Mischief & Magnolias (Magnolia Branch Book 2)

by Kristi Cook

  “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have dragged you away from them.” He releases me, taking a step back as he draws a finger down the side of my face.

  I shiver in response. “No, it’s fine. I’ll see them both again tomorrow.”

  He nods. “How much time do we have until someone comes looking for you?”

  “Nan went over to Dean’s, and my parents went to bed, so…” I trail off, smiling wickedly. “What did you have in mind?”

  He rubs his hands together. “It’s a little cold out here. Maybe we could go to my truck and…well, stay in the truck? With the heater on.”

  I eye him with raised brows. “You want to make out in your truck, Ryder? Is that what you’re saying?”

  His cheeks redden. “We could go to Ward’s if you want, instead. Get something to eat?”

  “You’re blushing,” I tease, poking him in the ribs. “But no, sitting in your truck sounds good. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since we’ve been alone together?”

  He nods. “Too damn long.”

  Between studying and finals and roommates…well, I can’t even remember the last time it was just the two of us, alone.

  “Where are you parked?” I ask eagerly.

  “Down behind the barn.”

  The new barn, he means. The old one was completely destroyed in the storm—reduced to a pile of rubble.

  “C’mon.” He reaches for my hand and leads me away, the moon lighting our path. We walk briskly, forcing me to take two steps for every one of his.

  “Anyway, seriously, what’s going on with the shoulder? I thought you were done with the PT for now?”

  “I was—at least, I was supposed to be. I dunno, Jem. It just started hurting again last week.”

  I stop short, turning to face him. “And you didn’t mention it to me because…?”

  He shrugs. “I knew you were busy editing that big film project of yours.”

  “I’ve always got time for you, Ryder. Always,” I add, rising up on tiptoe to kiss the shoulder in question.

  He lets out a sigh. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…I dunno, maybe I just didn’t want to deal with it. With what it might mean.”

  “You mean…you might not get to play next year, either?”

  “I…might be done playing, Jem. For good.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “No way. It’s…just give it more time. You can’t give up. You love it too much.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Do I, Jem? To tell you the truth, I’m not sure anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His shoulders seem to sag. “I mean…I don’t know what I mean. It’s just…I really like my classes. I like being able to focus on them. I like having free time on weekends. I like being able to spend time with you.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. You can’t quit playing football because of me, Ryder. Your coach—your family—they’ll never forgive me.”

  He throws his hands up in frustration. “That’s not what I meant. They’re all saying it—the trainer, the orthopedist. That I’m most likely done. I’m just saying…that maybe it’s okay. That I don’t mind it as much as I figured I would.”

  “But you went to Columbia to play ball,” I say, confused.

  “No, Jem. I went to Columbia to study astrophysics,” he answers gently.

  I let out my breath in a whoosh. “Wow. Okay. This is just…I don’t know, unexpected. It’s hard to imagine you not playing football, is all.”

  “You’re not cheering at NYU. Or shooting, either.”

  Turns out the guns laws are much more complicated in New York than they are in Mississippi. Delilah—my beloved pistol—is going to have to stay here. Which, yeah, I guess I’m a little bummed about. But honestly, my life is different in New York. Delilah doesn’t belong there. “Cheering is just something I did,” I explain. “It was just…you know, something fun to do. With my friends. It wasn’t something I was great at, or was passionate about. Not like you and football. You were the best quarterback in the state, Ryder.”

  “There’s more to me than football,” he says, suddenly sounding sullen.

  I reach my arms up around his neck, tipping my head back to gaze into his dark eyes. “I know that better than anybody. You know I do.”

  He looks unconvinced. “It’s just that things have changed so much in the past few months.”

  “True.” I nod. “But you’re still you, and I’m still me. We have a long history. That hasn’t changed.”

  “Also true,” he says, lifting me off my feet.

  I wrap my legs around his waist. “Anyway, I liked you way before you became a football god, remember? Back in middle school when you were just a skinny little nerd with braces. Besides, now you’ll probably become the best astrophysicist in the state.”

