It could happen.
“Would you be opposed to us going somewhere nice for dinner? I’m kind of over all the fast food.”
“Why, of course not, darling.” I flick my wrist and smile at him. Bat my eyelashes as I do. His cheeks flush in return, that boyish grin of his staying on his lips deliciously too long.
“Let’s get our suits on. We can catch some waves.”
My stomach drops to my toes as my eyes bounce between him and the water. “Looks like it might storm.” My finger points to some clouds in the distance. “We can go tomorrow.”
He steps alongside me, the smell of sunscreen painted into his skin that doesn’t need it. “Nah. It’ll be fine. I’ll wait for you outside.”
We walk shoulder-to-shoulder from the patio until the sand starts kicking up behind our flip-flops. It’s incredibly hard to walk in this shit. No wonder people who live on the water are in such great shape.
The combination of thrashing waves and strong wind whirrs in my ears, my hair whipping behind me as specks of sand pelt against my legs. I struggle to keep up with Brooks’s speed. Pick up my legs exaggeratedly as if weights are attached to each foot. He, however, moves fluidly, like he knows this place intimately. Like he belongs.
And others belong, too. It isn’t as crowded as I’d anticipated with all the annoying teens being out of school, but there are plenty of people around. Women splash with their babies at the water’s edge. Kids jump over waves in shallow water. Men crack open beers or brave the water too far from the shore.
None of them look scared, like they’re worried the water is going to swallow them up, a shark is going to bite off their leg, their kid is going to wander off. But my anxiety grows with every step toward the vast, dark water. It’s nothing like what I’ve seen in the movies. I expected it to be clear. I can’t get in some dark bath filled with predators!
But I don’t have a choice. Brooks can’t know I’ve never been to the ocean before. No rich Cali girl would be a stranger to the water.
The dry, flying sand transforms to wet mush just before Brooks abandons his flip-flops. I follow his lead as he also peels off his shirt, leaving nothing but his golden skin, blue swim trunks, and the ridges of his clit-wakening abs. He starts to head to the water, but stops and motions for me. I speed up, the soaked sand pleasantly springy beneath my feet—a mosaic of seashells flush with the dirt.
As the remainder of a wave washes up to tickle our toes, I tense and inhale a noisy breath.
He looks at me, and his eyes narrow before he laughs.
“A little cold,” I shriek. A lot fucking cold.
He grabs my hand. Closes his fingers around mine, and pulls me farther into that dark water. I follow uninhibitedly, feeling my worries fade away with every step. No matter what’s out there, there would be no better death than next to this man. Quickly, I do my best to compose myself. I can be anything I want. Right now, I will myself to be comfortable with the ocean. To forget that it could pull me under. Swallow me up without a trace.
Brooks’s grip tightens around my fingers as the cool water hits us at the waist.
I inhale sharply and loudly, simultaneously to his “Damn, it is cold!” We trek farther, deeper, until I’m chest deep and the water bobs just above his abs, keeping the cuts of his chest and upper arms exposed for my enjoyment.
He lets go of my hand, and we jump and swim with the waves, occasionally catching a big one that knocks me under and pushes me some feet toward the shore again. We come up from the water. Rub our eyes. Repeat.
It’s not so bad once you push the thoughts of sharks or drowning to the back of your mind, but I’d much rather swim in a pool if given the chance. I’m not sure who wouldn’t. But we can’t fuck in a pool without being noticed, can we?
After what must be an hour or two of riding waves, Brooks says, “Come on … let’s get changed for dinner.”
I follow him from the salty depths to the showers on the side of the house. Feel his eyes burning holes in my skin as I wash the sand out of my bikini.
His phone rang once, then a second time. I got out of the shower before he did. His phone lay on the counter, glowing with a random number not plugged into his contacts. At first I ignored it. Paid it no mind.
Until it rang again.
I stare at it this time, my mind ablaze with possibilities. His shower water still going, I decide to answer.
Quietly, I put the phone to my ear, my other ear listening for Brooks. I say nothing, hoping they’ll say something first.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
Stupidly, impulsively, unbelievably, I respond, “Who’s this?”
