by Lexi Ryan
The attendant hands back my card, and my smile falls away because now that’s what I want. Camping with Grace. A fire, a few beers, our bodies keeping each other warm inside the sleeping bag, the patter of nighttime rain on the tent.
I shove the fantasy aside and focus on the road as I pull past the gate and follow the road to find the picnic area. I park the car, and Grace gives me a shy smile before unbuckling and climbing out. I grab the cooler from the backseat and follow her, damn proud of myself for keeping my eyes off the swish of her hips in that dress.
* * *
Grace
It’s as if Chris was given the role of “big brother” and he took it and ran with it. He didn’t just accept that I’m going to be part of his life; he set out to do what Christopher Montgomery does with every role he’s been given: be the best.
If I wanted a brother, I’d be elated. But I never wanted a brother. I did, however, want Chris.
If he saw Jewel’s comment on Mia’s picture, he hasn’t mentioned it, and he’s not treating me any differently, so I can only assume he hasn’t remembered me since yesterday.
He sets the cooler on the table, and I watch as he pulls out container after container of food. One holds sandwiches, another strawberries and blueberries, another a salad that looks like it might have quinoa and black beans. The last item he takes from the cooler is a container with chocolate-chip cookies, and my heart melts. He rarely eats sugar. He packed those for me.
I take the seat across from where he stands, prop my elbows on the table, and rest my chin on my hands.
When he looks up and catches me staring, he stops working. “What?”
I sigh dramatically. “Just thinking about how romantic this is. A picnic in the park with a cute boy.”
He blinks, and I expect him to object to my choice of words and tell me this isn’t about romance, that he’s just trying to hang out with me like a big brother should. Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks up in a grin and that dimple appears. “You think I’m cute?”
I roll my eyes. “You know you’re cute. Quit fishing for compliments.”
“I might know that there are women who find me attractive, but I don’t know how you feel about the way I look.” He pulls two plates from the cooler and sets them on either side of the table before pulling the lids off the various containers.
I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and twist off the top. “You gonna pretend you need me to stroke your ego?”
“I wouldn’t turn down a good . . . stroking.”
I cough on my water. “Holy shit.”
“What?” He grins. “Something wrong with the water?”
“I can’t believe you just said that.” I bite back a laugh and start filling my plate. “Dad called this morning. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t giving you too much trouble.” I’m busy avoiding his eyes by studying my food, so it’s not until I look up to see why he’s being quiet that I realize he’s gone tense. I want to kick myself for bringing up our parents. He doesn’t need a reminder of what he’s supposed to be to me, and I don’t want him to have one.
“I talked to Mom this morning, too,” he says, his shoulders relaxing a bit as he fills his plate. “It sounds like they’re having a great time. She said she hopes we can go with them next time.”
I take a bite of the quinoa and moan. “This is so good,” I say, pointing with my fork.
He grins. “Careful. I think that almost qualifies as health food.”
“Shh!” I shake my head and shovel another bite onto my fork. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You were awfully quiet after you came home last night,” he says, and when I lift my eyes from my plate, he’s studying me. “Did everything go okay? You didn’t get into a fight with the girls, did you?”
I swallow and lick my lips. “With Bailey and Mia? No. They’re great. I just wanted to work.”
“You were working on the play you’re writing for Gregory?” he asks between bites of his sandwich.
He’s so sincerely interested, and in light of Jewel’s comment last night, his sweetness makes my chest ache. “I was—” I shake my head. I always feel a little stupid talking about my projects. When I see them on paper, they seem important and so big, but when I try to boil it down to a few sentences, I inevitably feel like an idiot. “I was working on something else.” I take a bite of my chocolate-chip cookie because this conversation requires sugar-fueled bravery.
“So you’re writing two plays right now?” He props his elbows on the table and leans forward. “That’s so amazing to me. All the details and characters—how do you keep them straight?”
I shrug as my cheeks heat. “It’s just the way my brain works.” I wave my hand by my head. “There are always too many stories running around in there, but these two projects are easy to keep straight. One is a more traditional three-act play, and the other one is a bunch of monologues tied together by a common theme.” I bite my lip. The second play is one I’ve been dabbling with for years and have been compelled to work on since getting here this summer. I’m writing it entirely for myself, and although I sent part of it to Willow this morning, I doubt I’ll ever let anyone else read it. I trust her to see the brash, unpolished, angry me that comes out in there, but it’s too personal for anyone else to see.
“Tell me about the one you’re working on for Mr. Gregory.”
“It’s called Pinkerton and Polly, and it’s about a brother and sister who run a PI agency and end up investigating each other.”
He grins. “Is it a comedy?”
I bite my lip. “I think so. I hope.” Laughing, I shake my head. “Writing is hard. Just because I think something is funny doesn’t mean someone else will.” And then there’s the fact that I keep putting it aside to work on my monologue project. If I can’t keep myself interested in Pinkerton and Polly, how am I going to keep an audience engaged?
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You make me laugh all the time.”
I look up at him and feel an all-over warmth that has nothing to do with the sun beating down on us. His soft blue eyes are so kind and sweet, and I can almost imagine what it would be like to be someone else and be here on an actual date with him.
