54 - It Takes Action

She was soft and warm spooned against his chest, and Jon cinched Delaney closer to press light lips against the shoulder peeking out from under the blankets.  Enough time had lapsed to dry the sweat on his skin and leave behind a chill that required covers, yet neither had said anything since he laid her on the bed.  

Maybe he should take it as a sign of contentment, but he could feel her thinking and Delaney's continued silence was starting to bug him. 

Most women would’ve sealed the deal by putting those three life-changing words out there, either on the verge of orgasm or in the wake of it.  He knew she felt them.  Jon just wasn’t sure why she wasn’t eager to lay them on the line – or demand that he do so. 

“You okay?”

A warm hand stacked on top of the one he held at her waist, and she wedged their fingers together with a little hum.  “Other than being a little freaked out, yeah.”

“Why?”

“We’ve been together for, what…?  Five days?  This isn’t real.”

Guess that explains why she isn’t tripping over herself to say the words.

Jon pushed onto his elbow, peering down at her with a frown.  “Wanna clarify that?”

“This…”  Her free hand flapped in a gesture that encompassed the two of them.  “… very sweet, emotional thing that happened.  It isn’t what you’re suggesting.  It can’t be.”

He sank back to the pillow with a sigh.  No matter how perfect a woman seemed, at the end of the day she was still a woman, and it was hard-coded into their DNA to make shit complicated.    

“I thought you were the one who didn’t conform to social decorum.  Now you’re gonna question what you know because it doesn’t fit a conventional timetable?”

“Well…”

“’Well’ my ass,” he grumbled into her hair.  “That voice in your head belongs to Petra, and you give in to her way too much.  Put a muzzle on it and accept the truth for what it is, Mou.”

There was a shifting of mattress, blankets and bodies as she turned over to regard him with a furrowed brow.  “I disagree with that bit about giving in, but that’s secondary.  What is the truth, Jon?”

The uncertainty infiltrating those mercurial gray eyes revealed her confusion, but it made things much clearer for Jon.  She wanted him to go first.

“You wanna hear me say the words?  Is that it?”

A tousled head shrugged to one side.  “On the off chance my imagination is running away with me, it might not hurt.”

It would be easy enough to appease her by saying them.  Providing even half a dozen versions of what she asked to hear would be effortless but living up to them was a different story.  The dissolution of his marriage was evidence of that.

“I think your imagination is safe,” was the assurance he chose to give her, along with a peck on the bridge of her nose.  “But since you’re so sure it’s not feasible, you won’t believe me if I do say ‘em.   Petra’s voice is still gonna be in your head telling you it’s not real.”

“You don’t know that.”

The protest was petulantly classic for either a woman or a first-grader, but it brought an affectionate smile to his lips.  Gently brushing hair from the face that was equally petulant, he laughed to himself.  She still didn’t get that her thoughts were on display for him.  It was like reading the conversation bubbles in a comic strip, and right now Lucy was holding the football, ready to pull it out from under Charlie Brown – and Delaney was playing both roles.

“Yeah, baby, I do.  And since my ego is so fragile,” he teased.  “I’m gonna wait until you’re ready to believe it.”

“Try me now.  Maybe you’re wrong.”

The indignant little scowl only made her endearing, not intimidating.  “Words are just words, Mou.  Anybody can say ‘em.  It takes action to give ‘em value, so how ‘bout we start there?  Right now.  Get up.”

When he threw the covers off them and hopped from bed to retrieve his pants, Delaney just stared.  This was such a peculiar conversation that she honestly believed her imagination might be running rampant.  The stereotypical order of events for what they just shared was:  soul-baring, melding of said souls, and then verbal affirmation.

Right?  This was her first time for something that should’ve followed the pattern, but surely she hadn’t been that horribly duped by books, movies and television all these years.  That’s really what was supposed to happen.  Wasn’t it?

Unless you tell the man that steps one and two weren’t real. 

Delaney had stolen her own Pretty Woman, Casablanca, Sabrina, Princess Bride, You’ve got Mail and Sleepless in Seattle moment.

“Mou.  Get your ass up, baby.”  The preoccupied order was issued as he pivoted on one foot, scanning the area to find that his own clothes and her discarded nightgown were the only items foreign to the room.  Jon went to the dresser to open one drawer after another in rapid succession, but as far as Delaney knew, they were all empty.  “Surely to God you brought real clothes and not just Petra’s summer wardrobe.”

“A pair of jeans and a top, but my bag’s in the closet.  I didn’t unpack.”

“Good.  Put ‘em on.”  The last drawer banged shut, and he snagged his t-shirt.  “We’re going out.”

The bedside clock revealed that it was almost ten as a bewildered Delaney swung her feet to the floor. 

Denying him wasn’t even a consideration.  No, Jon wasn’t spewing out a new romantic ballad based on tonight, but rationally, she was okay with that.  It would’ve dulled in the shadow of what he had done, anyway. 

Because of him, there was one less hole in her broken heart, and it beat more easily under the burden that no longer seemed quite so heavy.  He was a miracle she hadn’t known she needed, and Delaney wasn’t letting go of the lifeline that connected them, no matter how unconventional.  She was on board for anything he had in mind. 

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the Surf Lodge.”

 “What for?”

