Seaside Nights

by Melissa Foster

  As Sawyer drove down Route 6 listening to Sky and watching her facial expressions go from enthusiastic to thoughtful, to pensive, then right back to excited again, the more he liked her. She was easy to be with and not at all like the women he’d dated in the past, who were so worried about every word that left their mouths their conversations felt scripted.

  “Since we’ll have to hurry to get to our destination before it gets dark, and it might be an hour before we make it to dinner, I thought we should get a snack first. Is that okay?”

  Thinking of her ice cream addiction, he pulled into the parking lot of the Brewster Scoop.

  “I’ll never turn down ice cream,” she said as he parked the car.

  They headed into the ice cream shop and ordered cones. The Brewster Scoop was located behind the Brewster Store, a general store where little had changed since Sawyer was young. They still sold penny candy and homemade fudge.

  “What is our destination, anyway?” she asked as they took their cones out front and sat on the stoop.

  “I could tell you, but then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  “I love surprises, and so far you’re full of them.”

  ***

  SAWYER EARNED BONUS points for taking the edge off Sky’s nerves. She had no idea that her daisy dukes would cause her handsome date to say things that made her blush and think about all the things she wanted to do to him. As if thinking about him all afternoon hadn’t been torture enough. When Jenna had called to invite her to another bonfire—this one was going to be at their beach house tomorrow night—Sky had nearly burst with excitement telling her about their impending date. Of course Jenna had squealed so loudly that Sky’d had to pull the phone away from her ear and promise to come by the bonfire with him tomorrow if the date went well.

  “So, I’m full of surprises, huh?” Sawyer was holding his ice cream toward her with a heated look in his eyes. “Taste?”

  If only he knew that she was dying for a taste…of him and that he was the most wonderful surprise of all. She never would have guessed that while she was reading her favorite poem, she’d been listening to the man she’d be spending time with the next night.

  She leaned forward and licked his ice cream, and his eyes darkened.

  “Thanks,” she said, licking the sweetness from her lips.

  He watched her mouth intently, and her pulse quickened.

  “Want to taste mine?” She tilted her cone toward him.

  He leaned in close and gazed into her eyes. “What is it about you that makes me feel like a schoolboy peeking through a locker room window?” He searched her eyes, and the air between them sizzled and popped.

  “Probably the same thing that makes me want you to.”

  A devilish grin curved his lips, and they both leaned in closer. Sky was sure he was going to kiss her—and she wanted that kiss. A taste of his sensuous mouth, to know what the scrape of his thick scruff felt like against her cheeks.

  But their lips didn’t touch. He placed his hand over hers, holding the ice cream cone. His hand was warm and strong, and when he dragged his tongue over the creamy cap, she practically licked it right along with him.

  “Sweet,” he said, still holding her gaze.

  Sky lifted a trembling finger and wiped a dab of ice cream from his lip. He guided her finger into his mouth, then swirled his tongue around it, sucking the ice cream off. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was still holding her hand as her ice cream dripped over her knuckles. His eyes flamed, and she knew he was thinking about licking the ice cream from there, too, but if he did…If she felt that hot mouth of his again anywhere except on her lips, she was going to lose it.

  She brought her hand to her mouth and licked the ice cream off, which only made his eyes smolder even more.

  An undercurrent of sexual tension wrapped around them, drawing their bodies even closer together. His breath whispered into her mouth. “Sky…”

  Her mind spun. When he slid a hand to the nape of her neck, still gazing into her eyes, silently asking for her approval, she answered him with a press of her lips to his. His lips were softer than any she’d ever kissed, pillowy and inviting. The first slide of their tongues was cold and deliciously sweet, sending shivers through her even as their kiss grew hotter. Their tongues tangled together, searching, tasting, taking. Despite her outward calm, her insides were racing, heating, getting all too stirred up for a first date.

