“Straight out back, please,” I said, not bothering to even pretend to want to carry the cooler. I stepped out of the way so he had a free path through the house to the beach and followed him out.
“How long’s your fire been on?” he asked.
I glanced at the clock on the microwave as we passed by the kitchen. “About two hours.”
“Perfect. Shall I set it all up for you?”
“You don’t have to; I can do it.”
He looked over his shoulder at me. “My dad won’t mind. It’ll save me having to go back and clean another thousand pounds of mussels.”
I wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating about the thousand pounds—Harry’s was the best place around to get seafood, and everyone knew it, so I figured a thousand pounds was plausible. “Hey,” I said, shrugging. “If you want to do it, I’m not going to argue.”
He smiled, probably pleased that he was about to earn a big tip.
“I’ll grab the oven mitts and will bring them out in a second. Can I get you a bottle of water or something?”
“That would be great, thanks,” he said, turning his head to wipe his brow on his sleeve.
I did an about-face back into the kitchen, knowing my father would help him by the fire.
I had rounded up the oven mitts, long tongs, aluminum foil, and a bottle of water when I looked up to see Dave (who had changed out of his wet clothes into a pair of board shorts and a t-shirt) standing across the counter from me, a concerned look on his face.
“What?” I asked, looking outside to see what had happened, but everyone was laughing and smiling as they gathered around Rusty, watching as he worked to get the fire pit ready. “What’s wrong?”
He smirked, and I suddenly felt relieved; no one smirks if someone drowns or gets bitten by a shark. “I guess this is why Linda was on me to fill out that medical bio form.”
I stared at him blankly. Not because of the form—that was standard procedure for the guys who would be in my dad’s care on tour—but that he was mentioning it now. “What do you mean?”
He nodded toward the beach. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
My eyes went wide as I clued in. “Oh God, I could have killed you!”
He rolled his eyes. “Not unless you were planning on force-feeding it to me. Or if you ate some and then...” he suddenly blushed and looked away.
Okay, so that was weird. And awkward.
“Anyway,” he went on, his eyes scanning around the kitchen—looking anywhere but at me. “Maybe I can just grab a sandwich or something.”
“There’s potatoes and corn,” I said. “We can wrap some separately.”
He shrugged. “I don’t want to be any trouble. And probably best just to stay away from anything that gets close to the lobster.”
I felt bad, not just that he would miss out on the lobster, but that it was like I was rubbing his nose in it by planning this whole big production. “I’m really sorry, Dave.”
“Will,” he corrected.
“Right,” I said. “Sorry, Will.”
He shrugged again. “It’s okay. Not your fault. I’ll make sure I fill out that form, though. It’s important since other people will be arranging for my food—I wasn’t even thinking of that.”
“Linda would feel pretty bad if she killed you on tour,” I said. “Not to mention the huge, smelly hassle it would be to have to keep your body on the bus until they’re done the rest of the dates. And they would, you know, my dad doesn’t cancel tour for any reason: not death, dismemberment, rotting corpse, nothing.”
He laughed. “Noted. Don’t die on tour. Got it.”
We looked at each other for a long moment. Long enough that it started to get weird, so I turned toward the fridge in search of some butter.
I’d opened the door when I heard him say, “I’ll miss you, you know.”
All right, so the awkwardness isn’t over, I thought. In fact, maybe it just got worse.
“Huh?” I said, leaning my head deeper into the fridge, rummaging around for...uh...lemons?
“Nothing,” he said, more loudly. “I’m going to head back outside. See you out there.”
A few minutes later, when I’d ascertained that we didn’t have any lemons and he was probably gone, I pulled back from the fridge and looked outside to where he’d joined everyone else. Sandy had already sidled up to him and was talking, though I couldn’t hear about what.
A half a second later, like he knew I was watching, he lifted his head and looked at me.
With a squeak at getting caught, I quickly turned away.
What was that about?
Time of Our Lives
Several hours later, the lobsters, mussels, clams, corn, potatoes, and one PB&J sandwich had been devoured. Those who had room left (just a couple of the boys) had even eaten some of the blueberry pie Harry’d sent over, though most of it got left because we were all beyond stuffed.
But that was how it was supposed to be at a lobster bake; it really was the best way to kick off a weekend at the beach.
Now, after just about everything had been cleaned up and put away, we were all sitting in beach chairs around the campfire that we’d kept going even after the food had been removed. The sun was beginning to set, and I could almost feel everyone around me relax as though their stress was melting into the ocean along with the sun.
Sandy sighed beside me. I looked over at her, watching the light from the campfire flicker across her face. “Pretty nice out here, huh?”
“You weren’t kidding,” she said, and I knew she was talking about how I’d described exactly this when we’d first made our plans to come here for the summer. Her family was west coast—northern California—and she’d never been to the Hamptons before. I had a feeling she’d doubted that it could be as nice as California beaches. But it was obvious she was already a convert or, at the very least, a believer.
