Page 33 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

I Can Dream About You

Chance

I’m standing just outside my apartment door, arms full of shopping bags from the market and last-minute gifts. My phone is tucked between my ear and shoulder as Ma’s warm voice fills the line.

“I’m just about to walk in,” I tell her, juggling the bags to turn the key. “Ant’s been cooking all day again.”

She hums, clearly pleased. “I’m so glad you’re going to have a home-cooked meal... prepared by a hottie, no less.”

“Ma,” I groan, shaking my head as I push the door open. “You did not just say ‘hottie.’”

She laughs, the sound warm and familiar.

“On a serious note, Chance, keep giving him the safe space he needs to find himself. Based on what you’ve told me; he’s working through some things.

You may not know what they are yet, but I’ll tell you this—a person doesn’t go through the trouble of spoiling someone like he has with you if there aren’t feelings there. Give him time.”

I pause just inside the door, her words striking something deep. “I know, Ma. I know you’re right.”

“You’re a good man, Chance,” she says softly. “Now, what’s he cooking? I bet it smells incredible in there.”

“Oh my gosh, Ma, I wish you could smell it.” The savory scent of garlic, herbs, and roasted meat hits me like a wave. “Ant has outdone himself.”

“Tell that hottie I said hi,” she teases.

Rolling my eyes, I walk into the kitchen where Ant is busy at the stove, a vision of focus and finesse. “It smells marvelous in here, Ant,” I say, and then add with a smirk, “Also, my mom says hi.”

Ant looks up, his grin wide and infectious. “Oh, hey Ma! Merry Christmas!”

My stomach does a somersault at the casual and comfortable way he calls her Ma .

“You let me talk to that young man right now,” she demands through the phone.

I hand it over, leaning against the counter as Ant takes it.

His voice softens as he chats with her, his face lighting up when she asks what he’s making.

He rattles off ingredients and cooking times, happily sharing a recipe.

I watch, stunned and moved, as this moment unfolds.

That meddlesome organ in my chest squeezes, overwhelmed by how natural and perfect it all seems.

When Ant hands the phone back, I say goodbye to Ma, clearing the lump from my throat. “It really does smell delicious in here, Beautiful. What are we having?”

Ant flushes at the compliment but doesn’t miss a beat.

“Well, traditionally, we’d be doing the Feast of the Seven Fishes, but that’s not something you can pull off well in a small kitchen.

So, we’re having prime rib with horseradish cream, roasted garlic mashed potatoes whipped with a bit of the horseradish cream, asparagus, and scratch cornbread. ”

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “My mouth is watering.”

Ant grins. “I just took the prime rib out. It’s a smaller one, so it only needs to rest for about forty-five minutes. I’ll get everything else ready, and then we can eat.”

“Sounds fantastic. I’m ready to relax. Shopping was nuts out there with everyone rushing around last minute. I just grabbed a little something for Lexi and some booze for our movie marathon.”

“Looking forward to it,” Ant replies, setting the table with practiced ease. “Okay, dinner in an hour. Go shower or chill. I’m going to open the wine to breathe.”

Dinner is a feast of flavors I didn’t know could exist outside of a five-star restaurant.

Ant pours us each a glass of cabernet, and we sit across from each other at the small dining table.

The first bite of prime rib practically dissolves on my tongue, the meat perfectly tender and seasoned, with a crust that’s nothing short of heavenly perfection.

“This is… I could actually cry,” I say, leaning back in my chair dramatically. I shoot him a mischievous grin. “Your meat… it just melts in my mouth.”

The blush I was hoping for creeps up his cheeks, painting them a soft pink. “Eat your dinner, Sullivan,” he mutters, focusing hard on his plate, but I catch the twitch of a smile he’s trying to hide.

Doing as I’m told, I dig in, and I’m sure I sound like I’m in a bad vintage porn with all the moans I’m letting out. Ant notices, and every time I let out another exaggerated groan, he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head at me but clearly amused.

“Oh, and don’t worry,” he says, a little grin playing on his lips. “I didn’t forget the lasagna. It’s in the fridge for this weekend.”

I freeze mid-bite and look at him. “Oh shit. Are you serious? What have I done to deserve this?”

He just shrugs, his smile widening as he leans back slightly in his chair. “Guess you’re not as much of a bad boy as you think you are,” he teases lightly, shooting me a wink.

Wait. Did he just wink at me?

That little fucking flirt.

We talk about Christmas growing up. I tell him a little more about how turbulent the holidays were in my house. “…add the pressure of the holidays to an already volatile situation, and it was a miracle if we made it out unscathed.”

Ant nods, his expression reflective. “My family had the opposite problem. Holidays were cold in our house. Unloving, except when we went over to my Aunt JoeyLynn’s—Aunt JL, we called her. She was loud, boisterous, fun. The kind of person who filled a room with energy.”

I raise an eyebrow. “JoeyLynn?”

Ant laughs. “Don’t ask. Strong-willed Italian grandparents fighting over namesakes.”

After dinner, I tell Ant to relax on the couch. “I’ll clean up and make you a drink. You’re not lifting a finger.”