  She forced herself to pull back, and in the space of a second their lips came together in another tender kiss. It was sweet and languid, and too incredible to stop. The ice cream fell from her hands, and without breaking the kiss, she pressed her palms to his cheeks and deepened it. His mouth was demanding, his whiskers scratchy, and his lips—his gloriously soft lips—slowly slipped away.

  No. Come back.

  He pressed a kiss to her cheek, fisted his hand in the back of her hair, and drew her in closer again.

  “Sorry,” he whispered against her lips. “I really didn’t intend to—”

  “Uh-huh.” She couldn’t resist pressing her lips to his again, and just as quickly, she reluctantly retreated. “My fault,” she managed. She shouldn’t do this. She wasn’t used to moving so fast, and yet she felt powerless to resist him.

  She physically scooted away, putting a few inches between them. “Space. We need…We should…Gosh, Sawyer. I never kiss like that on a first date.”

  He grinned and said, “Lucky me,” without missing a beat.

  “Yes, but…” I want to kiss you again and again. Would three weeks be too long of a kiss?

  A car door slammed and a little boy ran up the stoop beside Sawyer. “Look, Mommy! She dropped her cone!” His mother gave an embarrassed smile as she shooed her son inside.

  Sawyer and Sky both laughed as he cleaned up the discarded cone and tossed it into the trash. He reached for her hand and they walked back to the car.

  Fifteen minutes—and a car ride full of furtive glances—later, as the sun dipped behind the trees and the temperature cooled, they arrived at Stony Brook and parked across the street from the gristmill. Sky had been to Stony Brook many times, as it was only a few minutes from where she’d grown up. It had always been one of her favorite places, with the old stone gristmill and the babbling brook. There were elaborate gardens with romantic walking paths surrounding Stony Brook Pond by the mill across the road and a wooden bridge that arched over the water. It was about as picturesque as anything could be, and with her heart still pinging around in her chest, she had to dig deep to stop thinking about their kisses and focus on why they were there.

  “How do you know that C. J. Moon wrote about the brook?” Sky asked as they walked up the grassy incline on the property across the street from the mill, toward the babbling brook.

  Sawyer’s eyes grew serious, as if he was wrestling with his answer.

  “You don’t have to tell me if it’s some kind of secret.” She knew from her friend Kurt Remington, a bestselling thriller writer, that writers could be covetous of their privacy, and obviously C. J. Moon went to great lengths to keep his identity a secret. She was intrigued by how Sawyer knew anything more about Moon’s poems than what was online, but she was even more intrigued by his apparent conflict over sharing the hows and whys of his knowledge. She had to respect a man who honored his commitments—unless he was making the whole thing up, and this was one big farce to get into her pants.

  “I knew Moon a long time ago, but the man I knew is…no longer around,” he finally said as they came to the crest of the hill. The brook snaked out before them, lined by pitch pines on one side and a rocky incline on the other. Grass ran between the rocks, making them look as if they were featured in the landscape.

  Sky heard sadness in Sawyer’s voice and immediately disregarded her thought about his making up his friendship with C. J. Moon.

  “I’m sorry. At least you had a chance to know him. He was such a talented man. He was a man, wasn’t he? Online they refer to the
writer as a man, but I know that sometimes that isn’t the case with pen names.”

  He nodded, and his eyes turned thoughtful as he led her down the hill toward the brook. The sounds of the water running over the rocks and the whispering of the leaves against the evening breeze filled the silence between them.

  “Yes, he was definitely a man. A good, honest, and virile man.”

  “I get the sense from his work that he was all those things, as well as sensitive. He wrote such lovely and powerful poems.”

  “He was, Sky.” He took a giant step from the grass to a rock, then turned and set his hands on her hips, steadying her as he helped her down. His touch was gentle yet strong. He gazed into her eyes with a conflicted look she didn’t understand.

  “Sky…Are you familiar with the poem, ‘Race of the Pebble’?”

