by Shandi Boyes
My confusion switches to hope when Wesley says, “First thing tomorrow, I’m going to the store to buy popcorn. That was one of the best firework shows I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Do you think?”
Wesley smiles a grin that should be gracing the fashion magazines of the world while nodding his head. “He wasn’t here to discuss business. He was here to ensure this cabin has more than one bedroom. He wants you nearly as badly as I want to keep him away from you.”
“Give him a chance before you woo him with your martial art skills,” I plead, my words tainted with laughter.
After being approached on the street by the gorgeous instructor from our local martial arts class, Wesley signed up for three months’ worth of lessons. He lasted five minutes. The time it took for him to see the wedding band wrapped around the handsome man’s hand. Flirting seems to be the latest marketing craze in New York this year.
“If I were to give him a real chance, it wouldn’t be my martial arts impressing him.” Wesley waggles his brows before adding on, “It’d be my—”
I throw one of the scatter cushions from the couch into his face before he can finish his sentence. “The only person in this room who gets to wrestle Carey’s anaconda is me,” I warn, my tone half-serious, half-playful.
“If I weren’t worried about your dad having your phone tapped, I could offer up some suggestions on how we could both wrangle Carey’s beast. But not wanting to find myself buried in a shallow ditch, I’ll keep my dirty thoughts to myself.”
Concerns that Wesley’s taunt may be factually based race to the forefront of my mind when my cell phone shrills with my dad’s private ringtone not even two seconds later.
Wesley hooks his thumb to his room. “I’m going to say my final goodbyes.”
Laughing, I answer my phone. “Hey, Dad, I was just about to call you.”
Chapter 21
Hawke
I know my grief is a sickening mix of remorse and guilt—I just had no clue it also made me a coward.
Chapter 22
Five days later. . .
“Will this work?”
I crank my neck to Carey as a grin tugs my lips high. “It’s perfect,” I breathe out in a long, breathless pant that mimics the moans I make in the bedroom. “And a little freaky,” I add on, struggling to ignore the way his lazy smile at my wide-eyed response causes an ache between my legs.
I twist my lips and turn to face the cabin Cormack rented for Wesley and me to use during our two-month long stay in Ravenshoe. “If I’d known Noah and Emily lived in the cabin next door, I would have taken sneaky shots of them. With the going rate sitting at a few thousand per picture, I’d never have to work again,” I jest.
Carey laughs, enhancing the lively throb surging through my body. It is well known that my dad is a wealthy man. But his wealth doesn’t just stem from racing; it is also based on his very shrewd business mind. Considering I'm his only child, everyone assumes my personal wealth is attached to his. That isn’t true. I don’t spend a single penny I haven’t earned myself. And although my bank account show I could retire at any time I see fit, I choose to work. Not just because photography is my life, but because I refuse to live off money tainted with deception and malice. Truth doesn’t cost you a thing, but a lie can cost you everything. I learned that the hard way.
After granting my eyes request for one last gawk at Carey standing at the edge of an infinity pool that seamlessly merges into the brilliant blue ocean of Bronte’s Peak, I bend down to fiddle with my camera bag. My heart rate picks up when I feel the heat of Carey’s gaze on the bare skin high on my thighs. The late afternoon summer sun has made the temperature so stifling, I’m tempted to jump into the pool fully clothed. I’ve opted for a pair of frilly-edged denim shorts and a white and blue checkered shirt, and although I’m not representing my company to the best of my ability, I’ll let it slide since I’ve gained Carey’s attention. I’d sell part of my soul for another night with him.
Swallowing my absurd inner monologue, I gather four rolls of film out of my bag and slip them into my pocket. In the reflection of Carey’s sunglasses, I notice the sun is bouncing off my blonde locks, shrouding me in a golden halo, and my shoulders are already sun-kissed. I’m not the only one taking advantage of the sun. Carey’s black suit jacket has been removed, the sleeves of his shirt have been rolled up to his elbows, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, erotically showcasing a chest that should be as illegal as my shameful ogling.
