“You could’ve at least called me, you know?”
She nods. “I needed some girl time.” Bethany tries to downplay it all, but this is a big deal for her, leaving home, and I’m worried what this is really doing to her. “Besides, I don’t want my shit to be your shit. Not yet, anyway.”
“But I care about you, Bethany, and that means I’ll happily take on your shit too.”
She laughs but I’m serious. “Speaking of bullshit,” she says, and finally looks at me. “How are things with your parents?” Her eyes search mine, like she’s not sure it’s her business, but I would tell her anything. “I’ve been wanting to ask, but didn’t want to pry.”
“So, I got to pry, so now it’s your turn?” I wink at her and heave out a weighted sigh. Glancing around the quad, I search my feelings. The anger’s only simmering. The hurt is still there, but maybe that’s disappointment. Or, are they the same thing sometimes? “I don’t know.” I sigh again, trying to recall exactly where things were left. “For now, the farce continues. I thought they were pretending for me, but I guess it’s not only that. I think they’re lost. We’re having another family dinner next week, which is going to be weird as fuck, but it is what it is.” I pause. “I’m more worried about what I’m going to do after graduation. Now that I’ve decided I don’t want to be an architect, I don’t really have a direction.”
“So, you’re certain about that, huh?”
“I’m certain,” I tell her easily. “It’s been a damned waste of time and money, and I hate thinking about it, but I haven’t been interested for a while now. I just wanted to make my dad happy. Now it all feels wrong, so . . .”
We sit in silence, my thoughts drifting to possible futures as Bethany sits quietly beside me.
“Everything is skewed when your eyes are wide open,” she says. “I’ve had this story in my head that I couldn’t leave my brother for so long, I don’t even know why anymore. That I couldn’t have my own place and go to school—that moving out was near impossible—but people do it all the time. Nothing is black and white.”
“True,” I concede.
Bethany groans. “I hate the gray areas though, too.”
“Until this year, my life has always been ‘white’ and my friends have always lived in the gray. Now, they’re the ones that are grounded and know who they are. They’ve already been through their shit. I’m the one that’s lost.”
Bethany laces her fingers with mine. I appreciate that we can be together like this now, comfortable and easy.
“Me, too,” she says. “We can be lost together.”
Grateful, I smile at her words and lean in for a soft peck on her lips. “Yeah,” I say, begrudgingly, “but we should probably at least find our way to class.”
Forty-Four
Bethany
As I’m putting the clean towels away in the supply closet, I hear the front door bell chime, and I head out to the counter. I’m grateful to see it’s Anna Marie come to relieve me. “How’s it going?” she asks. “Is it as dead this evening, as I expected?”
“Yep, I’m afraid so.” I lift the appointment book up for her to see the blank time slots. “I did book a few sessions for tomorrow.”
“That’s promising.” She stashes her purse behind the counter. “Thanks for covering a few hours for me today.”
“Yeah, sure, it’s the least I can do since you’ve let me crash at your place the past couple days.”
“I have an extra room, it’s no big deal. I’m just glad you got out of there.”
“Yeah, me too.” I give her a sidelong look and when she meets my gaze, her cheeks are rosy.
“What?” she asks sheepishly.
“How was your make-out session with Bobby?”
Anna rolls her eyes. “It was a study session,” she says. “We were studying.”
I raise my eyebrows, biting back a smile.
“Fine,” she finally admits. “How did you know?”
“Well, for starters, you guys don’t have any of the same classes. You’re a business major, and Bobby’s doing the bare minimum to keep his hockey scholarship. Therefore, you were not studying. Not to mention, I know you guys have been hooking up.”
She smacks my arm. “No, we have not.”
I gape at her. “Why are you lying again?”
“I’m not lying, I just—”
“You just what?”
“I’m trying not to get my hopes up. He’s hot and sweet and funny . . . He’s a mechanic and can work on my car when it breaks down—and trust me, it’s on its last leg.”
