“And what about our pumpkin?” I moved so I blocked her from the rest of the group who drank and laughed and worked to carve their pumpkins for the festival next weekend.
She looked at me, her eyes wide and a little fuzzy. “It’s your pumpkin; I’m not carving one.” Her eyes turned downcast, and I knew the reason why.
Just when you thought her ex, Shithead Sean, couldn’t get any worse, Drunk Shithead Sean made an appearance and put Shithead Sean to shame. As Sage handed up pumpkins from a small wooden cart, he’d asked for the curviest pumpkin of the bunch because he “liked to have his hands full.”
No one else had heard it except for Sage and me—and only me because I was trying to get in a conversation with her. Once she’d dumped his pumpkin on the table, she’d busied herself with other tasks, avoiding me and the tables completely.
“How many cups of cider have you had?” I asked, scrutinizing her.
Her blush deepened, and she snapped her gaze to the apple on the end of her stick, lifting it from the sticky sugar.
“Why? Are you doing some quality assurance to make sure I’m sufficiently topsy—I mean, tipsy?” She giggled, and the sound was mesmerizing.
“Well, I think that sufficiently answers my question.” I picked up the red Solo cup in front of her, confirming that the contents were empty and shot her a crooked grin.
“Do you want an apple?” she asked, her attention locked on the way she spun the stick until the last drip of caramel fell back into the pot.
“No,” I rasped, my body tightening, knowing what I was about to witness.
“Okay.” She grinned and bit into the coated apple, her full mouth closing into the fruit. When she pulled the crisp bite away, it left a glistening string of caramel clinging to her plump lower lip like a web of sugar I wanted to get caught in. “You look like you want a bite.”
Desire sparked in my blood and before I could stop myself, I reached out and brushed my thumb over her skin, wiping away the trail of caramel from her lip.
“Not of the apple,” I ground out and brought my finger to my mouth, licking away the caramel and hoping to get another taste of her.
The sound of laughter from the group made me remember where I was, who I was with, and, most importantly, why I couldn’t have what I wanted.
Clearing my throat, I folded my arms and changed topics.
“I need your help on the pumpkin,” I declared, shoving my hands into my pockets and resting my hips back on the table.
“No, you don’t.”
I glanced at her. “You’re right, I don’t. But I’d like your help carving the pumpkin because I haven’t carved one in a long time and if you leave me to my own devices, I’m just going to carve a dick into it and call it a day.”
She gasped, her hand slapping comically over her mouth. “You wouldn’t!”
I lifted an eyebrow, thoroughly enjoying topsy Sage. Dropping my head closer to hers, I warned in a low voice, “Oh, I would. Actually, I might even add a little text like ‘Sage hearts my’ right above the giant coc—”
“My brother will kill you,” she hissed, swaying slightly.
I shrugged. “Well, then maybe they can hold my funeral the same day as Rose’s wedding. At least everyone will already be dressed up.”
She let out an exasperated groan. “Fine.” Grabbing a plate, she plopped the bitten apple onto it and fisted the sleeve of my shirt.
As she pulled me toward our abandoned pumpkin, I started to realize that the premise of our situation might be pretend, but none of the feelings I had when I was with her were.
And that was a very dangerous game to be playing.
I fought for the dick design for all of two minutes, not because I was serious, but because the easy banter allowed her to let her guard down. Once that was accomplished, I slid in the only suggestion that made sense.
Harry Potter.
She’d countered with Hufflepuff.
I’d accepted.
The crest of the Hogwarts house was no easy feat, but she didn’t seem deterred.
“So, tell me about your business.” I paused when she spun toward me, the pumpkin carving knife pointed up in her hand like she could still decide to filet me rather than the squash. Lifting my hands in surrender, I added with a quieter voice. “I don’t know much except what Callan has mentioned in passing over the years.”
Sage regarded me cautiously for a second before extending her hand to me, declaring, “I don’t like to remove the guts.”
I chuckled and took the knife from her. Starting around the stalk, I sank the blade easily through the tough exterior.
“Well, I originally started making jewelry in high school.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I kept making jewelry to help pay for college, and when I graduated with my art degree, I realized that the concept of a starving artist was as much of a concept as it was a guarantee,” she said wryly, shifting her weight and picking up her caramel apple again.
As I continued to carve, each slice of the knife released more of her story.
“I originally moved to Portsmouth and got a job in retail just to pay the bills, but I started a store on Etsy to sell my jewelry, thinking it would at least keep my hobby at a break-even.”
“And that’s how your business was born?” I grabbed a garbage can and emptied the pumpkin guts into it, laughing as Sage had to look away.
“Bewitched.”
My gaze snapped to her face as though the word was a command I was already halfway to obeying.
“The name of my jewelry store,” she clarified.
“Oh.”
Pink rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away as she confessed, “It was a lot of Harry Potter–inspired jewelry with specially made beads.”
Absentmindedly, she reached up and touched the necklace she was wearing. It was a series of red and orange beads but the center one was larger, mesmerizing with the colors spiraled and wove through the glass piece together. It looked like it held magic inside of it.
