Stolen Wishes

by Lexi Ryan

  Shifting my gaze to those deep blue eyes is no better. A girl doesn’t forget those eyes watching her as their owner slides his hand between her legs for the first time.

  I study the ground and wave a hand to indicate the spot where Dreyer Avenue definitely is not. “I’m looking for my dad.”

  “You’re in the wrong neighborhood.” His voice has that low, delicious treble that makes my insides shimmy.

  When I sneak a peek up at him through my lashes, I catch him studying me with his own assessing gaze.

  I can imagine what he sees. We’ve been on the road for two days, pulling off only for gas and restroom breaks. We stopped in Kansas last night so I could get a few hours of sleep, and then it was back in the car at four a.m. for another full day today.

  I would categorize my ensemble as “road trip chic.” My snug-fitting black yoga pants end just below my knees, and I’m wearing a T-shirt that says Peanut butter jelly time! The outfit is topped off with bright orange flip-flops and the ponytail I threw my hair into this morning.

  So, you know, the exact outfit I wouldn’t have chosen to be wearing for a reunion with my first love.

  I lean into my car for the scrap of paper with Dad’s address and shove it into William’s hand. “Can you help me find this?”

  He doesn’t look at the paper but frowns at me. “Seriously? You’re lost?” He pauses a beat. “In New Hope?” His tone suggests that I’ve gotten myself lost in a paper bag. And, okay, New Hope is pretty damn small, but I haven’t lived here in seven years, and it’s changed a lot. The good areas are all run down now, the factories are closed, and the vast expanses of open land by the river have been developed into fancy neighborhoods with yuppy McMansions so ostentatious I can practically smell their oversized mortgages.

  “My GPS keeps trying to get me to drive into the river.”

  At least that wipes the scowl off his face. “Yeah, GPS systems haven’t kept up with the developments around here real well.” He rubs the back of his neck, and the movement sends the muscles in his arm and shoulder flexing. Between his sweaty muscles and my memories, I’m pretty sure my panties have all but disintegrated.

  I clear my throat and resort to asphalt-gazing again. How hard is it to put on a shirt? “If you can point me in the right direction, I’ll get out of your hair. I’m sure I’m the last person you wanted to see today.”

  His grunt has me looking up at him again. Those blue eyes, those crazy blond curls. That mouth. “Cally…”

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as our gazes tangle. He takes a step toward me, and he’s so close, I have to lift my chin to keep my eyes on his, have to curl my fingers into my fists to keep from touching him. He’s sweaty and solid and so damn gorgeous.

  I wait—for him to tell me how horrible I am for what I did to him, for him to ask me why I did what I did. I don’t know what I’d say. It’s hard to imagine that, once, leaving New Hope—leaving William—seemed like the worst thing that could happen to me. I was so wrong.

  But he doesn’t ask and he doesn’t move away from me. His gaze dips to my lips for the briefest moment, and the way my body responds to his nearness, even all these years later, even after…everything…it only confirms what I suspected.

  After seven years. After the lamest breakup in the history of breakups. After breaking his heart and dismissing my own, I’m still very much his.

  ***

  William

  Cally.

  I can hardly breathe. My brain doesn’t have time for something as trivial as oxygen when it’s so busy cataloguing her features, memorizing the exact shade of her mocha eyes, warring with the anger and regret that have sprung to life as if they never left me to begin with.

  I never thought I’d see her again. I didn’t think I wanted to.

  The moment I step closer, I realize my mistake. Being near her is like a sip of water to desert-parched lips. It whips something through me—memories, lust, first love. Heartbreak. She tilts her lips up to mine, and I actually think for one goddamned ridiculous minute that I might kiss her, that I want to. That I would swallow all my pride and forgive her for just one taste.

  I step back before I can give in to the impulse, and her cheeks blaze to life, her blush as cute as the rest of her. That’s the word for her: cute. Sweet smile and peppy ponytail, she exudes cuteness.

  Except her ass. Her ass doesn’t even land in the same stratosphere as cute, and those tight little pants do nothing to hide its soft, round curves. And her breasts. There’s definitely nothing cute about the way her T-shirt stretches across their fullness. Or her go-for-miles legs. Not to mention the narrow strip of skin exposed between the hem of her shirt and waistband of her pants. Just looking at the single inch of flesh below her navel, and I practically taste strawberry wine.

  Moonlight. Her warm skin under my tongue. The sound of her moan as my mouth dips lower.

  The memory grabs hold of my senses and won’t let go.

  Fuck. I can’t even lie to myself. Nothing about her says cute. Everything about her says sex. And mine.

  “Directions?” she asks. “To my father’s house?”