“What do you need?” Carey asks, assuming I'm staring at him because I require his attention. I do need his assistance, but not with anything appropriate to demand while we are both working.
When Carey’s brow arches higher than the rim of his glasses, shamefully calling me out, I mumble, “You.” If he can already read my private thoughts, why not just say them out loud?
Carey smirks a wicked grin that sends a rush of desire to my throbbing core. “I meant what did you need from the guys?” he clarifies, his deep voice adding to my excitement.
“Five minutes alone with you,” I wish, letting my unbridled hankering speak on my behalf.
When the heat radiating from Carey’s eyes scorches my body more than the searing sun, it dawns on me that I said my naughty thoughts out loud so he could hear them. His gaze spears me in place, sending my libido into haywire. I rub my thighs together, hoping to ease the insane throb his sunglasses-concealed glare incites.
My awkward squirming halts when a rowdy chuckle comes from behind my shoulder. After masking my excitement with a neutral expression, I spin around to face the ruckus. The four band members of Rise Up are standing behind Carey and me, watching what I assumed was a private exchange. Their eyes are eager, their mouths quirked into mischievous grins. They look a cross between flabbergasted and fascinated.
Pretending my flaming cheeks are from the sweltering sun, I say, “Act exactly how you would any other day you’re here. We’re not shooting the cover today; I’m just capturing your everyday life.”
The temperature rises even more when Slater shrugs his shoulders before whipping off his shirt and dive bombing into the pool.
“Dear Mother of Joseph,” I mumble when Noah, Marcus and Nick soon follow Slater’s lead. If I knew that was all I needed to say to be inundated with rippled abs and banging guns, I would have said it hours ago.
As the bandmates frolic in the pool, I snap several candid shots of them while striving to ignore Carey’s watchful eye. Because his eyes are covered with reflective sunglasses, I can’t tell if he is watching me with zeal or disinterest. I'm hoping it is interest, but with pendulum-swinging moods and a demeanor I can’t read, I can only hope that is the case.
By the time I’ve gone through half a dozen rolls of film, the band soon forgets I’m here. Now the real magic happens. Gone is the pop group whose bank balances are rocketing into the next galaxy even faster than their songs are shooting up the charts; it’s been replaced with a group of friends spending their Friday afternoon lazing by the pool.
By the time the sun has become a forgotten memory, I’ve run out of film, and my feet are aching. Although some of the photos I’ve taken will never be released, I'm sure the band will treasure them for years to come. I caught how Nick runs his hand down the side of Jenni’s inflamed cheeks after he playfully teases her. I seized the moment Noah fell asleep on a lounge chair with his two-month-old daughter, Maddie, lying on his chest. I netted for eternity Slater peering out into the ocean deep in thought, and how Marcus seems like a solitary man, but his eyes expose he is so much more.
I even managed to capture a sneaky picture of Carey holding Jenni and Nick’s eight-month-old son, Jasper. When Jasper crawled over to play with the shoelaces on his military boots, Carey peered around to ensure no one was watching before he cradled Jasper in his arms. Their embrace only lasted long enough for Jasper to cover Carey’s cheek with a sloppy kiss, but it was an event no time will ever erase from my memory.
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br /> “How come you use film?”
Holding back my gasp of shock that someone snuck up on me, I lift my eyes from my camera bag. A pair of intense green eyes meets my curious gaze. They are brimming with silent apologies for scaring me.
“Film is light; digital is electricity,” I answer, my shaky words divulging the hammering of my heart. “I’ll most likely use a digital camera for the album cover, but for the commemorative photos, I prefer to use film. Nothing compares to holding an image in your hand. You can’t touch and smell a photo through a monitor.”
Marcus nods his head. “Kind of like people. Internet dating sucks.”
I laugh. “Yes. I’m glad I’m past the era of internet dating.”
“You’re a good match for Hawke,” he mutters after running his hand over the scruff of his chin. Spotting my shocked expression, he adds on, “He also acts years older than he is.”
“Events in life age you,” I mumble before I can stop my words.