“That’s awesome.” Her eyes narrowed skeptically, so I added, “You’ve seen my brewery. My business was just as magically inspired as yours.”
That seemed to appease her.
I extended my hand and offered her the knife again.
“I did an interview for a local paper that ended up going viral, don’t ask me how, and overnight, about a year ago, everything exploded,” she continued, tipping the pumpkin and carefully nicking the skin where she wanted to carve our design. “I quit my job to make jewelry. Moved into a bigger apartment so I had space for all my supplies. And here I am, twelve months later, still drowning in work and knowing I need to expand.”
“Why aren’t you?” My eyebrow arched, enthralled by the focused precision she had while using the knife.
“I’m trying. It’s just hard because it grew—it’s growing so fast,” she grumbled.
“And that’s a bad thing?” I glanced at her, catching how she quickly shook her head.
“No. It’s just easier when things grow slow and steady. Easier to process. Easier to plan,” she admitted, pulling that plump lower lip of hers between her teeth.
Biting back a hard breath, I willed my body to calm the hell down and focus.
We both stayed silent for several seconds, watching how she used the knife to carve away shallow and then deep slices of the pumpkin, giving the creation a multidimensional look.
“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up the next day and the wave will be over. That everything will go back to the way it was, and I won’t be able to afford… anything…” she trailed off with a nervous laugh. “I’m on the cusp of getting my own store—my own space to sell and to work.” She went on for a few minutes about a spot in downtown Portsmouth that she’d been keeping her eye on, describing the area in such vivid detail, it sparked a few ideas for my own business that was desperately itching to expand. “But it’s just nerve-racking.”
Even though beer and br
acelets sold to two very different markets, there were some things about being a business owner that didn’t change.
“Trying to make a life out of what you love is never an easy feat,” I told her.
Her movements paused and she turned and looked at me, honesty shimmering in her eyes. “Do you think it’s a good idea?” She rolled her lower lip between her teeth. “You have a business. One you’ve grown into something amazing… do you think I should get my own storefront?”
My chest swelled and tightened.
If there was one thing I knew about Sage Walker from the moment Callan introduced me, it was that she made her own way. In school. In life. She made mistakes but learned from them. And for her to ask my opinion on something that was so important and solely hers… well, damn if that didn’t make a man feel good.
Even if I shouldn’t be feeling this good about my best friend’s little sister.
“I know this is what I want to do—that this is where I’m meant to be. It just seems so fast, and I’m not sure if it’s the right time. If it’s too soon to make that kind of commitment. If—” she broke off with a little catch in her breath as I circled her wrist with my fingers, gently supporting it while I plucked the knife from her grasp and set it on the table.
Pivoting her until we faced each other, I moved a half step closer, putting our bodies to the point where they were almost touching.
“Sage.” My voice gave a coarse caress to her name, and I gently rubbed my thumb over the flutter of her pulse at the base of her wrist. “When you know something is meant to be, that’s the only right time that matters.”
The patio lights played a symphony of shadows over her perfect features, but especially over her lips. The way they parted. The way they glistened and sparkled.
I wanted to kiss her.
I wanted to kiss her in ways that weren’t courteous and bordered on criminal.
“Luke…” Her eyes searched mine, wondering… hopeful.
I was wrong. It wasn’t her necklace that was magic. It was her.
Shit.
I drew back and released her wrist, turning my attention to our carved pumpkin before I crossed lines we couldn’t come back from.
“Holy shit, Sage. That’s really fucking good.” I stared in awe at our joint pumpkin creation, her skill sufficiently distracting me from the aching throb of my cock.
“We should definitely enter it into the pumpkin contest,” she remarked, stepping back and folding her arms, pride making her smile impossibly bright.
“I don’t know.” I grimaced. “Would that even be fair to the rest of the pumpkins?”
She beamed and lightly swatted my arm before grabbing my hand that held my cup of cider and pulling it to her, turning my wrist so she could claim a sip for herself.
It was playful and erotic and Sage—the exact combination that seemed to be particularly deadly to me.
My eyes met hers over the rim, laughter settling into heated embers of something more—something that we kept unintentionally fostering while trying to keep up this ruse.
“What have we got here?” Sean strolled over and slurred, grabbing the stalk of our finished pumpkin and spinning it toward him.
“Our Harry Potter pumpkin,” Sage said proudly and inching toward our creation protectively.
He laughed, too dumb or drunk to respond. And then his eyes caught on the caramel apple that had gone uneaten except for that first bite Sage had taken.
“You should come see mine,” he invited, casually picking the apple up by the stick and taking a bite, chewing loudly for a few seconds until he realized that Sage was just staring at him. He blinked. “You weren’t going to eat that, were you, muffin?” he slurred, taking another bite while his gaze made a pointed trip down Sage like he was doing her a favor by eating the treat.
Fuck it.
And fuck him.
I lunged for the cocky piece of shit, ready to shove that apple down his throat and screw the consequences, but Sage stepped in front of me first. Quickly. Too quickly. She swayed on her heels, so I reached for her. She regained her balance on her own, but not before some cider sloshed over the edge of my cup and onto her top.