  “Do you want me to walk you there? It’s close.”

  I immediately regret the impulsive suggestion. I should be giving her directions, putting her in the car, and sending her back out of my life. But I want to be close to her for a minute, to prove to myself that I’m bigger than a seven-year-old shit breakup.

  Or I want to prove to myself she’s more than just a dream.

  She worries that plump bottom lip between her teeth because, obviously, she’s trying to torture me. How can I want her so much when I thought I hated her?

  “I don’t bite, Cally.”

  She mutters something I can’t quite make out. It kind of sounds like “Damn shame,” but I can’t be sure because she’s grabbing her purse and avoiding my eyes.

  “Are you staying long?” I ask as we start walking. My voice sounds too damn hopeful and I hate that, but what are the chances she’d show up here again, let alone find herself lost right in front of my house?

  She’s here to see her dad, I remind myself. That shouldn’t come as a surprise, but as far as I know this is the only time she’s been back since she moved away.

  “No. Not too long. Maybe a couple of days. I…my mom died, and I need to get my sisters settled in with my dad.”

  I stop walking and turn to face her, all my bitterness and aggravation falling away.

  She’s looking at the ground, those worry lines making an appearance again. I grab her hand and squeeze. “I’m sorry.” I don’t ask what happened. Having lost both of my parents when I was a kid, I know how quickly that question gets old.

  “Me too.”

  We both know there’s not much else to say, so we walk instead. She follows me, and we cut through my yard to the paved path down by the river. I resist the urge to point out my house, to show her how well I’ve done for myself. It would be mostly a lie anyway.

  “So you still live here in New Hope?” she asks softly.

  “I came back after undergrad.”

  “Anybody else stick around?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. Does she already know my screwed-up history with the Thompson family, or is the question sincere? “Some of the guys from the team—Max, Sam, Grant. And all the Thompson girls except Krystal. She just moved to Florida with her boyfriend last month.”

  The mention of her old friends brings a smile to her lips and lights up her face, making her look like her old self. “Lizzy and Hanna are in town?”

  “You should see if you can hook up with them before you leave. They’d love to see you.”

  She doesn’t reply, but there’s something about the way her face changes that tells me she’s not going to seek them out. I wish I didn’t need so badly to understand why. Cally didn’t want to leave when her mom moved her away. She didn’t want to leave her friends or her family. Didn’t want to leave the life she had here. She was determin
ed to keep in touch with us all, even talked about coming back here for college. She hadn’t been gone but a couple of months when all that changed, and suddenly she would have nothing to do with any of us. Even me.

  Arlen Fisher’s cabin is along the river just off New Dreyer Avenue. The original road was closed in favor of creating some common green space for the new construction. This, of course, was code for putting some distance between the old rough neighborhood and the ritzy new one.

  When I point to Arlen’s house from the trail, she frowns.

  “It’s really…small.”

  Her dad’s a rough man. Simple to the extreme. His cabin sits in the trees just beyond the flood zone. It’s small, no-frills, and falling apart.

  “Are you nervous?”

  She’s slowed her steps, consciously or not. “I’ve only seen him a handful of times since we moved.”

  That surprises me. Someone would have told me if she’d been back, as there aren’t exactly secrets in this town, but I would have expected that her dad took trips to Nevada to see all three of his girls. “Really?”

  She shrugs. “It wasn’t what we intended, but things just never worked out. You know my dad. He has other priorities.”

  I remember, vaguely. The man liked books and studying religious texts. He liked to spend his time meditating and his money visiting psychics and spiritual leaders. “That sucks.”

  “The road goes both ways,” she says, and I don’t know if she’s reminding herself of her own responsibility to the relationship or his.

  “How do your sisters feel about moving back here?”

  She leans over and picks up a gnarled tree branch. It’s as long as her legs, and its beautiful knots stand in contrast to the smooth skin of her hands. I already wish I had my camera.

  “He sent me my ballet slippers,” she says softly. “After he found out about Mom’s death. I didn’t even know he had them, and they showed up in this package—these tiny little slippers Mom and I had picked out together before my first lesson.” Her lips curve in a smile. “I was only five, and I remember him telling me, ‘If you want to be a ballerina, just believe you will be.’ It was always that simple with him.”

  Once, it was that simple with Cally, too. I was drawn to her because that unfettered optimism radiated from her. After spending my formative years in my cynical grandmother’s house, Cally was a breath of fresh air.

  I look up at the house. The sun has dropped in the sky, and the little cabin looms darkly in the shade of the trees. “Are you ready?”

  “I think so.”