  “Oh, yeah? You think so?”

  “I know so,” I answer, my mouth finding his.

  He kisses me back, his lips soft and gentle. “You’re amazing, Jemma Cafferty.”

  “What?” I ask, smiling broadly. “I didn’t do anything—not yet, at least. Put me down and take me to your truck, and I’ll show you amazing.”

  And so he does.

  * * *

  Another Sunday, another Sunday dinner at the Marsdens’. This one is particularly festive, because Christmas is in three days and Laura Grace Marsden goes all out for Christmas. I’m talking boughs of holly and sprigs of evergreen on every available surface, potted poinsettias in every corner (a benefit of zero pet ownership), and multiple decorated Christmas trees, including a twenty-footer in the marble-tiled foyer that reaches to the second floor, all done up in silver and white.

  The tree in the living room is slightly more intimate—maybe twelve feet tall—and bedecked in red velvet garland. The smaller tree in the den is more colorful, featuring sentimental and hand-made ornaments—mostly crafted by Ryder throughout the years, but Nan and I have contributed some, too. This is my favorite of the Marsdens’ trees, and as I stand by it now, examining each individual ornament while drinking hot Glühwein—a Marsden family holiday tradition—from a crystal goblet, the memories of Christmases past wash over me.

  The Santa ornament Ryder made in kindergarten—an identical match to the one I’d made, hanging on our tree at home. The three that Ryder, Nan, and I had crafted from seashells collected in Fort Walton Beach when I’d been in third grade. The ornament bought in Notre Dame during our shared family trip to Paris in ninth grade. The felt trees we’d sewn in second grade, in Miss Chester’s class.

  Ryder stands silently beside me, and I can tell by the look on his face that he’s doing the same thing. After all, our Christmas memories are completely intertwined. When we were kids, it was always the same—as soon as we’d finished opening presents Ryder would show up at our door to see what I’d gotten. We’d play with my new toys until my mom fed us lunch, and then we’d head over to Magnolia Landing so Ryder could show me his loot. At some point I’d go home to change for Christmas dinner, which alternated houses—one year at ours, the next at the Marsdens’.

  This year it’s our turn to host, which means my mom has been fretting herself into a stew about the menu, driving us all crazy in the process. Laura Grace, of course, never frets over the menu when it’s her year. Why would she? Lou does all the cooking at Magnolia Landing. It doesn’t quite seem fair, but who am I to judge? That’s just the way it is.

  Ryder slides me a glance, and I can’t help but frown. This charade is getting old. I’ll admit, it was kind of fun at first. Exciting, even—sneaking around behind our parents’ backs, acting like we couldn’t stand to be in each other’s company and then slipping off to make out in secret. But now, after all these months away, we’d gotten used to being able to hold hands in public. I wanted to lean into him while we looked at the Christmas tree drinking our hot mulled wine, his arms wrapped around me.

  My skin feels warm with memories of last night—when we’d fogged up the windows in his truck, blissfully al
one for nearly two perfect hours. When he’d walked me back home, my lips had been swollen, my cheeks red from his beard stubble, my hair tangled into a rat’s nest that had taken me nearly an hour to brush out before I’d fallen into my bed with a dreamy smile on my face. I wanted to walk around with that same smile now, not with this pinched, fake-annoyed expression.

  I let out a heavy sigh, letting my gaze drift around the room. My mom and Laura Grace are sitting on the couch flipping through a home and garden magazine together, and my dad and Mr. Marsden are standing in the doorway, looking out toward the hallway.

  “You want me to take a look at it?” my dad is saying.

  “Sure, it’s in the garage,” Mr. Marsden answers. “Come on, let’s go now, before dinner.”

  I have no idea what they’re going to look at, but my dad follows him out. I turn my attention toward our moms, who seem engrossed by the magazine.

  Laura Grace taps a page. “I’ve got this growing in a window box in the kitchen, but I think it might have root rot or something. I’m not sure what to do about it.”

