Too Long: Chapter 8

WE GET INTO THREE MORE RACES before heading home for a few hours’ sleep. After a quick shower, I toss and turn in bed, directing my newly learned British insults toward myself. Not only because I’m on a suicide mission but also because Addie’s three doors down, either wet and naked in my shower, or already burrowed under my sheets.

The house carries a different vibe tonight. There’s a fulness I enjoy way too much.

A soft knock on the door quickens my pulse. Fuck. What the hell is she doing? Inhaling a deep breath, I fling my legs over the edge of the bed and pat over to the door, pulling it open to find Addie in the hallway.

Jesus fucking wept.

She stands there, wrapped in a towel, her long hair wet, the apples of her cheeks pink from the hot shower.

“Hey,” she whispers. “Sorry, I didn’t think to grab a suitcase from the car. Can I borrow a t-shirt to sleep in?”

I should’ve pretended to be asleep because this… this is fucking torture. This is God laughing in my face.

She’s under that flimsy towel, and I’m hyperaware that all it’d take is hooking my finger in the knot on her chest, and I’d see all of her.

“Yeah, sure,” I say, doing everything in my power not to grab her waist, push her against the wall, and take her lips. “Come in.”

What the hell am I thinking? She shouldn’t be in my bedroom in the middle of the night.

She sends me a cheeky smile, hips swaying as she enters. Looking around, her fingers skim the surface of the dresser.

“I didn’t expect your bedroom to be so… cozy.” She smiles, scanning every inch of the place until she stops on my bed. “Looks comfortable,” she muses, taking one step forward.

“Don’t go anywhere near my bed, Addie,” I warn. “I won’t get that image out of my head. Ever.”

The pink of her cheeks turns brighter, but her smile doesn’t slip. What’s more, her tongue peeks out to moisten her full lips, and I have the urge to bite my fucking fist.

She’s doing this on purpose, like she can read my mind and knows how much every move she makes affects me. It’s a good job I’m wearing pajama bottoms on top of my boxers, or she’d get an eyeful of my hard dick tenting the fabric. Thankfully, the baggy pj’s keep it contained.

Grinding my teeth, already visualizing my hand gripping the base of my shaft and pumping hard and fast under the shower as soon as she leaves, I open the closet.

My hand shoots to grab a black t-shirt, but I pause. I could pick a white one, then her long, dripping hair would turn it into in a wet t-shirt contest… I’d get a peek at her perky boobs.

Nope. No perving on Addie.

I grab a black tee and a pair of joggers in case she wakes up first and I find her in the kitchen, wearing but my t-shirt. “Do not come downstairs unless you’re wearing both.”

“Am I distracting you?” she asks, draping the joggers over the dresser and tugging the t-shirt on over her head.

“I can’t think straight when you’re only wearing a towel.”

Slowly, like she’s provoking me to make a move, she tugs the tee down, simultaneously pulling the towel lower. My brain turns to literal mush when I catch a glimpse, just a tiny peek, of her bare stomach and deep navel.

“Better?” she asks, her tone a little breathless. “Can you think straight now?”

“What are you doing, Addie?” I rasp when the towel hits the floor, and the hem of my t-shirt stops not-enough inches under her butt. One deep breath isn’t enough to calm my racing heart. There she is… two steps away, looking like she wants me to grab her waist, pin her against the wall and sink my fingers inside her. “Go to bed. You’re tipsy. Whatever’s going through your head, you’ll think differently tomorrow.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You will,” I insist.

Sex is not a part of this deal, and as much as I want to take what she’s offering, I won’t touch her when her courage comes from wine, beer and the adrenaline rush of the race.

She grabs the joggers, flinging them over her shoulder, then bends slowly down for the towel, almost showing me what I so desperately want to see, but not quite, and sends me a coy smile as she exits my bedroom. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Addie.”

