by Camden Leigh
“You were being serious?” I pause and lean up on my elbow. “I thought you meant a different position.”
He tugs my hair like reins until I lie down. “My heart isn’t a toy and neither is yours. As much as I want to make love to you until the roosters crow, I won’t tonight.” He sets my hand flat against his chest, stroking between my fingers.
“But it’s just sex, it’s quick and fun and come on,” I whine. He’s really not giving it up?
“Exactly my point. I don’t want just sex with you. I want more. So this awesome bod is off limits, Sunshine. Until you realize fully what letting me have you means . . . to me.”
I sit up. “You’re cutting me off and we aren’t even together?” I pull the sheet over my breasts.
“That mentality proves my point.”
“What?”
“Lie down.” His laughter shakes the bed.
I pull my lips into a tight line. I get the together part; he wants serious. Me? I don’t know what I want anymore. God, I’m so confused. “You’re such a tease.”
“None of this is to tease you.”
“Sure feels that way.”
He pats the bed beside him. “Come here.”
I roll toward him, unable to climb my ass out of bed and storm to my room, because that too would prove his ridiculous point. But damn, I have no right pushing the subject no matter how ridiculous this is to me, because it’s sincere and honorable to him. When did sex become a nurturing tool and not a weapon to protect my heart?
I bite my tongue from protesting further, sexually and mentally dissatisfied beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. He pulls me tight against him and strokes my lower back with his fingers, drawing vines like his across my skin. I’ve tasted him, touched him, and I like the ideals he preaches. Heck, I nearly agreed with him. Isn’t it enough that I want him now?
Who am I kidding? Just wanting him will never be enough.
And I have a sneaky suspicion having him won’t ever be enough either.
Chapter 7
Quinn
I pull my tangled earbuds from my pocket just as Crockett gobbles, announcing an intruder. A sleepy Kat walks in looking like a hay baler went loco on her hair.
“Hey,” she says as she shushes the ruffled bird. I remember her as a half-pint with braces and now she’s as tall as me, headed to college in the fall and . . . a woman.
“Hey.” I’m not sure if she’s forgiven me yet, but last night she definitely seemed a little less hostile. Could’ve been the tequila shots.
“What’s up?” she yawns.
“Just hungry.” I toss my earbuds on the counter and open the fridge, then close it when I don’t see anything I want. My blue balls aren’t hungry for food, that’s for sure. I glance at the door at the far end of the kitchen.
“Hungry for what, exactly?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be standing here, would I?” I snap, afraid she’ll read right through me.
“Wow, touchy much?” she glares at me.
“Sorry. I just need to . . . to run.” I grab my earbuds, strip my shirt and drape it over my shoulders. “See ya later.”
I move into the yard to stretch, wondering where I should run and settle on the path leading to the pecan grove. Back when I ran every morning, I’d take the same path but skirt through the Gentlemen’s Quarters housing my dad’s office and run along the swamp bank. I don’t think there’s anything or anyone that could get me back to the GQ. I have no desire to relive the worst day of my life. No need to open old wounds and stir shit up I’d rather keep buried.
As I close in on the grove, I slow to a walk. Mainly because of the slippery shells that were never picked up. Damn nuisance is what they are. Do they not harvest the pecans anymore? I pull my shirt from around my neck and wipe the sweat from my face as short, labored breaths try to catch my lungs up to my jog. The humidity makes it impossible to breathe. Harder to think. Harder to do anything outside except maybe swim, but even the water around here feels like bathwater.
I pull my earbuds loose, knocking away screeching guitars to take in the not-so-quiet ambience I’ve truly missed: bird calls, cicadas buzzing, breezes through the leaves. The grove isn’t as breathtaking as the oak avenue down the way, but it does have one major plus. The pecans harvested in the fall.