  My mom frowns. “Well, is it completely dead? Or just starting to wilt a little?”

  “I have no idea,” Laura Grace says with a shrug. “You know I don’t have a green thumb like you do.”

  My mom rises. “Let me see. It might not be too late to save it.”

  Laura Grace nods and turns toward Ryder and me. “You two kids try and play nice for a little bit. Dinner’s in fifteen minutes—get yourselves cleaned up and to the dining room by then, okay?”

  “Got it,” Ryder murmurs.

  And off they go, leaving us totally and blissfully alone.

  Ryder sidles up beside me. “So, last night was nice,” he says, his breath warm against my ear.

  Shivers race down my spine. “Yes, it was.”

  “Think you can sneak out again tonight?”

  “Probably. You know my parents—always in bed by ten.”

  He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. “How am I going to last until then? Sitting at the dinner table across from the prettiest girl in the world and not allowed to touch her?”

  “Well, would you look at that…” I tip my head toward the doorway, where a sprig of mistletoe is conveniently hanging. “Should we risk it? Maybe if we’re really quick?”

  His dark eyes spark with mischief, and I grab his hand and dash toward the door, dragging him with me as I position myself directly under the waxy green leaves.

  “You sure like to live dangerously, Jemma Cafferty,” he says, wrapping his arms around me.

  I rise up on tiptoe, my head tipped back as I gaze up at him adoringly. “Shut up and kiss me, Ryder Marsden.”

  His kiss is gentle at first—almost tentative. But then…it’s like the room falls away and there’s nothing left, nothing but me and Ryder and this kiss that literally steals away my breath and turns my knees to Jell-O and my brain to mush.

  And that’s pretty much when all hell breaks loose.

  “What in God’s name is going on?” comes a shrill voice that I hazily recognize as my mom’s.

  Ryder releases me, and I stumble back against the doorjamb, trying to catch my breath and gain my wits—not an easy task, considering how thoroughly I’d just been kissed.

  I finally manage to turn toward the voice and find my mom standing there, one hand clutching at her throat. Beside her, Laura Grace is opening and closing her mouth without making a sound, looking somewhat like a goldfish in pearls.

  They both look like they’ve just stumbled upon a murder scene, or something similarly horrifying.

  “It’s…it’s not what it looks like,” Ryder stammers, making no sense whatsoever.

  I mean, it’s pretty much exactly what it looks like.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it.

  “I think I’m going to faint,” Laura Grace finally manages to say, clutching frantically at my mom’s sleeve.

  “Don’t you dare faint!” my mom scolds her, her cheeks flushed scarlet, but it’s too late. Laura Grace slumps to the floor in a swoon, taking my mom down with her.

  It suddenly feels like I’m trapped inside a Shakespeare play—and not even a comedy. No, I’m pretty sure this is a freaking tragedy. And apparently I’ve got a starring role.

  Chapter 3

  Luckily, the next several minutes are spent focusing on Laura Grace—you know, since she fainted and everything. It’s a good five or ten minutes before the focus returns to Ryder and I and what we were caught doing. Which, for the record, was just plain, regular old kissing. It’s not like they caught us having sex or anything even remotely like that, despite the screaming and pearl clutching and fainting.

  “Go get her some water!” my mom shouts out to no one in particular once we’ve gotten Laura Grace settled on the sofa and propped up with pillows. Both Ryder and I drop the glossy magazines with which we’ve been fanning her and race out of the room toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll get it,” Ryder says when we crash into each other in the doorway. “You go back in there and try to calm everyone down.”

  I nod and turn back just in time to see my dad headed our way.

  “Hey, Half-Pint, what’s going on?” my dad asks as he turns to watch Ryder scurry away. “Is dinner ready?”

  “Don’t go in there!” I blurt out, holding up a hand to stop him.

  “Brad?” my mom calls out. “We need some water in here—now!”