“Why plays?” he asks. “I think it’s awesome, but most writers our age want to be poets or novelists, and you want to be a playwright. Do you want to act, too?”
My eyes go wide. “Absolutely not.” I shudder. “No. I have no desire to be on stage. The opposite, in fact.”
He folds his arms on the table and leans forward.
I take a breath and try to figure out how to explain a passion I take for granted. “When I was younger, I spent a lot of years not wanting to talk in front of people.” I shrug. “I still don’t like to, honestly. Public speaking is terrifying to me. But then one day, my dad took me to a play, and the characters on stage were bold and funny and unapologetic. I loved the idea that someone behind the scenes got to write those characters and give them the perfect lines and watch them deliver them flawlessly. It was brilliant. The author gets to have her say without ever speaking.”
“I bet you have a lot to say.”
I grin. “You have no idea.”
His gaze dips to my lips, and my stomach flutters. “You have . . .” He points to the corner of his mouth and the slutty butterflies simmer down, ducking their heads in mortification. I bring my fingers to my lips, and he reaches across the table. Cupping my chin in his big hand, he grazes his thumb over my bottom lip. “Chocolate,” he says. “Got it.”
The butterflies swoon and demand mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
“What’s next?” I ask. Because the moment is awkward and charged with something I’m sure is more one-sided than those slutty butterflies want to admit.
“I thought we could walk out to the overlook,” he says. He points to a break in the trees. “It’s just a short walk back there. All easy and paved.”
“Paved?”
/> He laughs. “You sound disappointed.”
“I don’t know.” Standing, I start putting lids on containers and repacking the cooler. “I was looking at the pamphlet, and they have some cool trails. The real, unpaved kind.”
He arches a brow and skims his gaze over my body—correction, my dress and Chucks. “You’re gonna go hiking in that?”
I shrug. “It’s not like it’s full-length and gonna get tangled around my legs or anything.”
His gaze drifts down my body again, this time landing on the thigh visible beneath the hem of my dress. “It’s certainly not,” he mumbles, and the way he says it has my cheeks burning and me reaching for my water.
So damn thirsty.
We finish packing up our lunch together, and after we put the cooler back in the car, I grab the park pamphlet out of the front seat. “Come on,” I say, nodding in the direction of the outlook. “It’s my turn to be in charge.”
The park is beautiful, but as soon as we enter the woods and I see the overlook, my breath catches. From here, we have a view of the ravine below and the creek rushing through the bottom. Mossy rock faces make up the ravine walls, and trees protrude from them. It’s possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I head past the overlook and take the stairs down into the ravine. It’s shady back here and feels ten degrees cooler than our picnic table in the sun.
At the bottom of the stairs, the trail splits in three directions, and when I follow the sign with the three, Chris puts his hand on my arm. “Hey, this one has ladders.”
I arch a brow and drop my gaze to my shoes. “I can handle it.”
Something passes over his face I don’t understand, and then he sighs and nods. “Okay, but I’m climbing the ladders behind you. If any creep is going to be looking up your dress today, it’s gonna be me.”
My cheeks heat, and my brain instantly diagrams his words and starts analyzing the nuance of each. Just comedy or more? Stupid brain. “Fair enough.”
He mutters something that sounds like “Dreams really do come true,” but I can’t be sure.
The trail leads down into the ravine and along the creek bed. It’s so much cooler down here, and I love the sound of the creek rock crunching under my feet as we walk along.
There’s a family up ahead—Mom, Dad, a Golden Retriever, and a little girl with a long ponytail riding on her father’s back. When I turn to Chris, I see he’s watching them. “Do you know them?”
He gives a bashful smile and shakes his head. “No. I just like seeing families together. You know what it’s like.”
“What does that mean?”
“When did your parents get divorced?”
“Oh. I was ten.” I cock my head, studying him for a beat. “I’m not one of those people who thinks my parents’ divorce was this terrible tragedy I had to endure. It was a good thing. My parents were miserable together, and I was grateful Mom didn’t stay in some misguided idea of what was best for me.”
He grimaces. “I guess you have a different perspective. Maybe I idealize the traditional family more than I should. I never had both parents around. My dad couldn’t be bothered. Mom more than made up for his absence—as best she could, at least. I always had everything I needed, but it seemed like she got the short end. I’m glad she found your dad.”
“Me too.” I swallow hard because I feel like there’s a lot he’s not saying, but I don’t want to push unless he wants me to.
By the time we come upon the first ladder, the family with the dog has circled back to the beginning of the trail and there’s no one else around.
“Ladies first,” he says, gesturing toward the ladder.
“Pervert,” I mutter, but I move forward and begin my climb. The rungs are coated in mud, and when I’m halfway up, one foot slips and suddenly Chris’s hands are there, holding me steady, his hands strong and warm against the backs of my legs.
My breath catches, and I force myself to breathe and find my footing. The feel of his hands against my skin causes something to swirl hot and tight low in my belly.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice as thick as the forest beyond the trail.