  “Want me to wait here?” Again, I surprise myself. I should be itching to get away from her, from the reminder of what she did to me, but it all seems so long ago and unimportant under the pall of the crappy last couple of years. And next to the news of her mother’s death, my old resentment seems downright trivial.

  Her shoulders drop with her exhale. She’s nervous. “Thanks.”

  She maneuvers through the trees and up the steep wooden stairs to the house. After knocking on the door twice, she turns the branch in her hands, waiting, fidgeting, while I wait in the trees. This whole thing should feel much more awkward than it does.

  She knocks again, leaning forward this time to peek in the window.

  Two minutes later, she gives up and heads down the stairs.

  “Y’all looking for Fisher?” someone calls when Cally reaches me.

  Cally perks up. “Yes. Do you know when he’ll be home?”

  I recognize Mrs. Svenderson from my grandmother’s beauty parlor. She swats away gnats as she moves toward us. “Dunno when,” she says. “He just left, so I ’magine it’ll be a few days, least. Usually is.”

  I watch Cally as she digests this. Emotions flash across her face one by one—disappointment, sorrow, frustration, and finally anger, settling in around her jaw and eyes.

  “Thanks. I appreciate you telling me.”

  “I thought you were too good to come visit your old dad,” Mrs. Svenderson says. “What’s brought you here now?”

  Cally gives a polite smile but doesn’t answer the question. The old women around here don’t beat around the bush. They figure life’s too short, I guess, and ask what they want to ask.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Cally says, as if the woman didn’t just insult her. “Thank you for your help.”

  When she reaches my side, we turn together and make our way back along the river.

  “Did he know you were coming?”

  “He knew.” Again, anger flashes in her eyes, and it looks comfortable there, as if this Cally is angry a lot. The girl I knew wasn’t like that, but a lot can change in seven years.

  “Do you have a place to stay? Where are your sisters?”

  “I dropped them at the little motel back by the highway. I wanted to make sure Dad was ready for us. They’ve had enough surprises lately.”

  What motel by the highway? “Wait. The Cheap Sleep?”

  She shrugs. “Sounds about right.”

  Cally and her sisters certainly aren’t living large if that’s where they’re staying. “You know people don’t actually sleep there, right?”

  She chuckles. I like the sound of it. It’s not the girly laugh she used to have, but neither is it an adult’s carefully crafted facsimile of a laugh. It’s soft. Sweet. Honest. “We’ll be fine. It’s just for a few nights. Until Dad returns home and I can get them settled with him.”

  We walk in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the rush of the river and our shoes scuffing against the paved path.

  “Do you live around here,” she asks, “or are you in town with your grandmother?”

  When we cut back through my yard to her car, I nod to my house. “That’s mine.”

  It’s odd, seeing it through her eyes. I’m proud of the home I built—a two-story, brick behemoth with a gorgeous flagstone patio in the back—but as I watch her take it in, I’m almost embarrassed at the excess. Cally and her family never had much. In fact, they rarely even had enough. And now they’re staying at the Cheap Sleep, and her dad is living in that dilapidated old cabin. Not much has changed.

  She forces a smile. “It’s beautiful. I’m very happy for you.”

  She steps away, but I grab her hand fast.

  “Cally.”

  She turns to me, those big brown eyes, those perfect pink lips.

  There are a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t want anything to do with her, but I have two, maybe three days before she disappears from my life again. Maybe for good this time. I can’t handle the idea of this being the end, and I’ll be damned if I’m letting her stay at that shitty motel. “Why don’t you and your sisters stay with me?”

  She snorts. “You surely don’t have room for us and your wife and two-point-four children.”

  “No wife. No kids. Just me and way too damn much space.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s sweet of you, but we’ll be fine. You’ve already done more than most would have.” She walks to her car, slides into her seat, and pulls away without another glance my way, leaving me alone with my memories of strawberry wine.

  Wish I May is available now.

  About the Author

  A New York Times and USA Today bestselling romance author, Lexi Ryan considers herself the luckiest chick she knows. Her books have been described as intense, emotional, and wickedly sexy. Lexi herself has only been described using two of those adjectives (feel free to guess but she’s not telling). When not writing, she enjoys watching football, perfecting her chocolate martini, and reading her way to the title of Biggest Romance Fangirl Evah. A former college professor, her biggest fears include faculty meetings and large stacks of ungraded freshman composition papers. She now writes full-time from her home in Indiana, where she lives with her husband and two children and their neurotic dog. You can visit Lexi at her website www.lexiryan.com or find her on Twitter @writerlexiryan or Facebook at facebook.com/lexiryanauthor.

 

  Lexi Ryan, Stolen Wishes