I turn to head toward the swamp when I spot something quite favorable. Near the end of the grove, Cassidy sits stretched out on a blanket. She’s overlooking the lower fields. The rough winter caused late blooming in the indigo plants. A sight I didn’t realize I missed until now. The blooms’ soft purple haze covers the ground like a low-growing fog. Cassidy found an amazing spot. I take careful steps as I move toward her.
Last night, I woke up around three A.M. to an empty bed. She’d crept out, probably to restore her stance that work and I don’t mix. But we actually mix quite well, surely she can’t deny that.
I move closer and chuckle. I went down on her, and I’d do it again and again to hear her little whimper when she comes. God. Sexiest fucking sound ever. Heat spikes down my spine just thinking about it.
I wind a bit closer as she works furiously on a painting. She has several other pieces spread around her. One in pencil. One in bold, crisp blues and greens. Pastels maybe. Another in muted colors of the same medium.
She surveys the sky when the sun peeks from behind a cloud, then frowns, drops her brush, and leans back on her hands. I don’t know why she’s frowning. She’s the perfect contrast. The perfect photo. I crook my neck to the left and imagine how I’d frame her if I had my camera.
She’s like this ball of fire floating on a calm sea. Such an oxymoron to the eye as she tries so hard to be the picture of control. But after seeing her with the turkey and then my mom, and then unraveling in my arms, she’s anything but.
I glance at the tattoos on my chest. The black barb-encased heart. The strangling vines. My all-consuming imperfections on display. My big secret I buried with my dad. I plan on keeping it buried, too.
This place, this family . . . being around them has knocked loose the block holding my secrets down. I clench my jaw and have the sudden urge to keep running. To backtrack, move in reverse, right back to the house, right on through meeting Cassidy, to before calling Ellie for a ride. Coming back was a mistake. Staying is making things worse.
I step back. My heel rolls over a pecan. I throw out my arms for balance but have nothing to grab and fall on my ass.
Cassidy turns, glances over her shoulder, then gasps. “Are you okay?” She jogs to my side but slips, too, and lands facedown beside me. She spits grass from her mouth.
“Are you?” I laugh.
“That hurt.”
“No shit.” I try to get traction but it seems we’re in some squirrel haven of piled pecans.
I crawl to her side to help steady her. She snorts out a laugh, bobbles like a drunk, then falls again. I hold out my arms to show her how it’s done, but instead of being all hero-saves-the-day, I’m doing the treadmill dance.
“Careful,” she says, giggling. “You’re going to fall again.”
And I do.
She crawls beside me, laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes. Leaves stick to her hair and black pecan dust mars her chin, hands, and knees. I’m sure I’m not much better, but seeing her smile makes me grin like a fucking idiot. I follow her on hands and knees to her blanket, where I roll to my back and collapse.
“I think I got more than a jog in today.”
“Is that what you were doing back there? Looked more like terrible ice-skating.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.” I peg a pecan at her.
She grabs one and pings it back. That shit hurts. I rub my chest, grab another, and zing it at her leg.
“Ow.” She grabs several, pegs them in succession.
“Stop, stop. Uncle. White flag. I give.” I block my face and my chest but she nails me every time. “You win.”
Her head falls back. Her laugh slows and the sun fade
s. She immediately picks up her brush and adds to the painting in front of her. I watch her quietly, letting her work. Her brush zips across the pad. She adds water, more blue, more gray, a hint of red. The paints swirl together, mixing into the exact shade of indigo floating above the field. Shadows in the dips, highlights in the most vulnerable areas. Her expression of the field captures the beauty, the power. The quietness.
“You’re really good.”
She glances at me but resumes focus on her work. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I’m a little miffed she won’t pay me attention, especially after last night.
Her brush stops. She turns and stares at my face. Her gaze tracks down. I can’t say I’ve ever been studied so closely. I should expect it with all the ink covering my body, but Cassidy strips me raw with her slow examination. Makes me feel like the vulnerable highlight on this cloudy day.
She shifts to her knees, moves closer. Her eyebrows pull together.
Is she recalling last night? I have no problem reenacting. But her frown can’t mean anything good.