I’m not okay. I’m afraid to move. Afraid not to move. Trapped by a fear that has nothing to do with a slippery ladder and everything to do with falling.
Then, slowly, his thumbs begin to slide over my skin. His hands inch up my thighs until his fingertips skim the bottom edge of my underwear and slip under to trace the bottom curve of my ass.
I cannot breathe.
I force myself to turn my head and look down at him. His jaw is set tight, a picture of self-control, but when his eyes meet mine, his face relaxes and he shoots me a boyish grin. I attempt my best poker face. “Are you copping a feel, Christopher Montgomery?”
His grin goes wide, putting his dimples on full display. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his Southern accent drawing out his words. “I’m just trying to perform a necessary rescue mission.”
“Do I look like I need rescuing?” I ask. Under the lace edge of my panties, his thumb strokes again, a long, slow motion that makes me want to close my eyes and moan. I resist and hold his gaze.
“Who said you’re the one I’m rescuing? Maybe I’m trying to save myself.” He drops his hands and grabs a hold of the sides of the ladder, then he climbs up behind me so his body is pressed against mine, my back to his front. His mouth hovers above my ear, his breath hot and uneven. “Because I swear if I have to go much longer without touching you, I’m going to implode.”
His lips skim my earlobe, and my eyes float closed. My brain has no room for sight when it’s overloaded with sensations. His lips on my ear. His hard chest against my back. His breath against my neck. “I need to know, Grace.”
I open my eyes and swallow hard. I don’t want to talk. Not right now. I’m too afraid I’ll ruin this moment with my choppy stutter. “What?”
“I need to know . . .” He leans his forehead against my shoulder, and I watch his knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip on the side of the ladder.
On the ground beneath us, someone clears his throat. “You two heading up or down?”
Chris mutters a curse and takes a step down so I have the freedom to move. I scramble up the ladder with him behind me. When we reach the top, I can’t look at him.
“Sorry about that,” he calls to the people below, then he grabs my wrist and pulls me off to the right toward a rocky alcove just off the trail. A wooden sign tells me this is “The Devil’s Ice Box,” and beyond the sign, a thin waterfall drizzles into a pool of crystal-clear water. Chris leads the way, following the rocky edge around to the backside of this semi-secluded space and stopping by the waterfall. I pass him, feigning interest in the rocks and water so I don’t have to meet his eyes. There’s a cavern behind the waterfall, a haven from the falling water.
“I have to know,” Chris says, his words nearly drowned out by the falling water. “Is it just me? Everything I feel when you’re close to me? Tell me you feel it too.”
Without looking back, I escape through the falling water and shriek. I’m soaked before I land safely in the solitude of the cavern.
I’m not alone for long. Chris comes through the waterfall after me.
I’m dripping with water. It rushes down my face and my dress is plastered to me, and under here with the spray of the waterfall against our skin and the rock shading us from the sun, a chill runs through me that causes me to shiver.
Chris takes a step toward me and runs a hand over his now-wet hair. His shirt is soaked and clings to his chest.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I say, but I practically have to shout so he can hear.
He stalks toward me, and his nostrils flare with his exhale. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I’m not sure if time actually slows as he lowers his mouth to mine, or if he’s just moving that slowly and giving me a chance to shut this down before it goes any further, giving me a cha
nce to tell him I don’t want his kiss.
After I moved to Maine, I indulged in fantasies of this moment. I imagined how good it would feel if, one day, the perfect and indelible Christopher Montgomery would want to kiss me. I would look him in the eye and tell him he wasn’t my type, that I wouldn’t want his dick anywhere near me. But that was Gee-Gee’s fantasy, and today, I don’t feel like that brokenhearted little girl is anything more than a character from a sad movie I watched once.
Chris wants Grace, not Morgan, not Gee-Gee. And I want his kiss.
I don’t stop him. I don’t tell him that he’s not my type or even remind him that I’m not his. I wait, suspended in time, as his mouth finishes its too-slow journey. And when his lips brush mine, soft and sweet, it’s like releasing a pressure valve, and all of the tension rushes out and away.
He smells so good, like soap and his aftershave, and when his lips brush over mine a second time, I let out a moan that feels like it comes straight from my chest.
“Is this okay?”
Why’d he have to ask? Why couldn’t he be like every other guy and just take?
“Grace,” he says against my lips. When I’m quiet too long, not giving the permission he seeks with my words or body, he pulls back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— I didn’t—”
For once, I’m not the one fighting my mouth to form the right words, and that realization tugs at me so hard I close the distance between us, loop my arms behind his neck, and press my mouth to his. He stiffens for a split second as he draws in a breath, then his hands are in my hair and his body presses against mine, and he’s kissing me.
The sound of the rushing water fills my ears, blocks out the world and then disappears completely, as my senses have no room for anything but Chris—his tongue sliding against mine, his hands fisting in my hair, his strong arms cradling me and pulling me closer all at once.
I could kiss him forever—stay here, cut off from the world, away from everything else. I want the kiss to fill me so completely I forget who I am, so that I lose myself and all I’ve known. I want it to erase the things I’ve done and wash away the girl I once was. And right now, suspended in this magical moment, it feels like it could.