“See?” I said. “I wasn’t exaggerating. This is what you get to come back to.”
“Gladly,” she said, her voice sleepy as she slid down in her chair, getting comfortable as she digested. “Especially if there are more lobster bakes.”
“Absolutely,” I said, letting my eyes drift closed as I listened to the waves behind me and the crackles of the driftwood in the fire. This is the best place on earth, I thought, happy and completely content for the first time in recent memory.
A few minutes later, the sound of guitars being strummed mingled with the rhythmic whooshing of the waves, causing me to open my eyes. I wasn’t surprised to hear music—a ton of musicians had played on this very beach over the years, so it was pretty much standard to hear music out here. But I hadn’t noticed anyone leaving the circle. Not to mention, the guys were supposed to be vacationing.
Right. Like musicians ever turned off.
Dave and Max were sitting on the other side of the circle, both hunched over acoustic guitars. The one Dave was playing, I recognized as my own. Dad must have lent it to him, knowing I wouldn’t mind; instruments were meant to be played, and I knew no harm would come to it.
I didn’t recognize the song they were playing, but it soon became obvious that it was something they were working on as they kept stopping and tooling around with the chords.
“Enough with the screwing around,” Darren said after a few minutes. “Play something finished or don’t play—this isn’t about working.”
“Good point,” Dad said, his voice relaxed but firm.
Max looked at Dave. “Good Riddance?”
Dave took a second and then seemed to clue in. “Yeah,” he said. “Perfect.”
Of course he knew it. Max counted them in and then the two of them began to strum the opening to the iconic Green Day song. A second later, they both began to sing, their voices twining around each other as Max took the harmony.
I’d seen them perform and had even heard Dave sing, but this�
��unplugged—with both of them singing was mesmerizing.
“Whoa,” Sandy whispered next to me, echoing my own thoughts.
Then other voices joined in, and though I would have thought it would have taken away from the purity of Max and Dave’s duet, the other guys just added to it, creating depth to the song until tears sprang to my eyes—it was that perfect.
When the song was over, everyone paused for a second as though we all needed a moment to adjust before we could move on.
Sandy started clapping like crazy, the others joined in, and voices rose as the spell was broken.
“Okay, so,” my dad finally said, once the applause had died down. “Perhaps we’ll consider an acoustic song or two.”
Several laughs erupted around the circle, but it was clear by his serious face that he wasn’t joking. Dad never joked about music.
“How about for the encore?” Linda suggested. “I think that would be a perfect way to end—the boys unplugged. I’m sure audiences would eat it up.”
Dad considered this and nodded, looking around the circle. “What do you all think?”
Everyone seemed into it and then the conversation inevitably turned to the set list and how best to rearrange it.
So much for not working. That was my cue to get up and move into the house for no reason other than to get away. With nothing else to do, I found myself in the kitchen.
I packed the last few dishes left from dessert into the already very full dishwasher, loaded the soap and turned it on before swiveling back toward the counter when I was scared half to death by a tall body right in front of me.
Andres.
I pressed my hand to my sternum as I tried to steady my pounding heart.
“Sorry,” he said, cluing in immediately. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Can I get you something?” I asked, prepared to grab something out of the fridge behind me.
“No.” He shook his head. “I came in to make sure you were okay. You sort of got up and left abruptly.”
“Oh,” I said, chuckling, though nothing was funny. Long, dark eyelashes were hardly ever a laughing matter. “No, I guess I just didn’t want to listen to more shop talk.”
He nodded. “I understand. I’m pretty tired of it, too, to be honest.”
He almost looked guilty about it. I leaned back against the counter, curling my hands around the edge of the cool granite and said, “It’s okay to want a break. That’s what this weekend is about, after all. Things are going to get pretty crazy. Though you already know that better than the rest of them.”
Andres leaned back against the island and crossed his arms as he faced me. “At least, this time, I know better what to expect.”
“All those girls throwing themselves at you?” I said before I could stop myself.
Instead of taking it as the joke I had (sort of) intended, he looked down and exhaled. “I said I was sorry about that.”
“I know,” I said and reached out to touch his forearm. “That was stupid of me...I shouldn’t have...”
He looked up at me through his lashes, making me swallow the rest of whatever it was I was going to say. “I meant it. I am not interested in anything like that happening again.”
I drew my hand away. “Right,” I said, swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat.
“Not you,” he said gently, leaning toward me, shaking his head. “No, Vanessa, I didn’t mean that I wasn’t interested in you. But that I wasn’t interested in the meaningless hookups.”
“But,” I started to speak but had to clear my throat before continuing. “What we had was a meaningless hookup.” He’d said as much.
He sighed and looked down again. “Maybe at the time. But since I’ve gotten to know you...” His eyes met mine. “It’s different now.”
“Oh,” was all that came out of me. It wasn’t even really a word as much as a surprised breath.
