Sweet & Wild

by Viv Daniels

  Boone wasn’t here to ask me for anything, I realized with a start. None of his questions had been about us. They were all about me. About what I wanted, what I needed for myself. He wasn’t trying to be a knight in shining armor. He was trying to be a friend.

  Right now, I had the sneaking suspicion that I needed that more than I’d ever needed anything in my life.

  But I had no idea what that even looked like. I’d been fucking Boone’s brains out all summer. And every time we tried to make it into something else, we screwed up.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head, miserably.

  Boone checked the time on his phone. “Think quickly.”

  My head jerked up. “Please don’t put a time limit on this for me.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “But you said in one of your voice messages that the professor would only hold your spot in the class until noon. If you want it, you’ve got about half an hour to email her back.”

  Oh. That. And again, I was astonished to realize that Boone still wasn’t talking about him, about us.

  It was just a class. Just one class, out of a dozen wasted classes I’d taken over the years. Why did this one feel so different?

  But I knew the answer to that, if nothing else. It was because I wanted it so much.

  “What’s that poem again?” I asked Boone. “That one that’s…not by Voltaire?”

  Boone looked at me curiously. “‘Stand upright, speak thy thoughts,’” he began.

  I cut him off. “Right.” I pushed past him and headed toward the counter where my laptop sat. I opened it up and looked at the email from the screenwriting instructor.

  At least I’d woken up in time. “What’s the next line?”

  A smile bloomed across his beautiful face, and I thrilled down to my toes. “‘Declare the truth thou hast, that all may share. Be bold. Proclaim it everywhere.’”

  I started typing, and he crossed the room to look over my shoulder.

  Dear Professor Thompson,

  Thank you so much for this opportunity. I am so excited to enroll in your class and work on Bloodlines. See you on Monday.

  ~Hannah Swift

  I turned to face him. He was close enough to kiss, but his hands were still at his sides. He didn’t reach for me, just watched in excited wonder.

  “They only live who dare,” I said, and pressed Send.

  “Wow,” he said at last. “You did it.”

  “Yep.”

  “How do you feel?”

  I thought for a moment. “Honestly? Sleepy.”

  “Do you…” he hesitated. “Do you want me to go?”

  No. I wanted anything but that. But how could I ask him to stay? “I don’t want you to think I’m using you.”

  “Using me?”

  “That’s what you said….last time you were here. That I wanted you to play a part for me.”

  He smiled his unfairly beautiful smile. Yeah, right. I could never be just friends with this man. “And what part do you want me to play today?”

  “I don’t know….the guy who brings me breakfast and makes me coffee when I’m hungover. The guy who doesn’t freak out when I look like a zombie. The guy who talks me through doing the scary, hard thing and sign up for the class.”

  He blinked. “That’s not a part, Hannah. That’s just me.”

  Now it was my turn to be confused. “You know, I think maybe I haven’t had the best models in the world when it comes to how people behave in healthy relationships.”

  “No?” he replied. “What with your dad and his secret daughter and all that? I mean, I’m not one to talk, but I think you may be onto something there.”

  I sighed. “So are we absolutely hopeless?”

  Boone shook his head. “I hope not.” I waited for him to do something more. To reach for me. Anything. But there was nothing. And just when I thought the awkward silence couldn’t go on a moment longer, he spoke. “So, you want to let me read this script for real?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure. I mean, I’m no expert, but…I kind of want to know how it ends.”

  So I got dressed, had breakfast, and then read him Bloodlines, right there on the couch. He laughed in a few inappropriate places, and I pelted him with throw pillows as payback, but I already had ideas about how to fix a few of those issues.

  “Don’t you have work?” I asked him after an hour or two.

  “Don’t you have school?”

  “No self-respecting senior schedules class on Friday,” I told him. Unless they were a real nerd, like my sister. Which reminded me.

  “In those voicemails, I didn’t happen to mention what happened with me and Tess last night, did I?”

  “She brought you home, and then you had a fight.”