“Luke!” her voice pleaded, her hazy eyes not even sparing a glance for the stain on her shirt.
My nostrils flared.
For her, I could refrain from throttling him. But someone really fucking should.
“Let’s go inside and get that cleaned,” I offered, my voice coarse with restraint.
Her shoulders visibly sagged with relief and then she nodded. I caught the brief shimmer in her eyes.
I held out my arm, allowing her to walk ahead of me. The last thing I needed was for Sean to say something else about her spilled drink. As it was, Sage’s plea was the only thing keeping my fist from making a snack out of his face.
As Sage went inside, I paused by Callan and muttered next to his ear, “I don’t care whether it’s you or Rose or Mike. Someone needs to tell Sean to watch himself.”
My friend’s chin took a hard dip. He’d risen like I had when Sean made the comment, but it was with more finesse than I seemed to possess when it came to the youngest Walker sibling.
Once inside, I shut the door behind me and followed Sage as she headed for the stairs.
“Sage, wait,” I called to her but she didn’t slow. “Sage!”
She stopped at the door to the upstairs bathroom, looking at me. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Defended you?” My temper heated.
A man could only hold back so much when there was a prick insulting my fake girlfriend on the one hand, and on the other, said fake girlfriend scolding me for being willing to defend her.
“Made a scene,” she murmured, turning the handle and disappearing inside.
I flattened my palm on the door, preventing her from shutting it—and escaping me that easily.
“Trust me, I didn’t make a scene.”
“He’s just drunk and a dick and wants attention.” She pushed by me into the bathroom, shaking her head and turning the faucet on.
“Yeah, well, he’s about to get the kind of attention that usually gets classified as assault.” I closed the door behind me and sealed us in, but she was too upset—and too busy trying to hide it—to notice.
Wetting the corner of a washcloth, she began to scrub furiously at the cider-soaked fabric.
I covered her hands with one of mine. “Sage,” I said, my tone low and comforting.
“Please.” She inhaled deeply and pulled out of my grasp, setting the cloth on the counter. “This is all for Rose’s wedding. I can’t—I refuse to let him goad me or you into ruining any of this for her.”
My body thrummed.
I’d never seen a more beautiful or more pained example of self-sacrificing than at that moment.
“What happened between the two of you, Sage?”
“Nothing worth repeating.” She glanced at herself in the mirror, flushed cheeks and stained shirt. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“Sage…”
“I don’t care about him, Luke.” She looked up, meeting my gaze in the vanity mirror, and then shook her head. “I don’t care what he says or does. I just want everything to be perfect for Rose and Mike.”
I closed what little space there was between us and reached out to cup her cheek, turning her head so she was forced to look at me.
“I don’t care about him either, Sage.” I paused, my thumb finding the spot where I’d brushed the caramel from her lip earlier as though there were a sugary scar to lead me back. “I care about you.”
I felt her sharp inhale pull over my fingertips, her irises darkening under their hazy glint.
I shouldn’t be this close to her—shouldn’t be touching her. Shouldn’t be admitting to caring the way that I did.
Not when she’d had too much cider… and not when I wanted her the way that I did.
“Luke…” Her voice was thready, practically begging
me to take the last of the air from her lips—lips that were so full and curved just like the rest of her.
Our breaths mingled, and though a crease formed between her eyebrows, she didn’t back away. She never backed away. Her eyelids grew hooded, her focus dropping to my mouth.
I could blame the cups of cider, but even that was my fault. I was drunk on my own damn cider. And it was in charge not only of my head as it dropped down, but of my tongue that slipped out and licked over the spot where the caramel had been hours earlier.
Shit.
Never in my life had I wanted to kiss a woman so much who was so incredibly off-limits.
With a low groan, I lifted my lips to her forehead and pressed a tame shadow of a kiss there instead. Releasing her and taking a step back felt like I was taking a bullet for my best friend—one that went straight to my groin.
“Where are you going?” she asked, hurt blistering her gaze.
“I’m going to get us some water.” She shouldn’t go to sleep with only cider in her system. “Just want to make sure we don’t wake up regretting enjoying too much of a good thing.”
It was supposed to be funny. A small joke to cut through the desire that weighted the air like tiny droplets of lusty lead. But I saw the instant she interpreted it the wrong way. I’d only meant that I wanted to spare us from a hangover. She thought I was telling her we’d regret taking advantage of our fake relationship—of taking it further than our non-drunk selves would.
But before I could explain, she straightened her spine and plastered a smile on her face. And it was about as effective as putting a Band-Aid over a bullet hole.
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine,” she insisted, shuffling by me out the door. I followed her to the door of her room. “I learned the hard way how to handle these kinds of situations so I don’t wake up hurting.”
Click.
I stared at the white wood of her childhood bedroom door shut in front of my face. I’d passed by it countless times when we were younger, just like I’d passed by her, never caring to look. But now, I couldn’t look away. Her eyes… her lips… every delectable curve of her body… I couldn’t stop staring because she was like a walking dream. But I also could see all the things that she hid that hurt her, and I wanted like hell to make them stop.
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