by Thea Dawson
But part of me wonders if she really would mind all that much. She’s been kind of flirty all morning, and for a moment up in her bedroom, just as she was waking up, one shoulder bare, her skin flushed and glowing, her eyes bright, and that fabulous mouth curving into just the hint of a smile, I thought that maybe she’d be up for something more than that. I ignored it and got away as quickly as I politely could, but something about the situation shook me.
I don’t want to lead her on and risk hurting her.
On the other hand, it’s possible that some steamy sex would be a welcome part of her fantasy, one I’d be only too happy to fulfill.
But even if I’m willing, that puts me back in man-whore territory, bringing what I’m starting to feel is a friendship with Annabelle into the realm of transaction.
And Annabelle deserves more than that.
I’d gone for a hard run, trying to work off the frustration, and I’d followed up with an icy cold shower when I got back, but even now, out in the bright sunshine, both of us dressed—Annabelle in a retro one-piece swimsuit and not-very short shorts—listening to her talk about currents and wind direction, I’m still finding myself attracted to her, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s because I was forced to spend the whole night in bed with her, or maybe it’s some combination of the fresh air and the different scenery. I put it down to the novelty of the situation and try to leave it at that.
But when Annabelle just happens to brush past me just as her sisters are walking down the dock toward us, it seems like too good an opportunity to waste.
So I kiss her.
I have to admit that the first time I kissed her, back in LA, didn’t make much of an impression on me. She was too surprised to react much, and I was more concerned that it not look like we’d been fighting to make it a truly memorable kiss.
But this time is different. This time I’m thinking about the velvety pout of her lips and focusing on how they feel against mine. I’m paying attention to the way I slip my tongue across the opening of her mouth and probe its entrance. I’m intrigued by the way she parts her lips just a little, slowly, teasingly admitting me entrance. From her lack of reaction last time, I sort of assumed she just wasn’t very experienced, but now I think maybe that was due simply to surprise, because the girl who is kissing me now really seems to know what she’s doing …
Even though I’m expecting it, I’m annoyed when I hear a polite cough from the side of the dock.
The two of us pull apart, Annabelle seeming just as reluctant as me.
I realize I’ve let things go too far, enjoyed that too much. To cover myself, I give Annabelle a quick wink to convey that it wasn’t serious—that I was just keeping up appearances.
A shadow flickers over her expression, and I don’t have to be a genius to figure out that the kiss meant more to her than it should have. Mentally, I slap myself. I really have to watch myself around this girl. I’m already in her debt more than I’m comfortable with. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea about us, and I don’t want our fragile friendship to turn into something tawdry.
“Sorry to interrupt,” says Carina, though her eyes are dancing in mischievous amusement and she doesn’t look sorry at all. “I hear we’re going to Smithy’s after lunch?”
Annabelle recovers herself. “Yes. Right.”
“What’s Smithy’s?” I ask.
“It’s an ice cream place in town,” Annabelle says. “But this afternoon, it’s just me and my sisters.” She sounds resigned.
“Kind of a Winter sisters tradition,” Brianna explains.
“Aw, man,” I say in mock disappointment. “I love ice cream.”
“I’ll take you there tomorrow,” Annabelle promises. “In fact, if you’re good, maybe I’ll take you there after dinner.”
I give her a lazy, sexy smile that’s intended for the benefit of her sisters. “I guess I’d better be good, then.”
“Oh-kay,” Brianna says, “I guess we’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. Mom says you’re on lunch duty, by the way, Belle.”
Annabelle rolls her eyes and groans.
“We’ve got dinners, though,” Carina adds, letting Annabelle know she’s not being picked on. “Brianna’s cooking tomorrow, and I’ve got tonight.” She turns to me. “Archer, are you a good cook?”
I shrug. “Haven’t set the kitchen on fire yet,” I assure her truthfully.
She laughs. “Good enough! Can’t wait to see what you two come up with.”
The two of them stroll away, their footsteps echoing on the wooden dock.
