Page 25 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Owen

I choke on my surprise. “Oh.” I take a sip of beer. He’s been thinking about me and Kirsty. It catches me off guard. Why?

“Well, same old story, I guess,” I say. “We fell in love too young. Got married at twenty-two, had kids at twenty-four, bought a house—”

“This one?”

“No, the place Kirsty still lives in. It’s in Hepton.

Fifteen, twenty-minute walk from here. I’m the kind of guy who, if I do something, I’m going to go in hard and fast, you know?

” I’m laughing but there’s nothing funny about it.

“I fell for Kirsty and went all in, but we were so young and we just sort of . . . not exactly grew apart, it was more that we grew up. When the girls were about five and six, I found out that Kirsty had been having an affair with this guy, Mark.”

Mathias covers his mouth with his hand, but doesn’t interrupt.

“And that’s when I knew it was over. Not because she’d had an affair and I was angry, but because I wasn’t angry.

It was a relief. That’s what I felt. I was relieved it was over, and that it wasn’t because of something I did or didn’t do.

And I was glad Kirsty had found happiness elsewhere, because I didn’t have to feel guilty that we didn’t force a solution neither of us would have been happy with.

They’re still together. I don’t hate or blame either of them.

Actually, Mark comes to sevens now and then, so you might meet him at some point. He’s honestly a stand-up guy.

“So, we decided together to get divorced, and we decided on joint custody. Kirsty kept the house, and I moved back to the neighbourhood I grew up in.”

“You grew up in Mudford-upon-Hooke?” he asks, his head tilted to the side as though he’s trying to absorb as much information as possible.

“Yep, in The Old Tithe Barn. It’s right at the end of this lane. Tom and Bryn live there now,” I say. Mathias frowns at me, his question unspoken. “My parents retired to Cornwall.”

“It must be weird having other people living inside the places you used to live. First The Old Tithe Barn and now this cottage.”

“I guess so. I hadn’t thought about it until the other day when you moved in and I brought you some food over. I love this place, though. It’s full of happy memories, even if it’s freezing in winter.” The central heating system really is no match for the twelve-inch-thick stone walls.

But Mathias won’t be around long enough to experience the winters here.

“I want to help,” he says. He pushes his toe against my knee.

“With the thatch problem. I think I’ve said it before, but I want to help you figure out some ways to raise funds.

” He’s watching me and there’s a curious expression on his face, one I can’t place.

Not pity, or mockery, but something . . . softer.

“I would love that. What are you thinking? ”

Mathias shrugs. “Fuck knows, but I really want to research some things. I’ll get back to you with some proposals.”

I snort with laughter at the formality of his words. Luckily, he seems to understand I’m not taking the piss.

“I love researching stuff.”

“It’s a very Mathias hobby,” I say, and he beams at me.

On the screen, Bella’s dad is talking to Jacob’s dad.

“I lied earlier,” he says. “I’m not team Edward.”

“Oh? Switched sides, have you?”

He laughs, and my insides turn to goo. “I’m team Charlie.”

“Charlie? Bella’s dad? The police guy?” I’m laughing too. “Fair play. I suppose he’s what the girls might call a dilf.”

“Much more my type,” Mathias says, and his gaze drops to my lips.

The smile is instantly wiped from my face. My heart careens towards my throat, pounding hard against my airways, making it impossible to take a breath. Not that I’m breathing any more.

Did he just . . .

I have no time to react. My body switches to autopilot, and any questions and doubts I might have had parachute out of my brain.

There is no he’s too young , or he’s leaving soon , or this could end in unendurable heartbreak for me .

There is only Mathias Jones and the rapidly narrowing gap between our bodies as I lean over his crossed legs and bring our mouths together.

It’s not a surprise to him. He doesn’t jolt or push me away or tell me to “fuck off.” He simply steadies me with a firm hand over my shoulder, another on my face, fingers slotting into my beard, and whines into the touch.

The kiss is gentle at first—lips brushing against lips, shared breaths as we figure each other out—but like my own, his sensibilities also seem to have taken a leave of absence as he opens his mouth and strokes his tongue against mine.

And then we’re making out. Snogging like teenagers behind the school bike sheds.

It’s wet and a little sloppy, and utterly perfect.

My hands wrap around the back of his neck, wander to his shoulders, his ribs, his abdominals.

I scrutinise the shape of him. The dips and curves of hard muscles, and the silky cotton-lycra blend workout tee sliding over soft skin.

We pause so he can straighten his legs, and I’m kneeling between them.

His warm fingers loiter around the hem of my shirt.

I want him to slide them underneath, to take my flesh in his hands, grab me, get rough with me, but he doesn’t go any further and I don’t want to move things too quickly.

I have a habit of rushing into situations too fast, too soon, so I need him to be in charge, of everything—the pace, the pressure, how far this goes. If it goes any further.

I’d be devastated if he stopped the kiss right now, but I’m also acutely aware he’s the only one of us who can stop this.