I shake my head, surprised to hear the unbridled adoration in her voice. “You really like him, huh?”
Her full, perfectly shimmering lips pull into a giant smile. “Yeah, a little.”
“Ha. I think more like a lot.”
Anna giggles, and I smile with elation for her. She’s been one of us ‘lost girls’ for a while now, scared to commit after a Mike-esque boyfriend broke her heart, hence her partying and playing the field. Bobby seems like a good one, though, and I’m happy for her.
“So, what’s this date you’re going on tonight with Nicky-poo?”
I laugh. “Don’t call him that, please. I beg you.”
“I’m happy to call him whatever you want. I’m just glad you guys are finally getting it on. It’s seriously been so painful to watch for this long.”
Rolling my eyes, I stick my tongue out at her. “Whatever, it’s not like it’s a fancy date or anything. I just thought it would be fun to actually do something together that didn’t involve schoolwork or his friends, for once.”
“I like it. You asked him on a date, very assertive. And it’s so soon in your relationship, which means you’re totally falling for him, but I already knew that. I always like it when people prove me right.” She holds up her chin with more self-righteousness than I think she knows what to do with.
“Like I said, it’s nothing big. Just dinner and drinks at his house.”
“Perfect.” Her eyebrows dance. “Quality time with a bed in the vicinity. Always a good idea.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “If we decide to use a bed,” I tease.
Forty-Five
Nick
I’ve just finished showering when I hear a knock at my door. I consider answering it just as I am, naked in all my glory, but decide against it. Wrapping my towel around my hips, I make my way to the door, glancing at the clock. I’m running later than I expected.
Bethany greets me with a beautiful smile as I crack open the door.
“Hey, sexy,” I say, moving out of the way.
She holds up two bags of groceries as she steps inside. “Hungry?” She eyes my naked chest approvingly.
“Not for food,” I growl and lean in for a kiss. Bethany’s lips are smooth and minty, and I press my mouth more firmly against hers.
“Yum,” I mutter, and set the two bags on the counter for her. I pry open the grocery bags and rub my hands together. “So, what are we having?”
“Well, I know you love Sam’s southern cooking, and I don’t pretend to be as good a cook as I hear she is, but I figured some homemade mac and cheese, a steak, and salad might be sufficient?”
My stomach rumbles. “You know the way to a man’s heart. Just give me a minute to throw on some clothes, and I’ll come help you with dinner.” I make my way down the hall and into my room.
“No rush,” she says and starts clinking around in the kitchen.
“So,” her voice drifts down the hall. “You had to work late at the ranch?”
“No, not exactly,” I admit. “Savannah wanted to meet up. She’s in town for a few days, and she’s got some shit going on with her family.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize . . .”
“Yeah, she needed a shoulder, so to speak.” When I’m finished throwing on some clean lounge clothes, I head back into the living room. Bethany is moving around in my kitchen like she knows it by heart—like she belongs there—and it make
s me smile.
“So,” I ask, leaning against the counter. “What can I do to help?”
She slides the cutting board, a hunk of Gouda, and a grater toward me. “Care to do some grating?”
“Sounds easy enough.” I wink at her. I do know how to grate cheese, even if I’ve only done it enough times to count on one hand.
“You have to wash your hands first,” she reminds me, like I’m Jesse.
I’m about to retort with a snide remark, but I stop myself. Her eyes are on me knowingly. “Yes, ma’am.” I probably do act like an eleven-year-old most of the time anyway. I smile and flip the faucet on.
“So, what’s that other bag all about?” I ask, nodding behind me at the canvas tote on my table.
“That is for cocktail hour.”
My eyes widen with intrigue. “Say what?”
She pours balsamic vinegar into a large Ziploc bag with a dash of other spices and locks the meat inside to marinate. “Well,” she says, lifting her shoulder indifferently. Her scoop neck t-shirt hangs loosely around her, exposing her tank top and soft skin, though I try not to notice.