  “Something like that,” I admitted. “Actually, I told her I hated her and kicked her in the face.”

  Boone sat up straight. “Wow.”

  “Accidentally,” I added. “I accidentally kicked her in the face.”

  “But you meant to tell her you hated her.”

  I thought about this. “Yeah. I guess I did. I don’t think I do hate her, but God it felt good. It was the best I’ve felt in ages.”

  He made a face. “Something tells me I should be offended by that.”

  I lobbed another pillow at him. “You know what I mean.”

  Boone snatched it out of the air and tossed it aside. “Do I?”

  His aquamarine eyes were intent on mine and my mouth went dry. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to jump his bones. Was that wrong? Was I completely messed up?

  My phone rang. I checked the readout. “It’s my mother.”

  “Huh.”

  His phone rang, too. “That’s weird. It’s my mother.”

  “Excuse me.” I took my phone to the other side of the room and answered, praying she wasn’t calling me about another setup. “Hey, Mom.”

  Across the room, Boone was answering his phone.

  “Hannah! I hadn’t heard from you about this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Didn’t you check your voicemail? I called a few times this morning, but your phone must have been off. I really wish you’d get a landline…”

  “Sorry, Mom.” Boone was huddled over his phone, too. “Remind me.”

  “You know our neighbors the Gardners have had that gorgeous new patio and outdoor kitchen put in?”

  Yes, I recalled that. I recalled who had built it, too. “Uh-huh?”

  “They are having some people over this afternoon for a barbecue, and I just talked to Suzanne, and she says her son Ronnie will be there.”

  “Oh, she did?” I gave Boone a look and mouthed the word barbecue. He nodded, frowning. “Are you sure she said her son’s name was Ronnie?”

  He came closer, his eyes narrowed. I heard him say into the phone, “Mother. Mother, you have to stop this.” His face was closed, his tone harsh. I reached out for him but his muscles were so tense his arm felt like stone.

  “Of course I am,” my mother said to me. “What kind of question is that?”

  “Because I met him,” I said loudly. Not a lie. Not a lie. “And he told me his name is Boone.”

  Boone looked up, his eyes softening.

  “Boone?” Mom said.

  “Yes, Mom. Boone. We’ve been seeing each other a lot recently.” I took a deep breath. “In fact, he’s here with me now.”

  Boone squeezed my hand.

  Mom was very quiet for a moment. “Oh. Well then, Hannah, are you and…Boone planning on coming to the barbecue?”

  My heart ached as I heard it in her voice, the tone of a woman who’d been spackling over her husband’s strange stories for decades. I wondered again what she knew and didn’t know about Tess and her mother. Mom and I may not see eye to eye, but she deserved more, from her husband and her daughter.

  “We weren’t, no,” I said. “But if you want us to, we’d be happy to drop by. I
would love for you to meet Boone.”

  Boone stared at me, his eyes full of questions, but the smallest of smiles played across his lips.

  “Mother,” he said, “Hannah Swift and I will be there.”

  We clicked the phones off and stared at each other. My heart was pounding. Boone, too, looked like he’d run a mile.

  “When you turn over a new leaf, you really mean it.”

  “Are you sure this is okay?” I asked. “I mean, going to their party?”

  “Are you kidding? If this is what you do on the phone, I can’t wait to see what you pull off in person.”

  Twenty-Eight

  My nerves tingled all over when we pulled up outside the Gardners’ house that afternoon. I blamed having spent an entire day in Boone’s presence without having sex with him. Without even touching more than hands.

  I kept waiting for him to make a move, as he always had before, but he didn’t. Maybe he, too, was waiting. All I knew was that by the time the barbecue started, I felt ready to crawl out of my skin.

  There were already several luxury cars crowding the driveway and parked on the curbs up and down the street. I directed Boone to park in my parents’ driveway, and together we walked up to his mother’s door. I cast a glance at him—his jaw was set in a firm line, and there was tension in his shoulders as he reached for the doorknob. For a second, I thought he might even knock.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  He gave me a half smile and took my hand. For a moment, I thought he might kiss it. “Sure. You’re here.”