For a moment, there’s an awkward silence between us, which I break by saying, “So what about this sailboat race you promised me?”
She blinks as if coming out of a trance. “Oh, right. We can do that after we get back from Smithy’s. Or tomorrow. Whatever.”
She looks out of sorts, and I worry that it was the kiss that did it. Or maybe the wink. But I don’t let myself dwell on it. We’re not a couple, and not likely to be, and leading her on would only be mean. So I change the subject.
“What should we do for lunch?”
She frowns and sighs. “Crap, I don’t know. I hate cooking. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, maybe.”
Seriously, what is it about the women in my life who can’t cook? That thought reminds me of Alex, and I wonder how she’s doing with Trevor, the probably-married asshole. I’m already a little touchy about Annabelle, feeling a blend of guilt, annoyance, and lust; dwelling on the Alex situation won’t improve my mood, so I put her out of my mind.
I snort. “Not on my watch, sunshine. We’ll come up with something better than that. Now, how about you take me for a spin in this thing?”
We spend the next hour out on the lake, Annabelle showing me how to sail. It’s slow going at first, as there’s very little wind, but once it picks up, I love it—the sunshine, the fresh breeze in my face, the quick thinking needed to turn the boat in the right direction, the surprising speed we can achieve once we reach the center of the lake where the wind, unbroken by the trees on the shore, can pick up and push us along.
Finally, Annabelle looks at her watch and steers us, a little reluctantly, back to the dock. Lunchtime. We tie up the boat, lower the sails, and walk back to the house, me remembering to put my arm around Annabelle just as we round the corner to the house to find her parents sitting on the porch swing by the door.
They wave to us, and we make polite conversation for a few minutes then head into the kitchen, where I quickly survey the contents of the refrigerator.
“Okay, we could do cold chicken left over from last night, and there’s lettuce for a salad. Didn’t we put leftover rice in the fridge last night?” I find it behind a gallon of milk and pull it out. “And—yes! Yogurt. Got any curry powder?”
Looking a little skeptical, Annabelle helps me find what I need to make a creamy curried rice salad. I set her to work defrosting some frozen peas while I whisk up the dressing. I then slice up the remaining chicken, which Annabelle arranges neatly on a platter. We do a green salad with croutons and slices of hardboiled egg, dressing on the side, and I warm up some rolls. I find a can of frozen lemonade in the freezer, Annabelle remembers some lavender that grows in the back garden and finds a brightly striped pitcher, and voila: lavender lemonade.
Half an hour later, Annabelle and I stand in the dining room, admiring our handiwork.
“You’ve made this look beautiful,” I tell her. And she has. Somehow she’s arranged the food and laid out the mismatched platters and bowls that the lake house kitchen is furnished with so that the table looks like it’s ready for a photo shoot for some high-end shelter magazine.
She shakes her head. “It’s thanks to you that it’s not peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.” She gives me a sly sidelong glance. “But I would have made them look good.”
“We make a good team,” I say, and hold my hand out for a high-five.
She gently slaps my palm, a warm smile on her face and a br
ightness in her eyes. I regret my choice of words.
We’re not a team, and I don’t want her to think that we are.
“Why don’t you call your family in?” I suggest.
I take more pride than I probably should in the enthusiastic reception that our lunch gets. They’re probably just happy that it's not peanut butter and jelly. Annabelle graciously gives me all the credit, but I can tell she’s enjoying the praise as much as I am. We catch each other eyes several times over lunch, and each time, she gives me a sweet little smile.
I’m fulfilling my end of the bargain, I tell myself: I’ve got a roof over my head for the weekend and I’m making Annabelle look good to her family.
But that smile of hers worries me.
“I hear my daughters are planning to go into town later,” Mrs. Winter says to me. “I hope you don’t mind being left with us for an hour or two.”
“Not at all,” I assure her. “If you need help with anything around the house, feel free to put me to work.”