“Deaconnn.” He drags the last syllable, a strand of amusement in his tone. “Who’s this?”
My hand flies to my mouth, clamping over it before I drop the phone on the counter. Press the end button with a ferocity that surprises me—as if the harder I hit it, the less likely Deacon will be to recognize it had been my voice on the other end.
Brooks appears in the doorway of his bedroom, water beading his hair. “Did you answer my phone?”
Wide-eyed, I confess. There’s no way around it. “Unfortunately … yes. I thought it was mine. It was Deacon.”
Quickly, he rushes to me and plucks it from the counter. “Fuck. I think that is his work number. Did he know it was you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, did you say your name?”
“No. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have answered if I’d known.”
“Fuck. I gotta call him back.”
I sit on a bar stool, my face cradled in my hands, as he talks to him, wondering why he must treat Deacon like a little baby. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were gay. He paces as he explains he’s at the beach looking for a boat for them to use in Blue Ridge. When he’s obviously questioned as to what woman answered his phone, he lowers his voice and says, “We’ll talk about it later, man.”
When the call is over, Brooks shakes his head. “He sounded weird. Suspicious. I’m worried. You two dated. He knows your voice.” He blows out a long breath.
My lip pulls under my teeth, and I shrug. “I’m sorry.”
His nostrils flare, but then relax. “Let’s go eat.”
I attempt to swallow my disappointment, but I fail. Brooks is acting like a pussy, and it’s about time he realizes he’s in love with me before I start fighting dirty.
I stand on the edge of the bathtub. Turn and look at my ass. This is at least fuckworthy, I think. I couldn’t bear the thought of sailing through this magical night in shorts and a tank, so of course I opted for one of the gazillion dresses I brought. I purposely matched it to his eyes, that otherworldly blue that leaves my knees shaking and my heart racing.
But ugh, he’s mad at me. He’ll get over it, though. One look at me, and he’ll forget the entire incident.
I pinch myself. I just can’t believe this is my life today—here with Brooks, and he invited himself! I need to send the author of that Bitch book a fruit basket or some other token of appreciation—invite her to the wedding once we set a date. It feels like I took a shortcut in Candyland over the Peppermint Bridge or Gum Drop Mountains or some shit.
After adjusting my tits and giving my nipples a little squeeze, I hop down onto the tile, and press the makeup sponge to my face once more. Smile to the mirror as I fluff my hair. Flawless.
I open the bathroom door, ready for the night ahead. Pause at the tower of muscle and bones mere feet from me, his crisp white polo taut over that hard-earned physique—eyes glowing like a welcoming window sign that says Fuck Me. I smile at him, looking down at my bare feet before my eyes trail back to his. Fresh color blooms in his cheeks, and a corner of his mouth lifts—the makings of a smile that never comes to fruition before he turns away.
“You look nice,” he says, hand swiping his keys from the counter. But that’s it. No specifics, no Wow, Emily, your hair looks awesome or Damn, Emily, those titties are huge and perfec
t built-in travel pillows—only the generic response you’d dole out to any person who changed into nicer clothes.
And it isn’t enough.
I want more. More of the kiss from my old apartment. More of his fingers in my pussy and his cock in my hand. More of his cum on my fingers. I crave him, need him like a junkie needs suboxone. Only, they have swift access to what they require. I, on the other hand, feel as if I’ve been waiting an eternity. In truth, I’ve waited nearly two-thirds of my life. But tonight … tonight will make it all worth it, because I think by doing this, by coming on this trip … I think he’s earned a good fuck.
In the car, Brooks gets frustrated trying to navigate the busy strip—groups of people consistently crossing the street. Finally, he gets an opportunity, and he breaks the silence as our drive steadies.
“So, what’s the deal with your grandmother?”
My throat prickles. I bite the tip of my tongue, priming myself for disaster. “Oh, you know. Just the typical little old lady in a nursing home wanting a visit from her granddaughter.”
“Why Myrtle Beach? She didn’t live in California?”