  But I knew it wasn’t. A party at his mother’s house was the belly of the beast. Here, where she wanted him to be Ronnie Nesbit, where she told people he was taking a gap year from school and tried to pretend their lives hadn’t been cleaved in two.

  Suzanne’s house looked just like ours inside: professionally decorated, with new furniture and fine art and bowls with fruit that no one ever touched. We passed through room after room and then out the sliding glass doors into the backyard, where I could finally get a glimpse of Boone’s handiwork.

  I should have guessed what to expect based on what I’d seen on Boone’s boat, but I still wasn’t quite prepared. All those weeks of Boone in the yard and on the porch roof, but I hadn’t translated that to his actual work.

  Which was gorgeous. Paving stones stretched out from the house in undulating curves, hugging the edges of the lawn and lined with rock in a contrasting shade. A small terrace was set off with a counter and a grill built into a low rock wall. The covered patio was finished with glossy dark wood floors and paneled ceilings where massive fans with blades shaped like sails shifted the evening air. Everywhere I looked, I saw urns filled with flowers and succulents. Lights like little torches had been set at regular intervals along the walls.

  I stared at it. Boone had built this. He’d peeked over the fence at me, day after day, and built…this.

  And his mom made up stories about business school?

  “Wow,” I whispered, leaning hard on his arm. “This is amazing.”

  “Thanks,” he replied.

  “I would hire you in a heartbeat,” I went on. “Except I rent. And I don’t have a patio.”

  I saw my mother first. She swept up to me, gin and tonic in hand. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her capri pants and lime top summery but not breaking any “after Labor Day” sartorial rules. “Hannah! You came. And… I’m sorry, is it Boone?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boone said, and shook her hand.

  A wrinkle appeared between Mom’s eyebrows. She would have been appalled if she knew. “But a few weeks ago when we met—”

  Boone cleared his throat. “My father and I are estranged, Mrs. Swift, and I don’t use his name. My mother occasionally forgets.”

  “Oh.” She seemed momentarily taken aback. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m so glad you and Hannah have been, um…getting to know each other.”

  “Actually, Mom, it turns out that we’d already met. I just didn’t realize that Boone was the man you were talking about.”

  Mom smiled for real this time. “Really? How did you meet?”

  “When I was doing the patio for my mother. Hannah was out by your pool and we started talking.”

  “Oh!” Mom blinked. “Well, how about that. I had no idea this patio was your work.”

  Beside me, Boone stiffened. Who was his mother telling people had done the renovation? At the very least, she should be passing out her son’s card to people.

  My mother was still filling the silence. “I envy Suzanne. We don’t have anyone handy in my household.”

  “This is true,” I informed Boone. “I can barely change a lightbulb.”

  “Noted.” He craned his neck to look over the crowd. “I’m going to grab a beer. Can I get you something? White wine?”

  I smiled. “You know it.”

  He headed off and I turned to my mom. “Okay, you can tell me that you told me so.”

  She watched Boone disappear into the crowd, then lifted her glass. “I told you so. That’s the cutest millionaire I’ve ever seen, Hannah.”

  “He’s not a millionaire, Mom. He’s a construction worker.”

  “He’s a Nesbit.”

  I took a breath. “No, he’s a Smith. He wasn’t joking about the estrangement thing. He doesn’t speak to his father, won’t touch his money…”

  Mom waved her hand. “Whatever. It’s a phase.”

  I now realized why Boone had such a hard time with his own mother. But I wasn’t okay with it. This patio should have been a killer advertisement for Boone’s services, but it wouldn’t be if his mother kept his work a secret.

  “In the meantime, enjoy the muscles and the tan that manual labor provides. There’s no Wall Street exec or CEO with a body like that, I don’t care what the romance novels say.”