Marcus nods his head. “That they do,” he responds. From his tone, I know he isn’t just referring to Carey and me. He has experienced his own demons. “I’m sorry for whatever happened to you that caused the pain in your eyes, but you shouldn’t see it as the end of your life; you should see it as the beginning. Every tragedy has a lesson equal in significance to its heartbreak.”
I peer at him in silence, shocked the words of a stranger can spark such a response from me. Although I’d never wish what I went through on anyone, what Wesley said last month was true. I wouldn’t be the woman I am now without leaping over the obstacles my life has thrown at me. I just wish I handled the aftermath of my attack with the attitude I have now. If I had done that, those closest to me wouldn’t still be hurting years later.
Marcus rubs his hands together. “That’s enough of this buzzkiller discussion. What’s your drink of choice?”
My first thoughts are to decline his offer. My brain has other ideas, blurting out, “Wine,” before I have the chance to cite an objection.
When I finish zipping up my camera bag, Marcus removes it from my grasp and slings it over his shoulder. “Go find a vacant seat around the fire pit; I’ll return with a bottle of wine and some dessert,” he suggests, nudging his head to the fire pit the rest of his bandmates and partners are gathered around. “I promise, none of them bite. Except perhaps Slater. But he’ll do it as gently as possible.”
I don’t know why, but the first image that rushed into my mind from Marcus’s playful taunt was his deliciously plump lips biting smooth, milky skin. My intuition tells me there is something more to that man than his humble personality and pulse-racing good looks.
Just like it did around the picnic table earlier today, the conversation between the band members and their friends flows as easy as water out of a tap. They all appear so comfortable around each other, which is a rare treat when you have so many strong personalities. Even Wesley has settled into the group dynamic without the awkwardness that plagued him last month.
Five minutes after I take an empty seat between Wesley and Jenni, Marcus exits the cabin. A grin curls on my lips when I notice what he is holding in his hands. It isn’t the bottle of wine causing my girly response, it is the fact he’s dragged a reluctant Carey away from his post on the front porch. From the mischievous gleam brightening Marcus’s already glistening eyes, I can tell the reasoning behind his sudden interest in Carey. He’s bringing me my dessert.
“Jasper fell asleep hours ago,” Jenni says as she stands from her seat so Marcus can shove Carey into her spot next to me.
Marcus’s abrupt movements cause the back of Carey’s fingers to brush the skin high on my bare thigh. When a flash of a memory from our night together rockets to the forefront of my mind, I writhe in my seat, doing anything to lessen the jolt of ecstasy sparking my core. My lips part as I gasp in greedy breaths. That night. . . my god! Those fingers are magic. Long enough to reach the sweet spot inside me only a handful of men have found, and thick enough to ensure I’ll never forget feeling them. Magic.
My juvenile response to Carey’s simplistic touch fades when he notices my awkward squirming. The smug look on his face when he runs the same set of fingers I was daydreaming about down my flushed cheek—god! If I weren’t worried about rejection dousing the fire raging in my womb, I’d give my best shot to extend that cockiness to his guilt-riddled eyes. I hate that he feels guilt when he is with me, but I’m also grateful I can make him feel anything. Something is better than nothing.
My eyes shift sideways when Slater brutally gags. His reaction isn’t from eating Noah’s beef patties that were charcoal on the outside and undercooked on the inside. It is from the throaty moan Nick released when Jenni slipped into his lap. With Carey taking up the last seat around the fire pit, Jenni presumably had no other option. But after photographing the band for the past six hours, I know that isn’t the case. Jenni and Nick are an extremely affectionate couple who have no qualms about displaying their fondness for each other in front of an audience.
“I’d sign up for another six weeks of rehab just to erase that noise from my mind,” Slater pushes out through a gag.
Jenni’s cheeks turn the color of the embers in the fire when Carey backs up Slater’s pledge. “I’d work for free for a year if Cormack would approve my request of placing at least three floors between our hotel rooms when we go on tour.”