  I stick my head through the doorway, happy to see that Laura Grace’s color has returned. “Ryder’s getting it,” I say, then duck back out into the hall where my dad is still standing, looking a little bewildered. I’ll admit it—I’m a coward. I know Ryder told me to go in there and do something, but I just can’t.

  “Jemma?” my dad asks, scowling. “What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Young lady, you get back in here,” my mom bellows. “And where’s Ryder with that water?”

  “Right here,” Ryder says, skidding into the room with a huge bottle of Evian. I slink inside behind him, watching as he unscrews the cap and offers it to his mother, who takes it with shaking hands.

  “Go get your father,” Laura Grace says ominously. “And Bradley, too.”

  “I’m right here,” my dad volunteers. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I have to give Ryder mad props, because he turns right to my father and looks him straight in the eye. “They caught us kissing. Under the mistletoe.”

  “They caught…you were…wait, what?” my dad sputters. “Mistletoe?”

  “Over the doorway,” Ryder clarifies, pointing to it. “Mistletoe. You stand under it, and you’re supposed to--”

  “Yeah, I know how it works.” My dad’s eyes narrow. “But you…and Jemma? Why?”

  Ryder shuffles his feet, looking at the ground now. “Um, well…” He trails off miserably, then clears his throat and raises his gaze back to my dad’s questioning one. “Because I love her, sir.”

  “You…what?” Laura Grace manages to croak out.

  “What did you just say, son?” Mr. Marsden asks from the doorway. I have no idea when he arrived on the scene.

  “I said that I love her,” Ryder repeats, reaching for my hand. I take his, our fingers intertwining out of habit now.

  “And…how do you feel about that, Jemma?” my mom asks, her voice clipped, her gaze seemingly locked on our joined hands.

  “I love him, too,” I answer, my cheeks burning. I’m fairly certain this is the single most embarrassing moment of my life. I mean, really—declarations of love in front of our parents? This would be a pretty good time for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

  I glace nervously around the room. A part of me has always thought that maybe they knew; that they were just playing along. But judging by their shocked expressions—eyes wide, mouths agape—it’s crystal clear that they had no idea. We’ve clearly just dropped a bombshell of epic proportion
s, right in the middle of the Marsdens’ den.

  “H—how long has this been g-going on?” Laura Grace stammers.

  Oh, dear lord. Do we tell them the truth? Or lie? I look up at Ryder with panicky eyes.

  He swallows hard before answering. “Awhile,” he says quietly.

  My dad shakes his head. “Define ‘awhile’.”

  “Since last year,” I answer, going for non-specific.

  My mom’s brow furrows above troubled blue eyes. “Last year? Since… summertime? Spring?”

  I take a deep breath. “Before that.”

  “Before that?” Laura Grace shakes her head, still looking a little dazed. “How much before that?”

  “Since…that storm last year,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “In the fall. Back when Nan had her surgery and y’all were away in Houston.”

  “It was after the storm,” Ryder corrects me, his face a shade of scarlet. “After…Patrick.”

  Technically, he’s right, though we had kissed during the storm—in fact, if it hadn’t been for the tornado siren interrupting us, it might have gone further than that. Truth be told, we can’t quite pinpoint exactly when “we” began, making it hard for us to settle on an official anniversary. In the end, we went with the date of last year’s homecoming dance—which, at this point, was well over a year ago. A year and two months, to be exact. Oh, man…our parents are going to kill us.

  “So, you’re saying that you two have been lying to us and deceiving us for, what? Fourteen months?” my mom asks, way too fast with the math. Her tone scares me—I don’t remember the last time she sounded so mad.

  “They really did go to homecoming together,” Laura Grace says. “And we didn’t even get to see them together, or take pictures, or…or…anything. How could you two do that to us?”

  “Well, we just weren’t sure how you’d take it, that’s all,” I say. “But hey, now you know, so…”

  My mom folds her arms across her chest. “Now we know? That’s all you have to say?”

  “I think we all need to take a moment to calm down,” my dad says, holding up both hands as if to quiet a room of noisy toddlers.