Mrs. Winter starts to shake her head but Mr. Winter cuts in. “Actually, we could use some help putting the spare room back together again,” he says. “The repair crew is almost finished replacing the floorboards, but Moira and I pulled half the room into the hallway yesterday when we realized what happened and we could use some help getting it back.”
Annabelle starts to protest, but I cut her off. I’ve got a strong back, and a little heavy lifting is a small price to pay.
“No problem, Mr. Winter. I’d be happy to help.”
“’Preciate it,” he says. “I’ll catch you after lunch.”
17
Annabelle
We consider taking our bikes to Smithy’s like we did when we were kids, but a quick check in the shed reveals that Brianna’s and my bikes both have flat tires.
Carina suggests walking, but that will add almost another hour to our outing.
“I don’t want to leave Archer alone that long with Dad,” I say truthfully. Brianna and Carina understand—Dad has a history of “testing” our boyfriends by asking them awkward questions.
“It’s a rite of passage, you know,” Brianna points out with a shrug. “If you bring a boy home, sooner or later you have to let Dad do his dad-thing.” Nonetheless, she gets her keys out of her purse and gestures at us to follow her to her car.
Carina and Brianna sit in the front while I automatically take the back seat, just like I always did when we were kids. I don’t even realize it until we’re halfway down the long dirt path that connects our house to the main road, but once again I’ve reverted to my role as the baby in the family.
Carina keeps up a running stream of gossip and commentary on the short drive. I’m grateful to her; I’m feeling quiet and thoughtful, and I’m glad I don’t have to do much to hold up my end of the conversation.
Smithy’s, I’m glad to see, hasn’t changed at all. Brianna parks about half a block down on the street, and we walk up the sidewalk then mount the wooden steps that lead to the ancient screen door. The sound of our feet on the steps brings on a wave of nostalgia, as does the dim interior.
There’s absolutely nothing fancy or modern about it. The lighting is poor, the floor is cracked linoleum, and the walls haven’t been painted probably since the store opened. A couple of lazy ceiling fans keep the air fresh, though, and the cool scent of ice cream hits me as we step in, bringing on a fresh wave of nostalgia for when we’d ride our bikes down here, feeling so grown up for being by ourselves and paying with our allowance money.
Even our ice cream flavors say something about us: Brianna gets French vanilla in a cup, simple but elegant—and less messy than a cone; Carina gets something with orange, mango and strawberry swirls, typically colorful; and I get my beloved mint chocolate chip, traditional and basic—but oh, so tasty.
We take our ice creams and slide into a booth lined in peeling orange vinyl.
“Okay,” Brianna gets right to business. “What’s the scoop with this Archer guy?”
It hits me that she’s somehow discovered that I hired him, and my stomach gives a nasty lurch.
“Oh my gosh, yes!” Carina breaks in enthusiastically. “You made it sound like you two were just sort of friends, but I can totally feel the heat between you two!”
My relief at realizing I haven’t been found out gives way to embarrassment. Is it that obvious that I have the hots for him? On the one hand, it’s good that we look convincing; on the other, I know full well that my attraction to him isn’t reciprocated, and I don’t want to be the object of my family’s pity when we “break up.”
I lick my ice cream cone, stalling for time. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”
Carina laughs, and Brianna raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“Yes, he seems very nice,” Brianna agrees, “but there’s got to be a bit more going on here than just nice.”
There’s a whole lot more, but I’m not going to tell them about it.
“Okay,” I go on, “he’s … thoughtful …” He has been thoughtful, I muse, not in a giving-me-my-favorite-flowers way, but in making sure I get the experience I originally hired him for.
It’s not exactly the experience I want now, but it’s not like he knows that, and that’s not an experience I could buy anyway.
“He’s smart, he works hard …” I continue, trying to come up with some other good qualities for Archer based on our very limited acquaintance. “And he’s smoking hot,” I conclude with a casual lift of my shoulders.
Carina leans in, a wicked smile on her face. “Okay, what’s he like in bed?”
