Make Me Fall: Bayshore #2

by Leigh, Ember

  He laughs, but cloudiness enters his gaze. Maybe that was a weird comment. Maybe I shouldn’t reveal that I counted how many times he touched my wrist.

  “I guess I am.” He buries his lips in the hollow of my neck. “So what does the Kinsley Board think of my presentation?”

  “You’ll be rewarded with entry.”

  His deep laugh makes my skin tingle. “Score.”

  He flips us over on the bed easily—hollow bones, after all—so that I’m on top and begins kissing a trail down my chest, between the valley of my too small breasts that he just called perfect. His tongue is dancing circles around the right nipple when Annette calls out from the hallway.

  “Connor? Dinner’s almost ready!”

  He pauses, lips pressed to the side of my boob. Then a sigh escapes him.

  “Okay, Mom, we’re coming.” He waits a moment, then sends me an apologetic look. “We should go downstairs. She made roast beef, corn casserole, and scalloped potatoes. If we don’t, our German ancestors will turn in their graves.”

  We grumble and push off the bed, but not without stealing a few more kisses. I put on an actual bra and panties before slipping my sundress back over my shoulders. Connor follows me downstairs, and almost everyone has assembled. Damon is booming about something that happened at work that day, while Maverick fists the front of his hair and stares at his phone. Dom nods, listening to his dad with arms crossed over his chest. Weston is putting out forks while Annette counts dishes in the kitchen.

  As usual, I dive into breaking the ice. “Let me help.”

  Annette doesn’t really acknowledge me, per usual, but she doesn’t say no either. She pushes a dish of scalloped potatoes my way. “This can go out.”

  I carry it out to the dining room table, setting the dish on top of a trivet that has a rabbit stitched into it. She glances at her phone and then hurries into the hallway, so I take it upon myself to carry out the remaining dishes.

  While I’m helping arrange everything on the table, Connor takes his seat and falls into conversation with Weston about something they worked on at Grayson’s house earlier that day. A few moments later, Annette bustles back into the kitchen, Grayson and another lady following behind her.

  I recognize her immediately. Hazel Matheson. I only knew of her in high school, since she and Grayson were juniors to my freshman, but man, this babe turned buxom. She’s fire-engine-red lipstick and winged eyeliner, part fifties, part modern-day pin-up. I blink dumbly.

  That’s the type of woman the Daly brothers attract.

  And sure, Connor spent some time pointing out all the parts of my body that turned him on. But what I have to offer is not what he deserves long term. It might be fun for now, but what about when our Bayshore daydream is over? Maybe I should ask Hazel for some tips.

  “Hi, Hazel. Remember me?” I wave as I arrange the last dish on the table. Grayson is all smiles. He’s one hundred percent not the uptight prick I saw the first night in town.

  We settle into our spots, and Annette glides right back into her practice of ignoring me while still availing herself of my helpfulness. And while Hazel is here, it’s more than obvious how much she prefers Hazel over…well, probably her own sons. It’s like she’s already adopted Hazel as her daughter-in-law and is waiting for Grayson to make it official.

  Really, it’s kind of nauseating.

  But maybe that’s because I want Annette to talk to me like that, and realistically? She’ll probably give me those frosty frowns until she’s ninety-five and on a respirator.

  I should take it as a warning sign. This isn’t the family I want to marry into. Connor is not the guy for me. Yes, he might have commended my body parts earlier, but I can see what the Daly men are used to. They date Hazels, not Kinsleys. And the longer I fool myself with this strange are-we-aren’t-we fake relationship, the harder it’s going to be to pull myself out in a week.

  Once dinner ends, Grayson and Hazel leave. Dom and his dad retire to the backyard for bourbon, and Mav and Weston head downtown for who knows what. Connor and I help Annette clean up, and his mom even says thank you. I’m so stunned, I can’t speak, and in the clanking silverware and rush of the dishwasher, I begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Because the lightbulb has gone off.

  Maybe things with Annette could change.