I clench my teeth. Attempt to harness the dread in my throat and lock it away, but I can’t ignore the fact that I’ve gotten myself into yet another bad situation. “She did. Long ago. She and my grandfather retired to Myrtle years ago before it became such a party place.”
“Is he still around, or did he pass?”
The car slows in front of a place called Villa Romana, so I use it as opportunity to change the subject. “Have you eaten here?”
“No, but it has great reviews. We can find somewhere else, though, if—”
“No, I love Italian.” My hand naturally reaches for his arm as an offer of reassurance before I blush and smooth my hair.
I clear my throat, my fingers climbing the door to reach for the handle, but he stops me, his hand clasping my wrist. “Wait.”
He insists on opening my car door, and then again holding the restaurant door for me. Inside, the ambiance is perfect—quiet, dimly lit, a bit vintage and slightly stuffy. Exactly what I’d expect from an authentic Italian spot. We’re shown to a table in a corner, away from everyone, secure in our own little bubble of beach romance—safe from any outside predators. No sluts, no gold diggers, no ex-fiancées, ex-boyfriends, or nosy best friends.
Just us.
Brooks pulls out my chair for me, and hot damn, I think it’s real this time. A date—for both of us. Not simply in my head or my most treasured of fantasies, but in our flesh, our blood, and our bones. I lose myself staring at the air before me until his eyes invade that space as he sits down. We linger on each other a minute, a slow flutter dancing in my chest before he picks up the menu and tells our server we’ll need some time to glance over the selection.
When she comes back, I play it safe for breath’s sake. Order the chicken parmigiana and a water. Brooks orders the linguine with clams, so I guess he isn’t planning on kissing me, but then he changes his order to alfredo, and there’s hope after all. We pick at the bread, sailing through typical first-date small-talk until he gets back on the very subject I wanted to avoid.
“What time do you need to go to the nursing home tomorrow?”
I take a sip of water. Buy time. “Not sure yet.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t push, and changes the subject. “Cool. Look, I—there’s something I need to get off my chest. I wanted to apologize for what happened in the mountains.”
I shake my head as the wine is brought. “There’s no need.” I take a sip as he chews some bread.
“But there is. You didn’t ask me to kiss you. I just did it. I thought you wanted it, and in the moment—well, I am a guy, and you are...” His jaw tics, his lip pulling under his teeth as he pulls off another chunk of bread.
“It’s okay, Brooks. Really.” Why is he apologizing? It sounds like he regrets the entire act.
His eyes flick up to mine. Something filters through them—lust, adoration, excitement. But then he loosens his shirt around the neck, and his eyes go flat. “No, it isn’t. Everything with Eliza and Deacon and—anyway, it shouldn’t have happened, and I hope you don’t hold it against me.”
Our entrees are set on the table. A pause ensues as we each pick up our forks. “I don’t hold it against you.” I smile, wanting to shake him as hard as I can for regretting our beautiful moments. “I enjoyed it.”
He shrugs, a smile lifting half his mouth, but he gazes at some of the other patrons instead of directly at me. “Well, yeah. I could kind of tell.”
“Kind of?” My brows raise at him, my tongue sliding across my lips.
He lifts a shoulder. “A little bit.”
“So, why are you apologizing?” Boldness takes over me, and claws out of my throat. Fights to bring us together.
He rubs his chin before blowing out a long breath. “I don’t want to darken the mood. We can talk about that later.”
I want more than anything to be oppositional, demand answers from him. But I see the internal war raging within, simmering beneath the surface, and that’s good enough. When it comes to us, Brooks dangles from the edge of a cliff, unable to hoist himself back up to safety, but instinctively determined not to fall to his destiny. He doesn’t know what awaits him below is simply a warm lake of love and not a deadly pile of rocks that Eliza would have been. But he’ll see. All he has to do is let go, and tonight he’ll do that. He’s ready. So, I’m going to enjoy this, soak up every smile and laugh, commit every word to memory, because a first date should be treasured. Cherished.
“I saw her the other day, you know,” I say, ever the daredevil I am.
His eyes cut back to mine. “Who? Eliza?”