  “Eww, Mom.”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Sorry. He is cute, though. Even better-looking than that Dylan, don’t you think?”

  I chuckled. “Okay, sure. That one I’ll give you.” And then, before I thought better of it, I added, “I actually saw Dylan the other day.”

  She looked at me. “Oh? Well, Canton’s a small school.”

  I took a deep breath. Do it. Just do it. Then you’ll know. “He was with his new girlfriend. Her name is Tess McMann.”

  My mother flinched. It was a split second, but I saw it. Then she took a sip of her gin and tonic and looked out over the crowd. “I’m sure she’s not half as pretty as you are, dear.”

  “They seem to be a good match, though,” I pressed, and hated myself for it.

  Mom took another, longer sip. “Well, there’s no accounting for a man’s taste, is there?” Meaningfully.

  Mom. I hated myself. All this time, I’d been hoping I was protecting her. But it turned out her torment had gone on even longer than my own.

  “Mom, I…”

  “Oh look, Boone’s brought you a drink.” I looked up to see my boyfriend maneuvering back through the crowd, a glass of white wine in one hand, and a brown bottle in the other.

  “Here you are.” Boone handed me a glass of wine, then looked at my mother. “Ran into my mother. She tried to introduce me to someone again. As Ronnie.”

  Ugh. “What did you say to her?”

  “What I always say,” he replied. “It never makes a difference.” He looked at my mother. “Oh, I should have gotten you a fresh drink, Mrs. Swift.”

  I looked to see my mother had indeed drained her glass, then felt even more like a heel.

  “I’ve probably had enough. Look, Hannah. It’s your father.” Her tone was flat.

  Dad approached, then leaned in to air-kiss me. “Hannah.” He extended his hand to Boone. “And…Ronnie Nesbit, right? Suzanne’s boy?”

  “I prefer Boone, Mr. Swift. Boone Smith—I use my maternal grandfather’s name.”

  “Ah, of course,” Dad said. “You’ve been working on his old yacht, I understand, over at the cl
ub?”

  “Yes. My grandfather was quite the sailor in his day.”

  “I imagine you went out a lot growing up,” Dad said.

  “With my grandfather yes. My father wasn’t much for boats. He had a bad experience when he was younger. Pirates.” Boone took a sip of his beer.

  I chuckled.

  “No, really,” he said. “He was kidnapped by pirates.”

  “Wait, what?” He couldn’t be serious.

  “What a shame,” Dad said quickly, then turned to me. “Hannah, how is school?”

  Um, school? I wanted to hear about the pirates.

  But Dad, as always, cared about nothing that didn’t have to do with himself, and the glory of the Swift name. “Is your schedule shaping up as we planned?”

  Here it goes. I swallowed. Beside me, Boone shifted, ever so slightly, until his arm brushed mine, softly, reassuringly. I could do this.

  “Actually, no,” I said.

  Dad’s expression didn’t change. Mom’s eyes widened.

  “I’ve dropped one of my Comp Lit requirements to take a special, invitation-only seminar.”

  “An invitation-only seminar!” Dad said, impressed. “Well, they’ll have to make some sort of arrangement for you, then. To get around that requirement.”

  Oh God. Oh God. “It’s not in the Comp Lit Department, Dad. It’s in Film.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “It’s a screenwriting seminar. I entered a screenplay I wrote and it was accepted.”

  “Hannah!” Mom exclaimed. “That’s amazing. I didn’t realize you’d finished a screenplay.”

  “It’s very good, Mrs. Swift,” said Boone. “It’s a horror movie.”

  “Figures,” said Mom. “That’s what she’s always watching.”

  “Hannah,” said my father. “This was not part of our agreement.”

  “True,” I admitted lightly. “I don’t think I’m going to be a Comp Lit major after all.” I waited to see how that landed. Dad wasn’t moving a muscle.

  “But what will you major in?” Mom asked. “Film? How long will that take to finish?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “All I know is I have to take this class.”

  “We’ll talk about this later.” Dad was seething.