  Maybe Connor isn’t shitting me about being attracted to me.

  Maybe I’m really my own worst enemy when it comes to believing in myself.

  Chapter 19

  CONNOR

  We’re back in the bedroom later that night. Kinsley heaves a sigh as she tugs off her sundress. But it’s not the sexy-time sort of clothes removal. It’s the I’m-getting-ready-for-bed style of tossing her dress.

  “Interesting that Grayson brought Hazel,” I comment, unbuttoning my shorts. I’m watching her carefully. For a reaction. For a hint that she wants to finish what we started earlier. For basically anything.

  “Yeah. I was under the impression they hated each other.”

  “So was everyone else.” I tear off my work shirt and toss it onto the ground. I scratch my chest, watching as she busies herself organizing crap on the dresser that doesn’t need her attention.

  “They’re cute together,” she says.

  “Yeah. I guess.” I come up beside her, running a hand through my hair. It’s grown a lot in the past week, seemingly, bordering on too long. I could use a cut, but I kind of dig the unkempt surfer look. “Hazel’s not really my type though.”

  A disbelieving laugh rockets out of her. “You have to be kidding.”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Hazel is a goddess.”

  I blink. “And…?”

  “And I’m not.”

  Her words come down in the room like a sledgehammer. My brow furrows as I turn to her. But she won’t meet my gaze. This, right here? This shit irritates me. When she avoids my gaze. It happened more in the beginning, but it still happens enough that I notice daily.

  “Where did that come from?” I ask.

  Kinsley sniffs, shrugging. “It’s a fact. I mean look at her. She’s beautiful. Grayson deserves someone like her. They would be the best power couple.”

  “Yeah, sure. If that’s what you’re into.”

  “Well, what are you into?”

  It’s a valid question, and one I don’t have an answer for. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek as I watch her, waiting for her to meet my gaze.

  “Kinsley,” I finally say.

  “What?”

  “Look at me.”

  She does, for the briefest of seconds. Like a periwinkle fairy kiss, and then…she’s back to focusing on anything else.

  “Like, really look at me,” I say and grab her by the arms, turning her toward me. She frowns a little, hazarding a glance or two my way. “You avoid my gaze. It’s official. After a week living with you, I’m calling you out.”

  Her frown deepens. “What do you mean? I look at you all the time.”

  “Yeah, but not like this.” I bend down, searching out her eyes. Her gaze ping-pongs across my face, down to my chin, and then finally, she looks right at me.

  “Is this some sort of therapy technique?” she cracks.

  “No. It’s me trying to figure out why you won’t make eye contact very often.”

  She blinks so much that I can feel the wind from her eyelashes. “I make eye contact.”

  “Not much.” I hold her steady, so she won’t bolt. This feels nice. And yeah, it does sorta feel like therapy. “And I think it has something to do with the fact that you don’t believe your tits are perfect.”

  Her shoulders shake with laughter. “Oh, come on. You’re not my therapist.”

  “Am I right?”

  “I mean…maybe.”

  I release her, grinning because I’m onto something. “All right, so let’s hear it.”

  “There’s nothing to hear. I’m insecure like most every other woman in the world. Big deal.”
<
br />   She turns her attention to some discarded books near the dresser. The hard covers go thud as she stacks them in some system known only to her. I’m quiet, waiting for her to go on, but she says nothing. I can’t force her to delve into something she doesn’t want to. This was my way of bridging the remaining spaces between us. Once you’re buried so deep in someone else, it’s nice to get closer in an emotional sense.

  But maybe she doesn’t want that.

  “If you don’t want to go there, I won’t bug you about it anymore,” I finally say, flopping back on the bed.

  One of the books goes thwack. “You really want to know?”

  I fluff the pillow under my head. “I mean, I did ask.”

  Thud. “Fine. My ex kind of fucked me up. He was what you would call emotionally degrading.” Thunk. “I don’t tend to look people in the eye because I have a hard time believing anyone takes me seriously.” Fffwup. “And if I look hard enough, there is evidence all around me of how pathetic I really am. So just invoice me what I owe you for the therapy session. I hope you accept Venmo.”

