by Autumn Grey
She stretches her hand out to me again, fingers wiggling impatiently. “Let’s dance, then. I’m offering you an olive branch. You better take it because it might not happen again anytime soon.”
Thoughts of our lips fused together finally clear out from my mind at her words. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Grace. These babies”—I point at my feet—“might look nice, and sure enough, they walk all right, but they’re weapons of mass destruction when it comes to dancing.”
What I don’t say is that after a day in the sun working on the gazebo, I’m also pretty sure the smell coming off me will make her eyes water. I cringe at the thought. I’d rather she not be forced to deal with the scent of my sweat so early on in our newly formed friendship. If ever.
She snorts so loudly, a rather unladylike sound, and the fact she doesn’t even look concerned about it is such a huge turn-on. “Show me what you got, Mr. Good Boy.”
I sigh and stand, setting the unopened can of Coke on the table. “I think I should leave—”
“Just one dance,” she rushes out. “I’ll try not to corrupt you too much, I promise.” She looks up at me innocently, but her lips twitch, fighting a smile.
I roll my eyes and smile. I study her for a heartbeat, knowing full well I should really book it out of here. Like right this second. But the thought of dancing with her is like a siren song, and everything else fades as the loud thumping in my ears grows louder. My only motivation right now is to keep that mischievous look on her face. And if that means showing her just how bad of a dancer I am, then so be it.
I’d been so focused on her I didn’t notice the songs had shifted from fast to slow while we’d been talking. But now here I am, standing in front of Grace and wondering what to do with my hands. And legs. And hips. And eyes because they might try to stray below her neckline and get a good look at her—
I swallow hard and clear my throat.
She takes my hands and places them on her waist, then puts her hands around my shoulders, hugging my neck as best as she can. We’re a little awkward, but she feels amazing against me as though my hands were built to rest on her like this.
I shouldn’t be feeling happy about this. I should step away. Instead, I press closer, her soft body curving into my hard one.
She looks up at me, and even though she has this dazed look telling me she’s not quite sober, I can’t help being sucked into those rich maple-syrupy depths.
I’m so fucked.
I’m about to mutter a quick, “I can’t do this, Grace,” under my breath, but the second she shifts closer and her head hits my chest, she relaxes in my arms, and the words fly out of my head.
Wow. She’s so short. I knew she was, but this position makes our height difference that much more obvious.
Especially when her stomach is literally brushing against my crotch.
I groan inwardly, wondering if she can feel how hard I am, or if she’s ignoring it to spare me the embarrassment. If I don’t get my body under control and stop the lustful thoughts, she’ll be herding me out of the diner door.
The second she drops her gaze to my chest, I exhale, relieved. I look around us and find Debra watching, and I can’t tell whether she’s curious or happy.
“Is your mom okay?” I ask Grace.
She stiffens but stays in my arms.
“She’s just having a bad week. Bev and I thought this little party would cheer her up.”
I’m dying to ask her what’s going on, but I have a feeling she would find it intrusive. So I say, “I think it’s working. She looks much better than she did this morning.”
Grace doesn’t say anything. I focus on swaying my body without moving my feet until the song ends. I drop my hands and hastily stumble away from her, tugging my T-shirt down. My whole face feels like it’s on fire. Being this close to her affects me more than I expected.
It hits me then.
I’m not sure I can be friends with Grace without wanting to touch her, without wanting more. I’m sweating from just holding myself back.
“Are you leaving?” she asks, surprised when I take a step toward the door.
“Uh . . . yeah. I’d better go. Ivan and MJ are waiting for me back at the apartment.” My voice sounds shaky, and I clear my throat, darting a gaze over her shoulder at Debra, Beverly, and Mark, who are now seated in a booth. Their heads are down, and they seem focused on the large piece of paper—a seating plan for Beverly’s wedding. “Thanks for the dance. Tell Bev, Mark, and your mom thanks, as well.”
Abruptly, I turn around and slip out the door like a coward and jog to my car parked two blocks away. Before I even unlock the door to my truck, fat drops of rain begin to pelt the ground around me, and one hits my cheek as I look up at the darkening sky. I hop inside my car and shut the door, then lay my head on the headrest, mouth opening with a sigh.
I need to keep my distance from Grace for both our sakes. If I don’t, I’m worried I’ll act on my fantasies, and that would ruin everything.
Ivan is going to shit his pants when I tell him what happened. I can already see him laughing and saying, “I told you so.”
I jam the key into the ignition and push my foot on the gas. The rain is coming down hard now, making the wipers sway like crazy. Grace’s words flash inside my head.
It’s going to rain tonight. I can feel it.
Have you ever kissed someone in the rain?
And I’m back to imagining how it’d feel to have her lips moving against mine. My tongue caressing hers.
I groan and shove those thoughts in the back of my head, then force myself to focus on the drive home.
On Friday, which is my normal day off from work, I make it a point to avoid Deb’s Diner because I’m feeling restless. I feel like I’m coming out of my own skin.