  “Her current changed beneath the light of the moon.” She’d read the poem so many times the words flowed without thought, bringing a smile to his lips. “Lighter, darker, narrow, shallow. Dancing in her depths. Swept up in her ecstasy. Tumbling, turning, out of control…It’s one of my favorites, because it holds true to so many things.”

  “That’s exactly what he said when he wrote it. I was with him. I was only a kid, but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “You were with him? I can’t imagine how great that must have been.”

  Sawyer stood on a rock beside the brook, gazing at the water as it trickled by. “It meant a great deal to me. All of our time together has.” He paused, and when he met her gaze again, that conflicted look was back.

  “Sky, C. J. Moon is my father.”

  “Your father?” She watched as sadness and pride swept over his face in a look so troubled she reached for his hand. “I don’t understand. You said he was no longer around. Did he pass away?”

  He shook his head. “My father is very much alive, and you’re the first person I have revealed his pen name to. I’m not even sure why I did, but it felt like I was lying to you, and I know this is our first date, but I didn’t want to lie to you.”

  “Sawyer.” His name came out as a whisper. She was so touched by his confession, but the sadness that lingered in his voice made her ache.

  “He has Parkinson’s,” Sawyer explained. “It’s been really difficult and heartbreaking to watch his health decline. He hasn’t written since shortly after he got his diagnosis.”

  Wrapping her arms around Sawyer came naturally, and even though part of her worried that the comfort might embarrass such a strong man, she couldn’t stop herself. They remained like that for a long moment, with the sky turning dark above them. She felt herself opening up to the sensitive man she’d only just met.

  When they finally parted, his lips curved up in an appreciative smile. She didn’t push for more information about his father, and when he asked her if she was from the Cape, she knew he needed to change the subject.

  “Yes. I grew up in Brewster,” she answered. “How about you?”

  “Hyannis, actually. If you’re from Brewster, then you probably know all about how the herring run from Cape Cod Bay into Paine’s Creek, then into Stony Brook, and ultimately into Stony Brook Pond.”

  They began walking along the rocks again, and she stumbled.

  “Careful.” Sawyer caught her. His fingers tightened around her waist, and it wasn’t the heat wrapping around them again that brought her closer, or the way his pupils flared. It was what she felt coming off of him in waves, something longing and real, that she recognized but couldn’t name.

  “My father used to take us to see the herring run in the spring.”

  She felt herself wanting to know more about his childhood, and to share more of herself. This was too fast. Wasn’t it? How could she feel so comfortable with a guy after just a few hours? She didn’t know what to do, but the heat between them was melting her brain cells a handful at a time, and he was opening up to her, trusting her with his father’s true identity, and that was melting her heart at the same time. Pretty soon she’d turn to liquid and trickle away with the brook.

  He laced his fingers with hers and she gave in to a smile as they fell into step beside each other again.

  “I think I’m just as enamored now with how the fish run upstream as I was as a kid. I have great memories of running alongside the brook, watching the fish with my older brothers, Pete, Matt, Hunter, and Grayson.”

  His eyes widened as he sat down on a rock, bringing her down beside him. “You have four brothers? No sisters?”

  She shook her head.

  “I bet you were spoiled when you were growing up, as the only girl.”

  “Maybe a little, but I loved keeping up with them. At least until I was about twelve, when I started really getting into painting and drawing. My dad built me this amazing art studio in the backyard. It’s a shed, really, but when you’re a kid and your father respects and supports your talents enough to build you your own space? Then it feels like a mansion.”

  He covered her hand with his. “It sounds like you have a wonderful family. Are you all still close?”

  “We are. Maybe a little too close.” She laughed. “My brothers are a little protective of me.”

  “Like Blue?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “A little worse than Blue. Kind of like lions protecting their den.” She squinted, thinking about how protective they were. “Yeah, like that.”