  I sit on her words for a little bit. Finally, I crane my neck to look down at her. She’s sitting on her heels, books all around her, one stack to her left looking like it might topple at any second.

  “You know you’re fucking awesome, though, right?”

  She sniffs, shrugging.

  “Well, we’re gonna work on this whole eye contact thing.” When she doesn’t acknowledge me, I squeeze the back of her neck. She shrugs my hand off, but I catch a grin on her face. “Because your eyes are gorgeous. And I really wish you’d look at me more.”

  Her hands freeze above the stack of books, and eventually, she turns to look at me.

  “On a scale of one to ten,” she begins.

  I have no idea what the scale is measuring, but something in her tone tips me off. A grin blossoms on my face. “Easily eleven.”

  “Stop it,” she says. “I didn’t even clarify the terms.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We both know what the scale is measuring.” And yeah, we might be talking in cryptic vagueness that doesn’t make a ton of sense. But with Kinsley, I get it. With Kinsley, I speak a different language. Our own language.

  Weird how one week with her has provoked all of this.

  Where will we be at the end of the second week? And what comes after that?

  The thoughts feel heavier than I intend, which reminds me that I need a shower to wash it all away. I pinch her cheek and roll off the bed, heading for the bathroom. She doesn’t join me, and I spend a long time under the warm stream, thinking about all the confusing strands of recent days that are threatening to tangle up into knots.

  For how easy things feel with Kinsley, she also inspires a lot of questions. Questions that I’m not entirely sure how to answer.

  I towel off in the bathroom, brush my teeth, and pad out into the bedroom sans underwear. Kinsley is in her sky-blue panties tonight, one knee bent as she reads a new book—the Chelsea Handler memoir. She’s got on a basic gray tank top that hugs her slight curves. I step into a fresh pair of underwear and then climb onto the bed next to her.

  But I’m not looking for sex. Well, not this instant, at least. There’s something endearing about the way she’s opened up to me, both tonight and this morning when we were complaining about our jobs. Call me sentimental, but I want to be with her. I’ve developed a soft spot for Kinsley in very little time.

  I scoot toward her. “Need a pillow?”

  She furrows her brow as if that’s the silliest question she’s ever gotten.

  “Here.” I gesture to my arms, and her mouth rounds. She scoots over to me, resting the back of her head on my chest, nuzzling into place for maximum comfort.

  And when she beams up at me, gratitude and a lot more shining out of her, I feel a yank in my chest.

  She doesn’t have to say it. We’re on the same page, and it feels more than right at her side.

  Chapter 20

  KINSLEY

  Time is running out, so I choose not to think about what happens Post-Bayshore.

  We’ve got three days left before we head to Cleveland for our return flight to San Diego. It seems impossible, because time stops when I’m with Connor, therefore I should have an eternity left with him.

  But after more ping-pong battles (I win them all) and nights with his brothers (Grayson is finally loosening up) and group renovations on their grandma’s old house (the brothers are working together!), I decide that we need to do something special. A day-date of sorts.

  So I arrange with my parents to borrow the boat one day while they’re at work. I don’t tell them who I’m taking or where I’m going, and they don’t ask. I’ve grown up driving boats, so this isn’t an odd request.

  Connor and I clamber on board my parent’s Sea Ray after lunch with a cooler full of beers and water bottles. I also brought some snacks, namely baby carrots and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and three books, even though I’m pretty sure I won’t be reading at all on the lake today. I just need to be prepared should I choose to read.

  But desperation laps at the edges of my composure, even though the sun beats down on us, and I’ve evenly applied my sunscreen this time, just in case I put a book across my stomach and fall asleep.

  I guide the boat out of the marina downtown. Soon we’re hitting white caps head on, the teal spray of lake water occasionally reaching us inside the boat. Connor sits in the bow, shirtless and laughing as we hit the waves. Each time he looks back at me, it makes my chest hurt a little.