I went for a run as soon as I woke up, but it didn’t help. I needed something to distract me, which is why I’m waiting for Ivan’s shift to be over. As soon as he walks out of the bed and breakfast where he works as a receptionist, I drag him to Scarborough with me to ride the go-karts. The fact that he doesn’t press me for information even though he senses something is wrong makes me appreciate him more. But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he asks.
Four hours later, we drive back to Portland, but I’m still wound tight. MJ is waiting for us as soon as I park my truck outside our apartment complex. They’re going on a date. She invites me to join them, but I’m in a shitty mood, so I decline the offer and spend the evening playing my guitar and watching YouTube videos. It’s pathetic, really, since I’m the one who put myself in this position to begin with.
I think about calling my uncle for advice. As a priest, he’s always had a good ear, listening carefully to people’s problems and supporting them on their quest to finding solutions.
But I end up chickening out, feeling like I need more time to think about it myself before talking it out with someone else.
I head for the shower, my thoughts a jumbled mess, and before long, I’m rubbing one out. I’m more aggressive than I’d usually be with myself, hoping to ease the tension that has my body in its claws. I come hard with Grace’s name spilling out of my lips like a prayer.
That night, I fall asleep with guilt and confusion as my bed companions, desperate for answers. But no matter how much I look for them, they’re always still too far out of my reach.
On Saturday, I wake up feeling more in control of my life. In fact, I’m ready to discuss it with someone. As I get dressed for Beverly and Mark’s wedding, the need becomes pressing.
I’m watching as the bride and groom—now Mr. and Mrs. Steinman—finish their first dance when Ivan finally works up the nerve to ask about Wednesday. Quietly, I tell him everything that happened.
The party. The questions about kissing. The dancing. Me leaving like a coward.
He smiles and says, “I told you so,” just as I knew he would. Overnight, I’ve managed to convince myself I’ve got everything under control once
again and tell Ivan so.
That is, until my gaze veers to the left and I catch a glimpse of Grace walking across the lawn toward the gazebo where the wedding took place earlier. Her off-white, short-sleeved dress draws attention to her rich coloring, accentuating her curves all the way to her legs, where the dress stops a few inches above her knees.
She returns a few minutes later, carrying a large bag, and hands it to her mom, who looks considerably better than the last time I saw her. Standing side by side, the similarities between the two of them are staggering. Both are short with slightly rounded faces and upturned noses. Debra’s skin is a darker shade of brown than Grace’s.
“You have it handled, huh?” Ivan asks, amused.
I whip my head around to look at him, unable to find a retort because he’s right. Mentally, my tongue has been hanging out this whole time as I stared at Grace.
It’s embarrassing really.
The song ends, and the newlyweds leave the dance floor, returning to their seats. The band starts playing “Sway” by Michael Bublé. Soon enough, the dance floor is once again filled with people.
“You should just go ahead and ask her to go with us to watch Sublime Chaos play.”
“I thought MJ asked her.”
“Yes. But I think it’d be more tempting coming from you.”
I rub my palm down my face and stretch my legs in front of me, subtly watching as Grace is led to the dance floor by Beverly and Mark’s twelve-year-old son, Sam. He’s staring up at her with pure adoration as they start to move to the music.
That kid has better moves than me, I realize with a sigh.
“The worst thing she can say is no,” Ivan adds after a beat, one brow rising to his hairline. “Right?”
I laugh under my breath and shake my head. Ivan’s wrong.
The worst thing she can say is yes. And it terrifies me.
God, she looks so sexy swaying her hips like that—
“Dude,” Ivan says, laughing. “You look about ready to eat her right here and now.”
“What?” I turn to him, brows set in a frown.
His gaze darts to my lap, then back up to mine. “Seriously? What are you, thirteen? We’re at a wedding, Callan, and here you are getting a hard-on for some girl!”
“Shut up.” I grab one of the linen napkins from the table and lay it over my lap.
“You need to stop thinking about her that way and actually do it, man.”
“So I’m supposed to take advice from you now? Who are you, Dr. Phil?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I mean, aren’t you exhausted? You’re torturing yourself. You should sow your wild oats before you leave in September.”
I drag my fingers through my hair in frustration. “Can we not have this conversation here?”
“Just looking out for you, dude.”
I stare at him. He raises his hands in surrender, stands, and then backs away. “Just saying.”
He heads toward the table where MJ’s sitting, then ducks his head to kiss her forehead. She smiles sweetly up at him, and he sits on the empty chair next to her, tugging her on his lap. He looks in my direction and catches me watching them and mouths “Go,” before moving his gaze from me to where I know, without having to look, Grace stands.
I search the hall for my uncle and find him sitting with a bunch of other guys from town. Our eyes meet, but then his gaze slides over to Grace as though he can read my thoughts, then back to me.
What’s with everyone knowing exactly what I’m thinking about as if it’s written on my forehead?
I force myself to look away from the knowing look in his eyes and back to the girl on the dance floor. My palms itch at the memory of us dancing together at the diner—my hands on her hips, her head on my chest—
My heart speeds up as I watch her move.
She dances as though she’s made from wind and water, effortlessly and gracefully. I trail her with my gaze, my body following her as though she’s a magnet and I don’t have a choice but to obey the pull. She twirls and shimmies her shoulders, throwing her head back and laughing.