His mussed head popped through the neck hole.  “All the women hitting on me there tonight thought the girlfriend I talked about was fictional.  You’re going to meet them, and we’re going to hijack the rest of the evening as our coming out party.”

That gave her a moment’s pause in putting on her jeans, but she willed her newly patched heart to hold a steady rhythm.  So much for letting her call the shots.

You just told yourself you were on board for anything.  Didn’t you already decide that this time with him would be worth the hassle of publicity?  Now that this relationship has gone head first into the deep end, isn’t that doubly true?

“You realize I need more than three minutes to make myself presentable for something like that?”

“So take five,” he offered, glancing up from tying a shoe.  “I’ll go tell Pearl to get dressed.”

She was starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland sliding down the rabbit hole, and the slide was getting faster all the time.  “You’ll what?  Why should she get dressed?”

“Somebody’s gonna make money on our first photos.  Might as well be somebody we like.”

Holy mackerel, trout and redfin tuna.  This was his life.  Coordinating photo ops to the best advantage and ensuring that the right photographer benefited came to him easily as putting on his socks, while Delaney was stymied by how to fix her hair.  It was… overwhelming, but she would manage.  He'd be there to help her through it.  

Her more urgent concern was the omission of a very important detail. 

Jeans zipped, she reached out to grasp his forearm and request, “Slow down for just a second, would you?”

“What?  Not ready to give value to those words?”

“That’s not it at all,” she contradicted his accusatory smirk with stuck-out tongue.  “I just think you should consider that your kids will be finding out along with the rest of the world.  I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Stephanie already knows, and my boys spent the entire day with us."  The smirk melted into neutrality, and sharp eyes went thoughtful.  "Since our relationship status wasn't a text message or written on an inflatable pool toy, though, I guess you make a fair point.  One that we’ll address right now.”

She determinedly swallowed the bile that tried to rise and refused to let herself get sucked back into the abyss by the mere mention of his daughter's name.  The revelation of when and how Stephanie found out could wait until Delaney was more comfortable with her presence.

Now fully dressed, Jon rummaged in his jacket pocket and withdrew the phone tucked there.

“What are you doing?” 

“FaceTime.”

The blouse she had pulled from her bag settled over Delaney’s torso, and a bemused hand trekked through tangled tresses.  When he went from being a miracle to mere mortal that fast, it was enough to make her head spin.  She’d eventually get used to it, but right now she was mystified as to how he could be so clueless. 

“Jon, FaceTime is not an appropriate way to communicate this.”

“It’s better than text,” he countered without making the call, but the lines between his eyebrows were a study in consternation.  “If you’re on board with this, why are you making it difficult?”

“Because it is difficult.  This is a major life change for them, too, and you’re already trying to sell their house.  Show some sensitivity.”

“Dorothea and I are going to revisit the house situation next week.”  He impatiently swept that issue aside to petition, “And if FaceTime isn’t appropriate, what do you suggest?"

It turned out that the rumors she’d always heard about his impatience and tenacity weren’t just rumors.  An idea sprouted in Jon’s mind, and he was ready to go at it full-throttle.  That was an admirable trait but one that could do with a little finessing.

Delaney snaked both arms around his waist to cinch them tight, and her bare feet snugged in between his shoes.  Looking up into the mosaic of blue that seemed new every time their eyes met, she proposed, “Petra and I can fix brunch for everyone tomorrow, and you can tell them then.  In person.”

“Yeah, but that’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah, it is.  You going to change your mind before then?”

“I’m not known for changing my mind."  He burrowed heavy fingers into the back pockets of her jeans.  “Are you stonewalling me to stay out of the public eye?  Is there gonna be another excuse tomorrow?”

“No, androuli mou.  I just want to spare you the wrath of angry, half-grown children.  I’m here to tell you… it sucks.”

Nostrils flared above his flattened mouth, but the dusting of fingertips trailing from her temple to chin was slow and unperturbed.  “What’d you call me?  Your what?”

“Sweet man.”

There was a noncommittal noise as he appeared to take her words into consideration, and Jon ultimately conceded, “Brunch is okay, but you’re staying the rest of the weekend.  We’re going to the beach, and I’ll touch you any goddamn way I please while Pearl takes pictures.  Later, we’re going out for dinner and another party.”

Full-throttle, it is.

While it was nothing like the plan to wait a week that she'd expressed as her wishes only hours ago, Delaney had no complaint.  Without his insistence and drive, they wouldn’t be standing here in the first place.  She wouldn’t know what it was like to feel this way, both vulnerable and invincible as a result of his touch.  She’d still believe that words carried the ultimate weight of emotional expression.  She wouldn’t have discovered his passion to put actions above words.

“Whatever you want, moro mou,” she assured, knowing he was going to ask for a translation.  “It means ‘my baby’.”

She adored the way that one side of his mouth crept high enough to crinkle the corner of that same eye.  “Careful what you blindly agree to, moro mou.  Tonight wasn’t the new normal of our sex life.  It was just an added option.”

Delaney’s womb rolled with the groundless threat, completely turned-on by the ominous undertone.  Wickedly sweet.  That was the definition of Jon Bon Jovi.  

“So we’re still going to go at it hard and dirty sometimes?”

His chuckle was all wicked and no sweet, and villainous flames singed her ear when he murmured, "Not sometimes.  Most of the time.”