“I figured that if you ever decide a bar is in your foreseeable feature, you’ll need to have a signature drink. Or plural. So,” she continues, “I thought it would be fun to experiment tonight, Mr. Bartender.” She looks over her shoulder at me, and despite my resolve, I want her in my arms more than I’ve wanted anything all day.
Drying off my hands, I step up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. “You wouldn’t be trying to get me drunk, by any chance, would you, Miss Fairchild? I don’t think that’s part of Professor Murray’s partnership expectations.”
She chuckles and leans her head back against my chest. “I could be wrong, Mr. Turner, but I’m inclined to think none of this is. But I don’t want to think about him or the project tonight.”
I inhale her and nuzzle at her shoulder, biting down lightly on her soft skin when I can’t take it anymore. Bethany moans as I move up the column of her neck and take her delicate earlobe between my lips. When she leans into me, I want to tear her clothes off in the middle of the kitchen, but I remind myself that she’s gone to all this trouble to cook dinner, so I make myself behave.
Kissing her jaw, I straighten. “I guess I better stop distracting you,” I whisper in her ear, light and alluring, hoping she’ll remember this moment in an hour when the stove isn’t on and food isn’t waiting to be consumed. “We’ll continue this later.”
“Fine,” she grumbles, “but only because I’m starving.”
I kiss her lips, silently telling my libido to calm his ass down in my pants, and I clear my throat. “So, about that Gouda?”
Forty-Six
Bethany
“Okay, so,” I say, appraising the half-empty glasses of tester cocktails on the coffee table. “Are we officially giving up on a pickle juice drink then?”
With a heart-stopping smile, Nick lifts a shoulder and glances between them. “You tell me.” He hands me his high ball. “I like the dirty pickle martini, myself.”
I sniff it, wondering if I’ll enjoy it at all, given I don’t like martinis to begin with.
“Just try it,” he urges, intrigue lighting his eyes.
I take a sip and find I’m pleasantly surprised. “The martini isn’t that bad, actually. Then again, it might just be that my taste buds are in shock from the salty dog, pickle drink you concocted.”
“Yeah, that one was definitely a bad idea.”
I take another sip of his drink and hand it back to him. “The more I drink the better it gets.”
He chuckles and holds his pinky out like he’s fancy and takes another sip. He cringes. “I think it might actually be getting worse.”
I nestle into the couch a little deeper, completely comfortable and at ease as I watch him study the concoctions we’ve been testing for an hour now. “So, where are we at with the name?” I ask. “We’ve crossed Church and Nick’s off the list. What about Shortstop, since that’s the first one you thought of.”
Nick stares into the fire with a faraway look. “It was my position on the team for three years, and the nostalgia of it—I dunno. I thought it would be cool.”
“I think it’s great, and it has a nice ring to it. ‘I’m gonna make a short stop by the bar’—no wait, that doesn’t really work.” I nearly giggle, feeling sated by a few, albeit gnarly, drink choices.
“And you can’t forget the hot baseball outfits for the female bartenders, you know, keeping the theme going and all.”
I snort a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
He winks at me and sets his drink down. “I think that’s enough pickle infused drinks for one night,” he says.
“Yeah, I’m pretty pickled out.”
“But you’re right about one thing, every bar needs a signature drink.”
Laughing, I wipe the table off where his drink dribbled. “And, of course, gross pickle drinks should be yours.”
“Hey, it was your idea.” He pulls me to my feet. “Come on, I’ve tortured you enough. Let’s get you a real cocktail.”
On bare feet, I follow Nick over to his bar cart, eyeing an array of liquor bottles and mixers. “You’re a whiskey sour girl,” he says, mostly to himself as he takes stock of the ingredients in front of him. “What I really want to make you is a mint julep.”
“You mean like the horse races and big hats kind of mint julep?”
