Falling For Us Again

13. THAWING

Chapter 13

THAWING

Jenna

I blink my eyes against the early morning sun filtering through the curtains. My head aches a bit. I’ve never been one to hold my alcohol, and I groan as I roll to the other side of the bed. Instinctively my hand reaches out searching.

The fog of sleep slowly clears away when all I feel is emptiness.

I blink, and the events of last night come rushing back. The painting and then, breaking down from those memories...

Dylan.

He was with me through the night. I can still smell him on the sheets, and the scent of our passion hangs in the air. I touch my lips with a finger. His warmth, his kisses, and his touch—but he isn’t here now.

A rush of sadness fills me to know that after everything we shared last night, he couldn’t even wait to say goodbye. Oh Dyl..,

The scent of frying bacon wafts into the room pulling me out of my wallowing. I push myself up onto my elbows, the sheets sliding down my bare shoulders.

He’s still here! And making breakfast!

The beep of the toaster in the kitchen left no room for misinterpretation. I jump out of bed, throwing his shirt over my naked form. Grabbing the collar, I close my eyes and take in a big whiff of his spicy cologne, mixed with my essence, our unique personal fragrance, and a reminder of the unforgettable passionate night we just shared.

The cold floorboards creak softly under my feet as I walk toward the kitchen.

Dylan is humming softly, swaying lightly on his feet while he flips something in the pan. I hover in the doorway watching him. He’s so beautiful. His back is towards me, and I admire him from a distance.

The morning light catches on the curve of his shoulders and run over the muscular planes of his back casting him in a golden hue. I can’t stop my eyes from following it down his trim waist, to his tight butt.

I flush, remembering how I had gripped those mounds last night as I rode waves of pleasure.

There’s something different about him this morning. The tension that usually follows us seems to be missing. He seems…peaceful.

I take the chance to observe him uninterrupted, captivated by his presence.

He turns, and his face lights up with a smile when he sees me.

“Good morning beautiful.”

I take a shaky breath. I never thought I’d hear those words from him again. This was the way he always used to greet me.

“Good morning,” I return his smile tentatively, finally stepping into the kitchen. My voice is still hoarse from sleep, and now a rush of emotions. I clear my throat.

He walks over and kisses me softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you; I was hoping to bring you breakfast in bed.”

He steps back, glancing in admiration at how his shirt hits the top of my thighs, and how the hastily buttoned job left most of my full breasts exposed.

“On second thought, I wouldn’t change this view for anything.” He says seductively.

I blush. “Impossible to sleep through the smell of bacon.”

He chuckles. “I know how much you love bacon... And I figured you might be hungry after last night.”

Heat creeps up my face as memories of last night flash by.

He hands me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Thank you.”

I take a sip, savoring the tangy sweetness on my tongue. I smile when I look up.

“Breakfast is almost ready.”

The simplicity of his words makes my chest tighten. I wish we could always be like his.

“I’ll set the table.”

I find myself staring at his hands moving with practiced ease. I’m curious to know why he’s no longer working as a chef. Lola had mentioned it during one of our conversations, and I was surprised.

He’d always loved cooking, and being a top chef was his dream. Why would he leave it behind?

The breakfast is hearty with fluffy blueberry pancakes, the most incredible buttery scrambled eggs I’ve ever seen, thick smoked bacon, and coffee.

I wonder how long he has been awake to make all of this. It’s such a sweet gesture.

“This looks so good.” My stomach rumbles in response to the spread. “I can’t wait to dig in.”

“I hope you like it.”

We begin to eat, and that is all I focus on. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now. I find myself moaning in appreciation as I dig in. I’ve missed his cooking.

I glance up to reach for a glass of juice, and our gaze meet. Dylan looks like he’s holding himself back from bursting into laughter, his eyes twinkle with humor.

“What?” I ask with a mouthful of eggs.

“You look like you’re about to have an orgasm. I know that look very well,” he teased.

I cough in embarrassment my face turning crimson. “Well, the food is really good. You still got it.”

He smiles. “Thank you.”

“Lola mentioned that you left your chef position in the city to settle down here,” I say without looking at him. “Why did you quit?”

He doesn’t respond.

I raise my head to see him staring intently at his plate like it holds the answer. Perhaps it’s a touchier subject than I thought.

The silence stretches between us, and after a few minutes, he shrugs. “It was no longer fun.”

I stare at him. “Your mother couldn’t have been happy with that decision.”

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth. I see the tension ripple through his body, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze snaps up to meet mine, and for a second, I wish I hadn’t mentioned her.

“She has nothing to do with it,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth from earlier.

I shrug, trying to keep my tone casual, but I can’t keep the bitterness out. “At least, there’s no way she could blame that on me. How is she by the way?”

He sets his fork down, pushing his plate away slightly. His jaw tightens, the muscles flexing. “Same old.”

I’m mad at myself for bringing her up. I know better. His mother has always been a sore point between us. I think back to the day I knew I had to let go of Dylan.

The memory returns before I can stop it.

Dylan had invited me to hang out at his place. He was going to teach me a new recipe, and I was excited to spend some time with my boyfriend.

The door was unlocked, so I walked in. I was about to call out for Dylan when I heard her voice raised in anger. I moved closer; they were at the other end of the living room.

I could tell his mother was livid. “You invited her here? I told you to stay away from that girl,” she’d said, her voice sharp, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

“She’s my girlfriend Mom, and I love her.”

"Oh, for God’s sake Dylan. Stay away from her. This is the last time I’m going to tell you.”

Dylan’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Or you’re going to do what, Mom? I’m grown enough to make my own decisions. I’m done with high school and going to college soon. I’m an adult now, you can’t control who I date.”

“I don’t understand why you hate her so much. She’s never done anything to you. You pretend to be a good woman in public, but what’s the townspeople going to say when they hear how you treat the girl your son loves like shit in private.”

In a swift second, a resounding slap cracks through the house. His mother was shaking with anger, the outline of her palm on Dylan’s face. I gasped and took a step back.

They turned to me, both of their faces red with anger. I will never forget the way her eyes had raked over me, a look of disgust on her face, as if I were some stain she couldn’t wait to scrub out of her son’s life.

“That’s it. If you want me to pay for your college, you’re going back to London.” It left no room to counter. “Unless you want to be a deadbeat, with no accomplishments like her father.”

Her words hung in the air like a toxic cloud, poisoning everything around us. I’d stood there, frozen, my heart hammering in my chest. Dylan’s eyes were ablaze with defiance, but I could see the hurt and struggle in him.

I walked towards him and reached out to touch him. He didn’t raise his head. Just stood there, silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.

It was in that silence that I realized his mother was going to win. No matter how much he loved me or how hard he tried to keep us together, she would always be the shadow hanging over us, the invisible force pulling him away from me.

I blink, the memory dissolving as quickly as it had come. Dylan is still sitting across from me, his face unreadable, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table.

“She hasn’t changed,” he says finally, his voice quiet, almost resigned. “She never will.”

There’s a bitterness in his tone that I recognize—a familiar undercurrent of frustration and helplessness that always seems to surface when we talk about her. In the past, I’d reach across the table, take his hand, and tell him that it doesn’t matter. We didn’t need her approval.

But the reality is, it does matter. It always has.

It’s a stark reminder of why we can never be together. Every time we fall into each other’s arms, it’s only prolonging the inevitable.

Don't fall for him again Jenna .

A part of me knows it’s already too late.