“But I promised I wouldn’t take advantage of you,” he went on. “I promised I wasn’t going to be that guy anymore.”
No, be that guy. Please be that guy! my brain was yelling inside my skull. I’m pretty sure my pounding heart was chiming in, too. It was like a desperation duet going on inside my body.
I could no longer pretend—even to myself—that I wasn’t into him. Or musicians, since there he was, standing there in the flesh, making my entire body want to reach out to him.
As we stood there, looking at each other, he was being the perfect gentleman, just like he’d promised. Stupid kept promises.
“So,” I said.
He lifted an eyebrow.
“That’s it?” I asked, not sure what to do now.
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
I looked toward the door to the outside, but it was still just us; they seemed to be done with the discussion and were now playing Ain’t No Sunshine (one of Dad’s favorites), several voices singing along. I turned back to Andres. “That’s it. You say it’s different now, but we’re done.”
He glanced outside and then back to me. “I thought that’s what you wanted after what happened. I thought you...I promised...” He kept his voice low, clearly as paranoid as I was of being overheard.
“Come here,” I said, grabbing his hand and tugging him around the corner to the small bathroom. Once we were inside, I closed and locked the door, leaning my back on it as I turned to face him.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
I looked up at him and forced the words out. “What did you mean when you said it was different now?”
He worked his jaw for a moment, and I totally understood why his stubble tested so well. But then I forced myself to focus on his words, not his chiseled face.
“Before...what happened last summer...I told you it was a bad time for me. I got caught up in the whole rock star thing. How easy it was.” He cringed. “Not that you were easy, Vanessa, that’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I said, my voice hoarse. “It’s okay. Go on.”
“But getting to know you now...I know you’re not a groupie. It’s not like that with you. You know music, you see me as I am. I know if you liked me, it would be because of me. Who I am, not what I am.”
I swallowed and looked up into his eyes. “As a rule, I don’t date musicians.”
He nodded, and I knew that he understood. “But even if you did like me, I know we can’t do anything about it, no matter how much I might want it. I never want you to think I’m taking advantage of you and your dad would—”
He stopped speaking very abruptly at that moment because it turns out it’s hard to talk when a girl—a girl who has sworn not to date musicians—gets up on her tiptoes and shoves her lips against yours.
Andres muttered something against my mouth that sounded like no English word I’d ever heard. But then he stopped talking and began to kiss me back. In earnest. Like he’d been waiting for it for a very long time. His palms rose to my face, his thumbs framing my ears as he held me there, against him.
My hands slid up his chest (wishing he hadn’t bothered putting on a t-shirt after they’d all taken a swim earlier) and around his neck into the hair at his nape that I suddenly realized would be gone after Kiki came to give him a trim. Grieving the loss of it already, I twined my fingers in it, loving how soft it was as I pulled him closer.
With a groan, he pulled back and looked into my eyes, his coffee-colored irises nearly swallowed up by huge pupils. “We can’t do this,” he said. “I promised...I don’t want...”
“I do want,” I said, leaning forward and kissing him again, feeling his stubble grazing my chin, my lips, reminding me with a thrill of just how masculine he was. Dangerous thoughts while in a bathroom with a million people—including my father—just a few rooms away.
“Vanessa,” he said moments later, pulling back again and clutching my shoulders, keeping me at arm’s length. “We shouldn�
�t. I need to stay focused for the tour.” His eyes drifted down to my mouth, giving me a tiny moment of triumph as I realized that right now he was very focused on how he wanted to kiss me again.
“But I won’t even be there,” I pointed out. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?” His hand slid down my arm until his fingers twined with mine. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
Anger bubbled up in me, and I disentangled my hand from his. “Why, because you want to be free to hook up on tour?”
His eyebrows came down into a frown. “No! Because it’s not fair for you to...” He sighed. “Is that what you think of me, Vanessa?”
I opened my mouth, but he put up his hand to stop me before I could speak. “Yes it is what you think of me, but that’s my own fault. I said I was sorry, but why should you trust me that I’m different now?”
“Andres,” I said, grabbing his arm.
He shook his head and sighed. “I need to prove to you that it’s different now. That I do like you. You, not the idea of a girl who likes rock stars.”
I took a breath and held it, not sure what he was saying.
“If you will wait for me,” he said, his eyes intent on mine. “If you will be my girlfriend, I will show you. I will prove to you that I’m not like that anymore.”
“Andres, I trust you,” I said. And I did. Mostly. Like, at least eighty-five percent. Probably ninety since Sandy would be on tour with them and he would know it would get back to me if he... Wait, no, that wasn’t trust at all.
“I need to prove it to you,” he said.
It occurred to me that maybe he did. And maybe he needed to prove it to himself, too.
“Okay,” I said.
“So, you want to be my girlfriend?” he asked, the corner of his mouth turning up.
The Rosewoods Rock & Roll Box Set Page 20