  “Or like older brothers protecting their only sister?” He kissed the back of her hand. She liked that he was so affectionate with her. “It’s cool. I respect that. My friend Brock has two younger sisters, and I’m probably about as protective of them as Blue is with you. But Brock? It sounds like he’s more like your brothers. I think it comes with sibling territory.”

  “Maybe. I adore them all, even if they’re protective of me. But enough about me. What about you? Do you have siblings?”

  “No. It’s just me and my folks. I’m close with both of them, though. They’re one of the few couples who have made it through thick and thin and still managed to stay happily married. I see them often, and I told you about my dad’s illness, so I stick close to home. How about your parents? Are you close?”

  She dropped her gaze as a familiar pang rattled inside her. They’d gotten so far off track from talking about the poem, but it had been a long time since she talked about anything other than frivolities that she didn’t want to stop. And after hearing about his father, she felt they had even more in common, and she wanted to share that with him, too.

  “My mom passed away a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand. “Were you close?”

  “Very. When I was away at college we talked every week, and she’d send me the funniest cards and cookies and…” She swallowed past the thickening in her throat. “Wow. I haven’t talked about our relationship in ages. I had such a hard time when she passed away, but I thought I’d moved past it. I didn’t realize how emotional I still was over losing her.”

  Most guys would probably fidget and change the subject, but Sawyer opened his arms and gathered her in close. He pressed his hand to the back of her head without saying a word, and it was exactly what she needed. She soaked in the comfort of his embrace and the thoughtfulness of his silence.

  “Thank you for understanding,” she said, feeling mildly self-conscious. “I’m sorry for being so emotional.”

  “Don’t be sorry for feeling something. That’s the world’s great separator—those who feel and react to their feelings and those who cower from them.”

  “Sawyer…” She didn’t know what she wanted to say, but everything he said touched her profoundly, as if he’d climbed into her head and taken notes about the way she saw things.

  “Sorry. I know I have a strange view on things.” He set his hand on her leg and shifted his eyes to the brook.

  She reached for his hand. “If it’s strange, then I’m strange, too, because it’s exactly how I see things. I just worried that I was overwhel
ming you. You know...” She smiled and shrugged. “TMI and all that.”

  “After dealing with my father’s illness, I’ve learned that there isn’t much that can overwhelm me.” He held her gaze. “And certainly not anything having to do with emotions.”

  She sighed with relief. “I’ve dated a few guys who didn’t really get me.” She fidgeted with the edge of her shirt. “From my choice of clothing to the way I live my life.”

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Kind of like your father’s ‘Race of the Pebble’ poem, I guess. Fluid beauty rushing, rippling. Needful and overflowing. Not the beauty part, but feeling like I’m moving through life and accepting it as it comes, just sort of soaking it all in. I don’t stress over what could be or over making a ten-year plan. I live life for now, and if I’m happy with what I’m doing and the people I’m spending my time with, then life is good. If I’m not, then I’ll reevaluate.”

  He touched her cheek and said, “I know exactly what you mean, including the beauty part.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment, and she felt the warmth of him flowing through her veins—and ached for another kiss.

  When he gazed back at the brook, he said, “You know how the herring are thick when they run upstream and they churn the brook as they jump the concrete steps toward the pond?”

  There was something so soothing about his voice that it quieted Sky’s desire for that kiss, filling another part of her—a part she couldn’t pinpoint and hadn’t realized was also longing to be touched.

  “When my father was penning that poem, he said to me, Son—he always calls me that, never calls me by name—see more than others see. Be more than others are. You’re too interesting to be single layered. Too many people go through life seeing only what they expect. They view life waiting to be heard, rather than listening and seeing what others do not.” Sawyer’s eyes warmed as he turned toward Sky.

  “He taught me how to accept everything, from my range of emotions to differing lifestyles and opinions. He looked beyond the miraculous way the herring managed to make their way upstream and saw the pebbles below that were being tossed and turned from the herring’s movements. And he spoke of the pebbles as if they were alive. I think he taught me to think of everything that way—as if it were alive.”