“Yeah.”
He asks why, where, how, and at first seems a little too interested. I gulp down half my wine before saying, “Lennox Mall. Smoking in the parking lot. Must have been shopping with her mother or something, and definitely must not have gotten the memo that you shouldn’t smoke when pregnant.”
His eyes narrow contemplatively, lips whispering out the word “smoking” as if he’s in shock. But I don’t worry about whether he’ll verify my claims. He’d trust me over her any day if he knows what’s good for him. A little plastic surgery and some lies to bring us together are so much better than Eliza cheating and getting pregnant.
I shrug. “Maybe she’s depressed.”
Finally, his head tilts as acceptance settles in. “I guess. We used to smoke together in high school, and sometimes we would go through a pack if we were drinking, but I wouldn’t think she would do it while pregnant. Sucks for the baby. Speaking of her—and I hate to bring this up—but I hope you don’t feel guilty about what happened in your apartment months ago.”
“I don’t,” I offer, albeit impulsively because I’m so grateful he didn’t ask for more details about her. It speaks to his lack of interest. “She’d already told me she cheated in the past. I didn’t know it was still happening, but I didn’t think she deserved you. And I don’t know, I—I did feel a connection. I guess it’s the same as Blue Ridge was for you. I thought you wanted it, so I did it.” A smile passes my lips before I bite it away.
He raises the wine glass to his mouth. Takes a long swig, dissecting my words, bouncing them from one lobe of his brain to the next. Examines them for truth. “Maybe I did. Maybe I just didn’t realize it at the time.”
My heart jumps. His admission scorches my cheeks, yet somehow chills me simultaneously. Actions speak louder than words, they say, but his calm fears, soothe old wounds, and give hope for a future. “Wow.”
“You sound surprised…” He sucks the rest of his wine in one gulp. Refills our glasses. “You act like you don’t know how gorgeous you are.”
I swallow. Shrug. “I guess not.”
“Then you’re too critical of yourself. But it isn’t just looks. You’re stunning, but there’s also something else.”
I tilt my head. “Something else?”
&nbs
p; “I don’t know what it is, but it’s impossible not to notice you. You have this mysterious side that you keep hidden away.”
The forceful beat inside my chest seizes my breath as our server reappears to ask how the food is, if we need anything. We shake our heads in unison, mine shaky and weak. I’m unsure if it’s the wine or the changing direction of our conversation—the voluntary slip of his fingers from the edge of that cliff he’s on—but I suddenly feel drunk and like I should quit while I’m ahead. If the cackling group of women on the other side of the restaurant isn’t enough of a deterrent to getting drunk, I don’t know what would be.
He peers at me, leaning closer. “Did I say something wrong?”
My eyes flick up to him, my hand reaching to cover an emerging smile. “No. I just don’t know what to say, I guess.” I wish I knew the perfect response, but the book hasn’t adequately prepared me for this—for requited feelings, when you finally begin to get what you want.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I guess I just can’t understand how a woman like you is still single.”
Yes, why am I single, Brooks? Can you help me with that? I play with my wine glass. Move it in lazy circles, my eyes fixed on the swirling liquid. “I wish I knew.”
A pause. An alcohol-fueled admission. “If it weren’t for all the obstacles, I’d probably try to do the honors myself.”
I stare at him. His eyes bore into me, touching my hopes and dreams, coaxing them awake until they’re unwilling to go back to sleep. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?” I gesture with my hands at the restaurant.
He opens his mouth to speak but stops. Rubs his neck. “Well, I couldn’t let you spend a weekend with some strange guy when I was going to be here buying a boat. Coincidence of the year, but a good one. Save the damsel in distress, get my boat. Two birds with one stone.”
If only he knew there was a third bird.
Full, but satisfied from the dessert, Brooks and I stumble along the sidewalk, having opted to abandon his car after having too much to drink, and Uber being a twenty-minute wait. The air is pleasantly warm, streets brimming with objectionable spring break sluts in cheek-revealing shorts and crop tops. We pass two mini golf places and approach a drugstore when he stops.
The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2) Page 15