***

The clock keeps ticking. It’s three in the morning and despite jerking myself off as soon as Addie left, I still can’t fucking sleep. The questions don’t stop, multiplying at an alarming rate while I wonder what the hell she was playing at.

Once that topic runs dry, and I decide the safest bet is to blame the alcohol, I wonder whether we prepared well enough. Whether this whole endeavor will backfire in my face the first day there. Whether I can fake intimacy in front of her family without crossing lines when we’re alone.

Lines she wanted to cross tonight.

Lines she probably won’t try crossing when she’s sober.

Fuck. We haven’t established ground rules for public displays of affection. Am I supposed to hold her hand? Offer a comforting pat? A peck on the forehead? A kiss?

No. A firm to kissing.

With a frustrated grunt, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, ready to head over to the guest room for answers, but my feet barely touch the floor before I change my mind.

I can’t handle seeing her in my t-shirt again so soon.

Falling back on the pillows, I pull my phone out and open the triplet-only chat, not expecting a reply until the morning.

Me: You set me up, so you’ll figure this shit out. Dos and don’ts regarding PDAs. Go.

Both of them start typing right away. Conor’s probably up with the twins. They’re in the phase, and Cody… I’d rather not imagine what I might’ve interrupted.

Cody: No full-on make-out sessions in front of her parents. Fair game in front of her brother, I’d say.

Conor: No ass-grabbing, either. Basically, don’t do what you wouldn’t feel comfortable doing with our parents in the room.

Me: This must be the first time you’ve been helpful.

Conor: Screw you.

I toss the phone aside, mulling over their tips. Halfway through analyzing how appropriate or inappropriate it would be to sit Addie on my lap, it strikes me that I’m overreacting.

She said I should be myself, so that’s what I’ll be. If I cross a line, she’ll have to deal with it.

Her fault for not laying down the ground rules.

Armed with that happy thought, I close my eyes and finally drift off to sleep.

Five minutes later, I’m awake.

At least it feels like five minutes, but my alarm kindly blares out that it’s five in the morning and time to get going. The first thing I do is head downstairs to fetch Addie’s luggage from the trunk of her car. I leave both suitcases outside her door and head back to my bedroom for a quick, cold shower.

I pack a large suitcase, adhering to the Monaco Grand Prix dress code Addie mentioned, then head to her room, checking she got up. The suitcases aren’t in the hallway anymore, but I still give the door a soft pat.

Any doubts I had about this weird-ass adventure dissipate the moment she flings the door open, dressed in a delicate, flowy summer dress and platform sandals, her hair in a careless knot at the back of her neck.

Effortlessly classy but sexy enough to rouse the morning hard-on I barely fucking tamed under the cold shower. Jesus, I’ll be jerking off ten times a day with this girl around.

“Morning,” she says, leaving the door ajar as she straightens the bed. “Sorry about barging into your bedroom last night. You look dashing.”

I guess the quick apology followed by a swift change of topic means she’d rather not go into detail.

I glance down at my light gray cotton pants and a linen button-down shirt, a few buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. “I’m glad you think so. Come on, I’m making pancakes and you’re on sous-chef duty.”

“Give me two minutes.”

So I do, ignoring the fluffy feeling in my chest that I’m not home alone in the morning for once.

To ensure Addie doesn’t stain her outfit with her usual messiness, I bundle her into a cooking apron, and only let her take it off when we leave the house.

“I’d grab my luggage, but I know you won’t be happy if I do, so… it’s upstairs.”

“You’re learning. That’s a good sign,” I say, dropping my suitcase into the trunk. “I do the heavy lifting around here. Hop in. I’ll be right back.”

Once everything’s loaded and I double-check that Addie’s safely strapped in, I slip into the driver’s seat, handing her my phone with Spotify open on the screen. “You’re the DJ.”

She skims my playlists, settling for the one titled and scrolls through it.

“No way! I love this song!” She sneaks a glance at me as the car fills with the iconic opening of “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

I put the volume up, tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel. Addie sings the chorus, playfully nudging my shoulder, a genuine smile gracing her full lips “I’m glad you took me with you last night. It was… an experience. I sign up for future events.”