I brush my hand down my chest, swallow thickly, and lean toward her, waiting for her to come close enough I can count her freckles and examine the heart-shaped one above her eyebrow I spotted last night.
“I’m sorry.”
“For-for what?” I stutter. My heart races. “I’m not. Last night was—”
“Stop. Please.” She holds her hand out as if she could grasp the thoughts I’m having about her thrusting hips and tireless kisses, ball them up and chunk them into the sea. “Last night shouldn’t have happened. It was nice, don’t get me wrong, but it—or anything like that—won’t happen again.”
“Won’t or can’t?”
“Both.”
I clamp my teeth together and seal off the argument we should be having. I have evidence she liked it. I know she wanted me. And I know I want her. Bad.
I’ll have to work harder, I guess. Show her what she doesn’t realize, that we could blow each other’s minds. “Then what are you sorry about?” I force out.
“This.” She presses her fingers against my chest.
I look down and find pecan-sized patches of red. Welts as fiery as hives. “It’s okay. I didn’t even notice.”
“You winced when I touched you.”
I shake my head. “No I didn’t.”
She reaches over and pats one of the welts. My jaw tenses reflexively and I force it to smooth out. Having her near feels good. Her hand on me feels right. Her voice in my ear . . . heaven.
“You winced again.”
I grab her hand. “Not because it hurts.”
She settles back on her heels, licks her lips as her gaze moves from one welt to another, then without another word, she moves back to her painting. I know she felt the little spark when she touched me. Her creamy skin flushed, her eyes turned dark, and her breath quickened . . . just like mine. Just like last night. How can she sit there, painting like she didn’t push her pretty pink lips to mine?
The sun comes out again, forcing her to stop. Forcing her to accept I’m still here. She folds her legs and grabs a sketch pad. She zips the nubby pencil across the page in short ticks. Every now and then she looks up, sees me still here, then drops back into her work. I could get up and leave her to it, but I am curious how long she can ignore me without breaking.
I wait probably fifteen more minutes and can’t take it. It kills me how stubborn she is. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?” She leans her sketch pad against her chest.
“Pretend I’m not here.”
“That’s hard to do.”
“Well you’re damn good at it.” Disappointment creeps through me, mostly because I let myself react when I’m trying like hell not to. “Don’t you feel the least bit guilty ignoring me?”
“When I work, I enter a quiet place. But I’m not quiet in here.” She points to her temple. “Talking slows my work. I can get it done faster if I don’t speak and I wanted to finish this while the sun was out.” She clutches the pad.
“Oh.” I rise to my feet. “Well, the sun looks like it’s here to stay so I’ll leave you to it. Sorry I disturbed you.” I pull my shirt off my shoulder.
“Wait. Don’t you want to see what I drew?”
Is she serious? She’d obviously much rather be drawing than socializing. “I’m sure it’s fantastic and—”
She turns the pad around. I scan it quickly then look over my shoulder at the house up on the hill. The Gentlemen’s Quarters. I drop into a squat and take the pad. She captured everything about the GQ in great detail. The history. The likeness to the main house. But it’s the small details that make it unique, like the arbor Dad and I built for Mother’s Day and the stump Kat used as a stage. The scary part isn’t the memories she unfolded, it’s the vines she scrawled up the columns. My vines. My tattoos. Barbs grown into the columns like they’ve been there for years, like the wood swelled around them making them just as much a part of the house as the columns themselves. My guilt snakes into every recess, every shadow of the house where I locked the last memory I have of Dad.
I drop her sketch pad beside her, stand and circle around. “It’s great. I, um . . .”
I shake my head. Drag my hand through my hair. How the fuck did she do that? I feel dirty. Like it’s me crawling over that house, me looking in the windows and marring its white brick with all this–I claw at my chest—shit.
I break into a jog.
“Quinn,” she calls.