Her beautiful curls are secured on top of her head in a loose ponytail, swaying as she moves. I feel the urge to run my fingers through them just to see if they feel as soft as I’ve imagined on many occasions.
I have a feeling given time, Grace could be the kind of woman men make sacrifices for. She has the power to make a man forget his dreams and help her pursue hers just to see her happy. Just to be near her.
I want to be near her.
The thought washes over me, making me catch my breath. Well, I’ll just have to practice self-control much harder.
I head down the hallway leading to the washrooms just as the song comes to an end. I walk out a few minutes later, intending to go back to my table. Laughter reaches me from across the room. It sounds light and fresh, like the beginning of spring. I inhale briefly to calm my nerves, and before I know what’s happening, my feet are guiding me toward the laugh with one goal in mind.
Grace is standing at the bar with her back braced on the counter. I’d recognize her laughter among a thousand voices.
Her head is thrown back again, eyes closed. She’s smiling like she knows something others don’t. I’d give my left arm to know what she’s thinking right now.
I watch her, unable to turn away from the sight. She’s too addictive. Too fascinating.
Then she opens her eyes and tilts her head toward me.
“Hey, Father Callan,” she greets, a playful glint in her eyes.
I find myself chuckling. “I haven’t earned that title yet.”
“Sol,” she murmurs, then makes a sound in the back of her throat, almost a purr, sending heat straight to my dick. Is she doing this on purpose? Who is this person? It’s like she has morphed overnight from a sullen teen to a tempting seductress.
Sucking in a deep breath, I watch her watching me with interest. She lowers her gaze, a rare smile touching her lips.
“Want a drink?”
Sol shoves his hands inside his black pants and nods. “Yeah. Sure.” His voice, usually calm and deep, sounds rough, as if he just woke up from a deep sleep. He clears his throat and says, “Water, please.”
“Water? At a wedding?” I tsk and sigh. “Did you know that drinking water at a wedding is considered bad luck for the newlyweds?”
His eyes go wide at that. “Reall—” He cuts himself off and scratches the back of his head, mirroring my teasing smile. “Good one, Grace.”
God, I love teasing him. He looks awkwardly adorable when he’s flustered.
I laugh. “So juice?”
He smirks. “Yeah, thanks.”
After I place our order for two cranberry juices, we both fall silent, watching the bartender prepare our drinks. As soon as they’re ready, we leave the bar area. I twirl the glass in my hand, scanning the room to avoid staring at Sol for too long.
I still don’t know what to make of his abrupt departure last Wednesday. Maybe I did or said something to upset him. I hadn’t been the friendliest when he first approached me that day, but I thought after my apology and our dance at Mom’s cheering-up party, he and I were on the same page.
Apparently, I was wrong.
“So.” I face him and lift the glass. “Cheers to the newlyweds.”
“Hear, hear.” He touches his glass to mine, then tips it into his mouth.
I sip from my glass, taking the time to study him from under my lashes. I inhale sharply when I realize he’s staring at me.
Busted.
Color floods his cheeks, and his lips tilt upward at the corners as he pushes back the locks of hair from his forehead.
“So what’s your verdict?” he asks.
“Cute.”
His eyebrows dip thoughtfully. “You think I’m cute?”
I shrug. “I think so, yeah.”
He exhales loudly. “Wow.”
Judging by his expression, I can tell Solomon Callan has no idea the effect hi
s striking sapphire eyes have on people, including me.
“Cute.” He shakes his head and chuckles, then drinks from his glass.
“Is it so hard to believe?”
“You’re the first person to ever tell me that.”
“Seriously?” My eyes widen in disbelief.
He shrugs, dropping his gaze to his dress shoes, and murmurs, “Thanks.”
He asks after a beat, “Want to sit down?” He points at four empty seats a few feet away.
I nod, heading that way, and feel him press his palm on my lower back. My body stiffens involuntarily. Not because his touch is unpleasant. Quite the contrary. It’s unexpected and rather nice.
“Sorry.” He draws his hand back immediately and shoves it inside his pocket.
“It’s fine,” I say, sitting down. “I was just surprised.”
He sits down across from me and sets his glass on the table. His leg bounces as he watches the crowd and his finger taps, taps, taps a beat on his thigh.
“So what happened the other night? At the diner, I mean? You left in a hurry.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head and shuts it again, pressing his lips firmly together. “I was exhausted, I guess.”
“Oh,” I mutter, then take a sip of my juice. “I wondered if—”
“You broke your promise not to corrupt me too much?” He smirks.
I slap a hand over my eyes and laugh, embarrassed. “Yes. I wasn’t exactly sober.” My hand falls away from my face, and I hold it out to him. “I don’t want to mess up this chance at friendship. So . . .” I trail off and wait patiently, hopefully, for him to meet me halfway.
His big hand engulfs mine in a firm handshake. My body jolts at the contact, and every part of me comes alive. I’m mesmerized by the veins on his forearm under the rosary bracelet, disappearing beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down shirt.
His gaze slides to our hands, moving up to rove over my face and settling on my lips. His mouth parts subtly, the tip of his tongue peeking out to lick his bottom lip.