The idea takes hold immediately, my head full of . I push the enticing images aside, aware I’m jumping the fucking gun yet again.

Jesus, I think I’d benefit from therapy.

The one-hour drive to LA only feels like ten minutes while we take turns picking songs. Arriving at the airport an hour ahead of our planned departure, we breeze through security in record time and enter the first-class lounge.

I sink into one of the comfy couches holding a bottle of water. Addie’s beside me, her hands subtly trembling. “Nervous about the flight or introducing me to your family?”

“The flight. Well, just take-off and landing. I’ll be fine once we’re in the air.” She’s downplaying it, but there’s a pre-freak-out tremor to her voice.

“My sister-in-law hates flying too. She always pops a Xanax for long-haul flights. Got any on you?”

Her leg bounces against the floor, cheeks pale, eyes wide. “I promise I’m not that bad.”

Yeah, she’s peachy.

“Hold this.” I thrust my water bottle into her hands before heading to the nearest shop.

Returning to Addie two minutes later, I find her in the same position, eyes closed, nails dug into her thighs.

“Sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine,” she murmurs, lost in her own thoughts.

I unwrap an apple candy from the bag and the crinkling sound catches her attention. “Open,” I coax. “Open your mouth, Addie.” Her eyes flutter open, a frown creasing her forehead. She can’t see what I’m holding but obediently parts her lips. “Mia says candy helps her relax.”

“It’s the sucking that helps,” Addie mutters, her tongue twirling around the candy.

I smirk. If we run out of candy, I can certainly offer something else to keep her calm and help us unwind…

“Mia is Nico’s wife, correct?” Addie asks, changing the subject, probably to keep her mind off the flight.

“She is. And their daughter is…?

“Melody, two years old.”

“Correct. The very first blonde born into the Hayes family. You have no idea what a shock to the system it was when her hair stayed that light.”

Everyone was certain she’d be dark haired by the time she turned one, but she’s as blonde as her mommy. Big eyes, too, not green like Mia’s, but almost black like Nico’s.

“Why ?” Addie asks.

“They’re crazy about music. Both play the piano, and Mia’s a vocalist, lyricist, and a multi-instrumentalist.”

Speaking of music, the song seeping from the overhead speakers is interrupted by a female voice informing first-class passengers of the Los Angeles to Miami flight that it’s boarding time.

Addie’s hands start trembling again, the coffee in her takeout cup sloshing left and right. I set it aside before an accident stains her pretty dress.

The Hayes family trivia continues—now a proven way to distract Addie—as we make our way across the airport.

“I spend a lot of time with my family. They’re my best friends. All of them, including the girls. If we’d been dating for the past three months, you’d know them inside out by now. You sure you’ve got the basics?”

No one will ask her a single question about my family, but she’s close to hyperventilating, and other than hauling her into my arms and distracting her with a kiss, I’m out of ideas.

“You can test me all you want. I know your family.”

“Fine. Name all my siblings.”

She takes a deep breath, falling into a sheepish walk beside me. “Shawn, Logan, Theo, Nico, Cody, Conor, Rose.”

“Good. I thought you’d forget Rose.”

“Not a chance.” She forces a chuckle, but her pace slows as we approach our gate, it’s teeming with first-class passengers. “She sounds like the most fun.”

“Who’s Cassidy?”

“Logan’s wife.”

“Yeah, good.” We join the back of the line. “What about Vivienne?”

“Conor’s wife. Blair is Cody’s.”

The flight attendant inspects our documents then steps aside. I motion for Addie to walk ahead, keeping my eyes on her because not only do I half-expect her to bolt the moment I look away, but also because I have a clear view of her wide hips and perfect waistline.

This girl is made of wet dreams.

“Can I have the aisle seat?” she asks as we board. “I can’t handle looking out the window.”

“Sure.”