Everyone circling the fire pit breaks into laughter, including Jenni and Nick. I’m not shocked by their response. The band and their partners appear to have a relationship similar to Wesley and me. They can be serious when they need to be, but for the most part, they are each other’s biggest supporters.
Bristling with happiness, I tilt toward Carey’s side. My palms grow sweaty when Carey inhales a sharp breath from my closeness. Clearly, I'm not the only one affected by brief, feather-like touches.
“That wasn’t very nice,” I mutter softly.
He leans in closer, filling the minuscule speck of air between us with his unique virile scent. My heart kicks into overdrive when he mutters, “That’s what she gets for trying to set us up.”
I connect my heavy-hooded gaze with a pair of eyes that are even more dazzling than the flames dancing in the fire. “Is that a bad thing?”
I hold my breath, preparing my lungs for a hard knock to my ego. Air whooshes out my gaped mouth when Carey surprises me by timidly shaking his head.
“Then I’ll be sure to send Jenni a box of chocolates tomorrow to show my appreciation.” I’m shocked my mouth cooperates with the instructions my lust-driven heart is issuing.
Carey doesn’t respond to my remark, but the corners of his lips curl into one of his wish-granting smiles. I need to be careful. Not only is every second I spend with him making me cash in my genie wishes at a record pace, it’s also encouraging my unhealthy obsession with him. Usually, I’m not attracted to men I date until I feel a strong physical connection with them. Those rules don’t apply to Carey. My rules are nonexistent when it comes to him.
While sipping on the glass of wine Marcus handed me thirty minutes ago, I struggle to ignore my body’s awareness of Carey’s closeness as I participate in a range of conversations being held around the fire pit. I’m glad I didn’t let my silly phobia of not leaving New York stop me from journeying to this area of the country. Bronte’s Peak is gorgeous. But it can’t compete with the people living here.
Two glasses of wine and several belly-crunching laughs later, Jenni locks her glistening light blue eyes with me. “Truth or dare?” she asks, her eyes flaring with mischievousness.
“Oh, no, I’m happy sitting this one out,” I reply. Although I would have enjoyed games like this back in my teen years, that desire packed up and left town a long time ago.
My strong stance falters when Wesley discreetly nudges me with his elbow. I grit my teeth, loathing that my inability to keep my tipsy mouth shut revealed my latent desire to experience the teen parties my homeschooled persona missed out on.
“Truth,” I mumble, wiping the disappointment off Jenni’s face.
Jenni and Emily clap their hands together, making me feel like I’ve stepped back ten years in time. “Best and worst lay,” Jenni questions, waggling her perfectly manicured brows.
My eyes bulge. Not just because of her personal question, but because Carey stiffened enough his knee brushed the bare skin on my thigh for the third time in the past five minutes, sending my body’s awareness of him into meltdown.
Ignoring the hairs on my arms prickling in excitement, I answer Jenni’s question. The first half of her question is easy for me to answer—it fires off my tongue without pause for consideration. It was the night I spent with Carey. Although I keep my answer to a bare minimum, I have no doubt he knows it was the night we shared. If the whole mysterious stranger element of my story isn’t enough of a clue, the mention of the race track is a sure-fire indication.
I stop trying to secure a sneaky glance at Carey’s reaction at being my best lay when Jenni questions, “And your worst?”
My hands become clammy as my knees rattle. I attempt to shake off the horrible bile crawling up my esophagus by swallowing several times in a row, but nothing I do rids me of the despair that’s haunted me every day the past six years.
For the first time in years, I flinch when Wesley curls his arm around my shoulders. I can feel Carey’s concerned eyes boring into me, but I don’t dare look at him. I can’t. If his eyes hold even the smallest smidge of pity, all the ground I regained from our night together could vanish. That’s not a risk I'm willing to take.
“Come on, Gem, don’t be shy,” Wesley mutters, his tone hinting at a joke. I know he isn’t goading me. That is something Wesley would never do. He would never turn my nightmare into a joke. “You remember that guy you told me about years ago? The one who thought body parts were on a menu, because once he finished, he always said—”