“Wait,” I say, breaking apart. I’m not stopping, in fact I’m making us comfier. I’m in this for the long haul.

I catch my breath and manoeuvre myself into the tiny gap between Mathias and the back of the sofa. It shunts him along the cushions, dangerously close to toppling onto the rug, but I secure him with an arm around his waist.

He shuffles down until his face is in line with mine again.

We’re lying on our sides, chest against chest, forehead to forehead.

Mathias slips his ankle over mine, his hand brushes down my arm, and his fingers slot between my fingers.

It’s such a tender and soft moment, I’m dumbfounded.

I have no idea what to say or do next, except to study the lines of his face at such an extreme close up that they’ve blurred and I’ve probably gone cross-eyed.

“I need you to know you’re in control. That whatever happens now, happens because you want it to,” I say.

“No, I can’t be in control. I . . . Nothing more than kissing will happen if I’m in control,” he says. He’s still locking fingers with me.

“Do you want anything more to happen?” I’m rock hard, and Mathias’s flimsy shorts leave little to the imagination. His erection presses against my hip. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, though. Dicks don’t always behave the way we want them to.

He lets go of my hand, and it feels cold, bereft. He shrugs one shoulder. “I’m not sure. ”

“That’s okay.” My insides do a painful jolt. Am I forcing him to do something he’s not comfortable with? “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation in his voice and I relax a little. “I want you to stay here until eleven thirty.”

“Eleven thirty? What, kick-out time?”

He gives a nervous laugh. “Yes. I know that’s selfish, but I like that I don’t have to share you.”

Holy shit. My eyes close involuntarily, and I moan into his mouth as I bring our lips together again. After a few moments, I pull back. “Kick-out’s at one a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays, though.”

Mathias smiles. I feel the stretch of his lips against mine, his cheeks bulging. “Then stay until one. I have New Moon and Eclipse and Breaking Dawn parts one and two if we run out of entertainment.”

We kiss until the kids on the telly are playing baseball. It’s tender, with slow, gentle strokes and butterfly brushes, and then fierce and urgent, panting and hands against chests and grabbing hair. Occasionally Mathias’s fingers fumble at my belt buckle, but he never tries to undo it.

And then suddenly Mathias stops and sits bolt upright on the couch. He cradles his forehead in his hand and lets out a shaky breath.

“Everything okay?” I’m dreading his answer.

Here’s where he tells me what a stupid idea it was to make out with an old has-been like me.

“I need some water,” he says, and without any further words he heads into the kitchen.

The tap is running, which is weird because he has a filter jug. I recognise that I’ve overstepped his boundaries and hobble to the porch, trainers in hand.

“Are you leaving?” Mathias walks through the living room, holding two steaming mugs of tea.

The tags hang out over the lip. “I’m sorry, I just had .

. . a moment. I’m good now. Please stay.

Unless . . . you don’t wanna.” He closes his eyes in a slow blink and shakes his head a little, like he’s internally reprimanding himself.

“Do you want me to stay? ”

He nods, and I kick my shoes off again.

“We can just watch the movies together if you’d prefer?” I suggest.

“I would really like that,” he says.

I accept my cup of tea and we move back to the living room.

“Do you . . .” I laugh. Can’t seem to finish my question. “Do you like cuddling?”

He laughs too. “Um, not usually, but I’m willing to give it a try.”

“I’m pretty big on cuddles,” I tell him as I place my mug on the table and sit back down on the couch.

Mathias snuggles up to my side, a hand on my chest resting right where my heart is. I drape my arm over his shoulder.

We last six minutes before he pushes himself off me. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and moves to the other end of the couch. He brings his legs up and tucks his feet under my ass. “Is this okay, though?”

“Yes.” It’s perfect.

It’s gone two a.m. when New Moon finishes. I’ve fallen asleep with my feet up on the coffee table and my head against the back of the sofa. I was probably snoring, but Mathias never once disturbed me, except to tell me the second movie was over.

“Goodnight, then,” I tell him. Frigid night air licks through the weave of my jumper as I open his front door and step outside.

“Thank you, for earlier. For making me feel . . . less shit,” he says. He can’t quite meet my eye.

“Any time, mate.” I play-punch his bicep. “See you bright and early tomorrow, yeah?”

He’s yawning, nodding. “See you tomorrow.”

Just before I go to switch my bedside lamp off, I turn my head instinctively and glance towards the window . . . to the window of Fernbank Cottage across the street. Mathias’s bedroom window.

He’s there, sitting on the end of the bed.

He looks up casually, almost as though he’s waiting for a bus and is checking every few seconds for its arrival.

He startles when he sees me, like he’s surprised by my presence, and I wonder if this isn’t the first night he’s done this.

How long has he been waiting there for me?

And why does that make my insides feel all warm and soupy?

I wave, and he waves back. He’s smiling. I lean backwards against the bed, adjust the covers, and when I look again, his light is off and he’s no longer there.