I slow my pace, hating I let something like a drawing affect me. I could’ve told her it was great; pretend like I do with my sisters. I drag my hand through my hair, then rub my knuckles back and forth against my chin. Harder. Harder.
Cassidy grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. I can’t look at her. I grit my teeth, grind them against each other, waiting for her to just . . . leave.
“I’m sorry.”
Her words catch me off guard and I spin toward her, about to snap, but her eyes convey how sorry she feels, like she knows what her drawing did to me. “For what?”
She rips the sketch out of her spiral pad and holds it out. Her gaze locks on mine.
As much as I hate the shit clashing inside me, I can’t hate her. I’d rather drag her to me, press her against me, hold her for hours. I’d let this girl draw every inch of me on that fucking house if it would take her sorrow away.
I force a smile and take the drawing. “You know you’re dealing with a great artist when something like this”—I turn the sketch around to show her— “brings your past crashing down around you.”
Her teeth bury in her bottom lip. Her grass-green eyes flutter crazily, keeping her gaze from me.
“Cass—”
Her lips still my words. Warm, velvet lips against mine, mixing her sweet strawberry breath with salty sweat from my run. I lean into her, ready to explore the depths of Cassidy. I reach for her and she flattens her palms against my chest, heat on heat, fire on fire, until she pulls away.
She presses the back of her trembling hand against her mouth, hiding her lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” Her face, a beautiful shade of cherry, says the opposite. I’m glad she kissed me. We should do it again. Real soon.
“I’m not complaining.”
She shrugs. “But it will mislead you. I—we can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry. Just pretend that never happened.”
I study her eyes, looking for an earthquake of a chance she’s kidding. Perseverance rims her irises. Determination narrows her pupils.
“Good-bye, Quinn.” She heads back to her blanket.
“Wait,” I call, but I have no clue what to say to change her mind. “Umm, may I keep this?” I hold out her sketch.
She nods.
“And can we at least have a friendly dinner?”
She shakes her head no. Her cheek hollows like she’s nibbling it on the inside.
“You wouldn’t have kissed me if there wasn’t so
mething happening between us.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t again.” Her freckled chest turns pink.
I step back, ready to have the last word, which won’t be good-bye. “I’m irresistible,” I tease.
“Yes, you are, but it isn’t you I’m trying to resist.”
With that, she leaves me speechless. Last words stolen by her pure honesty. Ego wounded and my damn pride lying mutilated somewhere beneath the broken pecans.
Chapter 8
Cassidy
Spreadsheets cover my bed. I fall back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling. How is it I can solve Harvard’s math problem of the week in ten seconds but can’t find solutions for Ellie’s growing list of changes? She’s not one of those evil, tantrum-throwing bridezillas—thank God— but a little commitment on her part would be nice. Deadlines exist for a reason. I swear they do, but not for a Covington. Every time I say a deadline has passed and she can’t make a change, she calls her mom and gets me a name and number. I swear Mrs. Covington has her own underground wedding factory run by little minion robots for no reason other than to give Ellie exactly the wedding she wants.
After a quick shower to wash away the pecan dust stuck to my skin, I finish the food cards for the taste test scheduled for this afternoon, then change into Covington-approved attire and meet Ellie and Dean on the back porch. We wander through the gardens and discuss the shower she’ll have in the gazebo. It’s the biggest gazebo I’ve ever seen, more like an outside venue, screened in and wired for a sound system and even equipped with a built-in bar.
As we’re standing in the middle of it, I spin, picturing starlit nights, hanging lights, crickets and frogs serenading guests as they waltz around the dance floor. How many first kisses and secret rendezvous has this gazebo seen?
A vision of meeting Quinn, falling in his arms, and his lips pressing against mine appears. I scratch through it, erasing the vision, and drag Ellie out of the gazebo.
“Show me where in the grove you want to say your vows. The exact spot.” Mrs. Covington seems to think I can work magic on the impossible. Best I see Ellie’s vision first.
Dean pats her arm. “That’s easy,” he says.