The moment she settles into her seat, her grip tightens on the armrests and she braces her feet against the floor, ignoring my every question.

“Three point one four one,” she whispers. “Five nine two six five three five eight nine—”

“Sir, I need you to fasten your seatbelt,” the flight attendant interrupts, stopping beside us.

“Seven nine three two three eight four six,” Addie continues, reciting .

“Please sit down for take-off,” the flight attendant tells a woman two rows down, throwing Addie off again.

“Eight four six,” I remind her, clipping the seatbelt in place.

“Two six four three three eight three two.”

I lace our fingers. I doubt she feels it while she mutters under her breath, focused on the numbers.

The plane gains speed, intensifying the rattling noises and the shaking beneath our feet. I have a feeling Addie’s not far off puking.

“Five nine two three zero seven eight one.”

Her breathing hitches when the wheels lift off the ground. She gouges her nails into my hand so hard I can feel half-moons digging in, her grip like a vice. Where does she hide that strength?

She’s crushing my bones.

“Seven eight one,” I say, caressing the length of her index finger with my thumb. “Keep going, Addie.”

“Um…” Her voice quivers, barely above a whisper. She furrows her brows, but the upward motion while the plane climbs isn’t helping her focus. “Six… six…” A small whimper leaves her lips, and her nails break my skin. “Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California…” she mutters, switching to reciting the states.

The flight attendant’s voice breaches the cabin when Addie’s up to Virginia.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the seatbelt sign.”

My fingers are numb by the time she loosens her grip, opens her big eyes, and focuses on the seat in front, every breath slow and even.

“Better?” I ask, flexing my fingers to restore circulation. “You want a drink?”

She shakes her head, inhaling again, then pinches her nose to pop her ears. She must’ve swallowed the candy.

“Oh, shit…” she murmurs, taking my hand in hers, gently brushing her thumb over the red, angry marks.

Surprisingly, there’s no blood.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice frail. “You shouldn’t have held my hand.”

“I didn’t expect a bone-crushing grip. You sure you don’t want wine? Maybe champagne?”

“You have a week with me on a yacht where the drinking starts at breakfast. There’ll be plenty of occasions to make a fool of myself and insult you with words you don’t understand.”

A chuckle falls from my lips. “I think I can take it.”

“We have five hours to make sure we haven’t forgotten any details. Better stick to water.” She pulls a complimentary bottle from the holder beside her seat and attempts to unscrew the cap, but her fingers are too stiff.

“Any drinks?”

The flight attendant stops beside us while I open the bottle for Addie.

“Black coffee for me,” I say. “You want anything, baby?”

Addie’s eyes double in size, her cheeks reddening faster than I can arch an amused brow.

“No. Um, I mean… yes. Walnut latte if you have it, please,” she stutters, then swivels my way as soon as the flight attendant moves away. “

?”

“We’re dating, remember?”

She opens and closes her mouth several times, struggling to find the right words. “I just… okay. You’re right. I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“You can’t act so shocked in front of your family, .”

“Right,” she nods. “We’re dating. We have pet names for each other.”

“No.” I firmly shake my head. “I have pet names for you, but that’s the extent of it. You won’t like what follows if you try a pet name on me.”

“Not even ?” she teases with a cheeky grin.

“Especially not teddy bear.”

After Addie triple-checks we have our meet-cute story down to a T, I keep her talking about animals. The childhood stories of her saving injured birds and crying whenever her father went fishing keep her distracted until halfway to Miami when the in-flight meal is served.

Spending time with Addie is surprisingly effortless. She’s open, genuine, and her family fortune—the extent of which I’m yet to discover—hasn’t rubbed off on her in a bad way. She’s as down to earth as Vee or Thalia. It’s nice.

My hand gets another torture session when we land, but it’s not as bad as during take-off.

Maybe because Addie knows we’re getting closer to the ground, or maybe because she’s too busy listening to me talk about my nephews and nieces to truly give in to the panic.