I can feel my face go up in flames. Carina laughs, and Brianna nudges Carina in the ribs.
“Ignore the inappropriate questions,” Brianna orders. “We’ll just assume he’s incredible.”
I manage a laugh, more embarrassed at being so clearly thrown by the question than by the question itself. I’m thinking again of our early morning cuddle—which probably shouldn’t count since Archer wasn’t conscious, but I’m counting it anyway—and the two kisses we’ve shared. They might both have been stage kisses, but they still fall into the “incredible” category as far as I’m concerned.
Carina reaches a hand across the table and squeezes mine. “We’re just so happy for you. I know how dedicated you are to your research, and it’s not like you need a guy to be complete or anything, but you just look so happy when you’re around him. You’re such a wonderful person and you deserve someone who’s just as amazing as you are.”
I’m not surprised to see that Carina’s eyes are a bit teary. She’s very emotional and cries at the drop of a hat. But I am deeply touched by her declaration—and a little guilty at the thought that it’s made under false pretenses.
It occurs to me that I got what I wanted. I’ve made the point I wanted to make to my family: that I’m a grown up, capable of an adult relationship with an enviable guy.
And I no longer care.
Not only is the relationship a lie, but it doesn’t actually matter anymore anyway. My family loves me and wants me to be happy, which, for the most part, I am. Sure, I’d love a sexy, amazing boyfriend, but I’d like him for me, not to impress other people. In the meantime, I’m passionate about the research I’m doing, and I love my life.
It seems incredible now that I was willing to fork out the better part of a month’s rent to have a stranger hanging on my arm for an evening, but I’m not sorry I did it. I got exactly what I wanted—to impress my friends and family—and even more than that—the realization that I don’t really need to.
For a moment, I consider telling Brianna and Carina about Gentlemen, Inc. and ’fessing up to the whole thing, but I bite back the urge. It’s no longer about saving face; it’s that if Archer is going to spend the next couple of days with us, I don’t want my family treating him any differently than they are now.
I swallow, but my voice is a little thick with emotion anyway when I speak. “Thank you, Carina,” I say. “I … I don’t really kno
w where this thing with Archer is going to go. Really, we haven’t known each other very long at all, but … I like him a lot.”
This, at least, is the truth, and it feels good to admit it out loud.
Carina sniffs a little and grabs for a paper napkin to dab her eyes. Brianna barely suppresses an eye roll and pretends not to notice this obvious display of emotion.
I decide it’s time to change the subject, so I go on the offensive. “Okay, that’s my love life squared away. What about yours?”
We spend another half hour at Smithy’s, but it turns out that Brianna and Carina had little to offer in the way of romantic gossip. Brianna insists that she’s too focused on getting Jared’s start-up off the ground to have time for romance, and Carina’s only current prospect is Peter, the old roommate’s brother who’d come to the party.
“You like him?” I ask. He’d arrived late the other night and I’d met him only in passing. He was good looking and already seemed to be falling under Carina’s spell—he couldn’t take his eyes off her—but when I ask her about him she just shrugs.
“We have a dinner date for next week when I get back, but I doubt it’ll go anywhere. He’s too serious for me,” she adds carelessly.
But her eyes kind of slide away from mine as she says it, and I realize that all of Carina’s boyfriends never more than a date or two before she dismisses them: too serious, too frivolous, too stuffy, too laid back, too boring, too flashy.
She passes herself off as being kind of flighty, but I know how much she wants a family of her own … so why does she push these guys away again and again?
I glance at Brianna, wondering if she’s noticed the same thing, but she’s checking her phone for messages. It’s not altogether unreasonable, as we don’t get cell service at the house, but there’s a stiffness to her posture that suggests she’s not comfortable with the conversation and is trying to avoid it. Brianna’s had a couple of long-term relationships that I know about, but they’ve faded away without much drama; I never got the feeling she was particularly passionate about the men she dated. And now I wonder if she's actually happy with that or not.