  I’ve been hemming and hawing about what to say to him. How I might ask if this real thing between us is actually real. Because even though he’s been prodding at my insecurities, it doesn’t mean they’re gone. Now they’re just…exposed. Quivering in the daylight, under his unyielding eye. Making it even harder to ask him what he might actually feel for me.

  I’ve told Connor things that I never planned on sharing with anyone. But he still seems to enjoy being around me, even knowing that I have a hard time looking people in the eye because my self-esteem is shit and that I feel aimless in my adulthood. It’s like he doesn’t hold those things against me.

  Which, in and of itself, is not a revolutionary concept. My girlfriends don’t hold those things against me—well, they wouldn’t, if they knew.

  But my ex sure held stuff like that against me. My looks, most of all, but also any perceived sign of weakness or doubt. Sometimes he’d even rip me apart if I wasn’t sure what I wanted for dinner. In his mind, things like that translated to glaring character defects that made me unfit to receive love.

  And here’s Connor, cruising along as if flaws can coexist with appreciation.

  It’s something I know deep down, but damn, it’s been covered up by a lot of muck.

  I head north into the wide, seemingly limitless expanse of choppy water. Sunlight glances off the surface of the water in the distance. Like a dolt, I forgot my sunglasses, so Connor lends me his spare pair. Because he’s that cool that he always has two pairs. Wearing his sunglasses today feels about the same as an engagement ring, and there’s something about the hot air and the splashing waves that dissolves every last bit of tension thrumming inside me.

  I’ve never felt so alive. So fucking happy. I slow the boat down and guide it toward a relatively empty area of the bay around the thin strip of sand jutting out in the middle of the water. It’s called the Sand Bar, and boaters love to congregate here, drop anchor, and have drinks between rounds of swimming out to the sandy embankment. It’s in the middle of nowhere, a secret find of Briggs Bay. Connor helps me drop anchor, and then we collapse back into the seats of the bow.

  “This day is so fucking beautiful!” he shouts as loudly as he can.

  I laugh, propping my ankles on his lap. “Let’s never leave.”

  “Live permanently in Briggs Bay?” He shrugs. “I’m down.”

  “Let’s never leave today,” I clarify. Because if time keeps mo
ving forward, it will inevitably pull us apart.

  “Okay. Time machine.” He snaps his finger. “On it.”

  I smile over at him, the horizon behind him going askew then straight, askew then straight, as the boat is rocked by incoming waves. We lapse into a comfortable silence. His hand finds my ankle, and he rubs his thumb back and forth over the bony protrusion. I can’t tell what he’s looking at. All I know is that I’m looking at him.

  “You know,” he starts, after maybe three minutes or a half hour has gone by in lazy perfection, “I forgot one important part the other day when I submitted my information to the Kinsley Board.”

  I’m already laughing, because he knows how to thread a joke throughout eternity as well as I do. “Oooh, I don’t know how they’re going to handle a late submission. They insist on punctuality.”

  “Maybe I can sway them.” The corners of his lips curl up, and I almost ask him to raise his sunglasses so I can see how intensely he’s watching me right now. “Your toes.”

  “My toes have turned you on?”

  He nods, squeezing each of my feet in turn. “Oh, yeah.”

  “I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

  “It’s okay. We can chalk it up to a medical mystery, if that helps.”

  I dissolve into laughter again. “I don’t think that helps, actually. I’d rather not be featured on some TLC reality show because of a man’s interest in my toes.”

  He grabs my other ankle and gives me a little tug. “You know what? Get over here.”

  It’s hard not to comply with any little thing he wants. I scoot his way, and he adjusts himself on the big bench seat so that we’re cuddling, our legs intertwined even though it’s hot and sticky out.

  “I’ve got another medical mystery for you to check out,” he murmurs into my ear, which prompts more laughter on my end.

  “Does it have something to do with this protrusion between your legs?”