower roars to life, I turn my attention back to my tasks, trying to ignore the fluttering in my stomach.

Back in the kitchen, I set up my laptop on the table and prepare for my call with Croft Real Estates. The agent, Marcy, has been in touch several times since I arrived in Hartlow, eager to finalize the sale of my parents' property.

The thought of selling the house fills me with a mixture of relief and at the same time sadness. This place holds so many memories and letting go feels like closing a final chapter of my life.

The phone rings promptly at twelve. I take a deep breath and answer, trying to project a composure that I don’t feel.

"Hello, this is Jenna."

"Good morning, Jenna. This is Marcy from Croft Real Estate. How are you today?"

"I'm doing well, thank you. How about you?"

"Great, thanks for asking. I wanted to touch base regarding the sale of your parents' property. We've had lots of interest as I’d previously mentioned, and I wanted to see if you're ready to move forward."

I glance out the window, watching Dylan as he methodically mows the overgrown grass. "I appreciate you checking in Marcy. I recently came back to town to check out the house myself, and I need a bit more time before I make a final decision."

"Of course, take all the time you need. Just let us know when you're ready."

"Thank you, Marcy. I'll be in touch soon."

We end the call, and I lean back in my chair, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on me. This house is more than just a property; it's a repository of my past, a link to my parents, and a place where so many significant moments of my life unfolded.

As much as I don't want any more reminders of those painful memories in this house, I also can't help but feel that there's something important I'm missing.

Something keeps telling me that I can't sell this property, at least not yet. I blame Aunt Mila. Even though I’ve tried to dismiss what she said, my curiosity won’t let me let it go.

Lost in thought, I'm startled by a knock on the door. I open the door to see Dylan standing there, with no shirt on, sweat coating his forehead before dripping down his muscular chest, down his tight stomach and making its way into his jeans.

"Hey, just wanted to let you know I'm done with the front yard," he says. “I’m about to start on the back, but can I get a glass of cold water?”

It’s as if time is suspended for a moment, there’s a buzzing in my ears, and all I can do is stare entranced at the picture of masculine perfection in front of me. I feel my pupils dilate and I can’t stop my traitorous eyes from following the trail of sweat.

"Jenna? Can I have some water?”

I shake my head to break the trance, heat creeping up my face.

"Of course, I’m sorry I should have brought you some. Come in.”

He steps inside, and that musky, manly smell, distinctive to him, tickles my nose. I inhale deeply as his proximity makes my heart race. I take a step back. Our eyes meet, and the air between us crackles with desire. I look away first, breaking the tension.

I clear my throat, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Uhm, I’ll get you that water.”

I turn to go to walk to the kitchen, and the hair standing at the nape of my neck lets me know his gaze is following my every movement.

Despite everything, there's a part of me, hard to ignore, that feels a deep connection to him and as much as I try to push it away, I can't deny the spark that still exists between us. It forms an ache in my heart because I know that history is bound to repeat itself if we try.

I return with his glass of water, and I swallow as he takes a big gulp, watching a drop make its way down his neck and chest. His muscles flex as he hands the glass back to me and heads back to finish the lawn. I try unsuccessfully to get some writing done.

Hours later, I admit defeat. Between my attraction, and the blaring noise of the lawnmower there was no way I was going to get anything done.

"Dylan, before you go, would you like to come in for lunch?” I find myself saying before I can stop myself. “It's the least I can do to thank you for your help."

That annoyingly smug look appears on his face as he folds his arms over his shirt. “You didn’t even want me here when I first offered, and now you want me to make me lunch? Interesting.”

He can be so irritating. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me with the lawn, but I should have known better.”

He relents, looking down at his dirt-streaked clothes and sweaty form. "Not going to lie, food sounds good, but I’m a mess right now. I wouldn't want to track dirt into your house."

I pause before I respond, my nails digging into my palms at what I was about to say.

"You’re welcome to take a shower. There are fresh towels in the guest bathroom, and I know you always keep a change of clothes in your truck."

He seems surprised that I remembered this.

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Alright then.”

While Dylan showers, I get busy preparing a simple but hearty meal. The sounds of the shower running fill the quiet house, and I find myself nervously anticipating the moment he emerges.

I set the table, placing steaming bowls of pasta and chicken for us.

When Dylan finally appears at the dining table, my breath hitches. His hair is damp and tousled, and he's wearing a clean T-shirt and jeans. Our gazes lock, and an undeniable electricity flares between us.

"Smells great," he says, breaking the spell as he walks over to the table.

"Thanks," I reply, my voice a little breathless. "I hope you like it. I’m not that much of a cook.”

“Oh, I know.” He chuckles.

I roll my eyes at his jab. Dylan was the one who taught me the few things I know how to cook. He was always an amazing cook, and his dream was to be a top chef, much to the disappointment of his mother who thought he’d follow the family tradition of going into medicine.

We sit down, and for a few moments, we eat in comfortable silence. The aroma of the food mingles with the scent of clean linen and soap, creating a cozy atmosphere. The food is warm and satisfying, and I can see the appreciation in Dylan’s eyes as he brings a forkful of pasta to his mouth.

"This is really good, Jenna.” He looks at me. “It’s so funny that you still make your pasta the same way.”

A small smile envelops my face, feeling strangely satisfied by his compliment. "That’s the only way I know how to make pasta.”

“I thought about taking a cooking class, but I don't have much free time on my hand.”

“Yes, busy author. You were always determined to make a better life for yourself. You did it.”

I pause. I can't tell if it’s another jab at me or if he’s being sincere.

I don't respond, and we lapse into silence again, but this time it feels charged, as if both of us are acutely aware of the unspoken feelings hanging in the air. I can't help but steal glances at Dylan, noting the way the light catches the contours of his face, highlighting the strength of his features.

He reaches across the table to take the carafe of water, his fingers brushing against mine. The touch is electric, sending a shiver down my spine. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world fades away, leaving just the two of us in this intimate, suspended moment.

Neither one of us makes a move to pull away; the air between us is thick with unspoken desire and memories of what once was. The tension is almost unbearable. I snatch my hands away from him.

What is going on with you, Jenna?