He looks like he wants to protest but eventually relents, settling onto the sofa with Little G by his side. I clean up the kitchen, humming to myself, and then head to my bedroom to grab the large bag I’d hidden there.

Back in the living room, I gently set the bag down in front of Ant. “I don’t know what your family traditions were, but we always did one gift on Christmas Eve. Well, Ma would sneak into my room at bedtime and give me one. That was our tradition. So, I wanted to give you your gift tonight.”

I expect Ant to look away or hide his reaction, but instead, he surprises me by leaning over the couch and pulling a package from beside it. It’s wrapped in black paper with a red ribbon and a huge bow.

“I want you to open yours first,” he says, his voice tinged with nerves. “So that I can stop having panic attacks about it.”

Chuckling, I take the package. “You shouldn’t have done anything, Ant. You made that unbelievable meal. Hell, you’ve made the entire holiday season perfect. That’s all been more than enough.”

“Open it, Chance. Please.”

Ant’s anxious energy is palpable, so I decide to fuck with him. I pull at the bow excruciatingly slow, watching as his eyes get bigger and bigger until he finally snaps.

“Oh my God, just open it already, jackass!”

Laughing, I tear into the package. Beneath the black paper is a shallow, square box, about eighteen inches wide. I carefully slide the lid off, and my breath catches so sharply it’s almost painful.

The Smiths – The Queen Is Dead Promo Vinyl… with the alternate cover.

“Anthony fucking Pacini,” I breathe, my voice shaky. “What have you done? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for this? How? What... I don’t even know what to say. Ant, this is... I can’t.”

Ant looks at me, his expression softening. “I wanted you to have it—your holy grail,” he says, remembering me mentioning it at the shop. “I called shops around the country until I found one.”

My jaw drops and I just stare at him.

He shrugs. “I’m not great with words, but the way you’ve bulldozed into my life and through some of my walls... it’s changed me, Chance. For the better.”

I gulp hard, my chest full of emotion. “I’d say you’re pretty fucking good with words, Ant. Jeez.” His eyes search mine for a moment and he gives me a soft smile.

“Okay, your turn,” I say quickly, gesturing to the large bag in front of him. “Though I’m really scared to follow that up.”

Ant laughs softly and opens the package, revealing a gold lidded box.

He lifts the lid and stares at its contents: a large frame with a charcoal drawing of Stevie Nicks on the left side and the lyrics to “Dreams” on the right.

Inscribed at the bottom of the frame are the words: If I could turn all your nightmares into dreams, I would.

Ant doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and I start to worry. When he finally looks up, tears are streaming down his cheeks, glistening in the soft light.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“This is the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Did you draw this? I don’t remember talking to you about this song.”

“Well, you play the song enough, but Jen told me how you think it’s the greatest ever written,” I tell him. “And yeah, I drew that. I hope it’s okay.”

He gives me a look so raw and full of feeling that I have to look away, my heart thundering in my chest and roaring in my ears.

“Keep looking at me like that, Beautiful, and I’m going to lunge across this room and feast on those perfect lips until New Year’s,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can think better of it.

Ant’s breath hitches audibly, then he jumps up and bolts to the patio. I give him a minute, then follow, finding him leaning on the railing, staring out into the night.

Fuck.

Placing a hand on his back, I ask softly, “You okay? I’m sorry I ruined the moment.”

He sighs. “You didn’t ruin anything, Chance. I did. I panicked.”

I turn him to face me, cupping his cheeks in my hands. “Hey. Nothing is ruined. This was the most perfect night. My God, Ant, the effort you put into this dinner. Talking to Ma. That gift... Ant, the thoughtfulness. Were you expecting me not to want to shove my tongue down your throat?”

He huffs a laugh.

I give him a crooked smirk. “Fuck, I probably would have offered to shove my tongue down Jen's throat if she got me that.”

A low and unmistakable rumble emits from his chest, and I blink. “Did you… did you just growl? Oh my God. Our Christmas Angel has a possessive side. Ooh, Angel… it’s perfect. That’s your new name.” I laugh, even though my insides have turned to molten lava.

He just stares at me, not impressed.

I snicker. “Alright, why don’t you stay out here for a few minutes? I’m going to go in and make us drinks… Angel.”

I start to head back inside, but his hand catches my arm. “No,” he says, his voice trembling slightly.

“Oh, you don’t want a drink?” I ask, looking over my shoulder and raising an eyebrow.

“No, don’t call me Angel,” he says so softly I almost don’t hear him.

I turn back, searching his face. “Okay,” I say slowly, “I won’t call you Angel.”

“No, it’s not just that,” he stammers, letting out a shaky breath. His eyes dart to mine, holding my gaze like it’s taking everything he has to say this. “I... I like it when you call me Beautiful.”

My God, this man.

“Okay,” I reply, “Beautiful it is.”

His face lights up with a stunning smile, and then, like an announcer in one of our video games exclaiming, ‘Finish Him!’, he does exactly that with his next words.

“And Chance…” he begins, his hand still on my arm, voice steadier now, “I’m not oblivious to what this is. Just... be patient with me. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

I’m done. Cooked. All I can do is nod. My brain can’t even form words. If he keeps looking at me like that, I won’t survive the wait.

But…

“I’ll wait forever, Beautiful.”