He nods. “That’s the one. I think you’d like it, and it’s a nice summer drink. Plus, I can totally picture you in one of those floppy hats and a big frilly dress, looking all proper. It sorta turns me on just thinking about it.”
I shake my head, amused and filing that fantasy of his away for later. “Well, then, make me one.”
“I don’t have any mint. Have you had a Manhattan before?” He looks over his shoulder at me.
Digging in the recesses of my mind, I try to remember. Eventually, I shrug. “I don’t know—I don’t think so.”
“Do you like vermouth?”
I shrug again.
“Well, I guess we’ll find out.” He laughs to himself. “I think you’re going to hate it, actually.”
“What?” I smack his shoulder playfully. “Then why the hell are you making it for me?”
“Because I want to see your face when you drink it. Women make the best faces when they drink alcohol they don’t like.”
“We do?”
He nods. “Yes, trust me. I would know. I get to watch it all the time. And you should see Mac’s face when she drinks beer. It’s sort of magical, actually.” He mixes a shot of whiskey and red vermouth together, then adds a dash of bitters.
“I’ll have to keep a straight face then, won’t I?” I say stubbornly.
“Ohhh, is that a challenge?” His eyes widen with glee as he stirs the contents together. “Where’s Mac’s camera when I need it.” He winks at me and hands me my drink. “Here ya go, mi’ lady.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to get me drunk on a school night, by any chance, would you?”
“Ha! You’re the one who brought over a bag of mixers and wanted to create a bar menu, which is really fun, by the way.”
Skeptical, I take the glass and sniff the amber contents. My first impulse is to shake my head. It doesn’t smell fantastic, sort of sweet and sour all at once, but I don’t let it show on my face.
Nick’s amusement is enough to bolster my determination to accept his challenge, and I take a sip. I swallow it immediately, without letting it settle on my tongue or fumigate the inside of my mouth. I breathe out and try to appreciate the aromatics of it all.
“What are you, a professional? What are you doing?”
“I saw it on TV once.” I lick my lips and shrug. “It’s okay, not absolutely horrible.” I take another sip to show Nick I’m no sissy-lala who can’t handle my booze.
“That’s it, huh? That’s all I get, a shoulder shrug?” He shakes his head and takes the last swig of his martini.<
br />
I hand him my glass. “You should try it.”
“Oh, I know what they taste like.” He leans back against the counter.
“Then you don’t mind having a taste,” I say, holding out the glass.
He shakes his head. His eyes are leveled on me. “I’m not a fan of vermouth,” he admits, his voice low.
I take a step closer to him. “No? Worried you might make a face if you try it?” I goad him.
“I won’t make a face.”
I take another step, licking my lips. “Just a taste?” I purr.
Nick sets his glass down on the counter next to him with a clank, but his hand lingers there, waiting for me to make a move.
I stop when my breasts touch his chest and my hips meet his. Feeling the bulge in his pants, I press my hips harder against him.
He lets out a quick, heavy breath, his hazel eyes eager as they scour my face. We don’t say anything for what feels like minutes. We stare and gauge one another. I test him. And feel the tension in his body coil against me.
My hand brushes against his erection as I reach down between us, and I revel in the way his body trembles, trying to hold itself together. He purses his lips, and I wonder how long he can manage before he takes me right here on the kitchen table.
I grab him through the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, letting his warmth seep into my palm. I squeeze my hand softly around him, reveling in my power over him in this moment. I’m winding up a beast; I know that and welcome it. Tonight, I don’t want to know what’s black and white or up and down.
Untying his waist string, I reach inside. The moment I feel him, his eyes shut and he lifts his face to the ceiling and groans, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now,” he grinds out.
“Actually, I think I do.” I lift up onto tiptoes to whisper in her ear. “And I’m loving every minute of it.” My tongue snakes out and licks his ear before I pull it between my teeth, biting him gently and squeezing him in my hand at the same time.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 90