Post-kiss Ruth’s world has shifted. Colors have changed. Sounds have become clearer. Smells more potent.
That is until I don’t feel his lips move against mine.
When his hands stiffen on my hips.
When he pulls away.
Oh . . . God.
I snap back, hand to mouth. Mortification envelops me.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back. “Please don’t . . . oh God, I’m sorry.”
Before he can say a word, I bolt from the Parlor and sprint back to Snow Roast.
What have I done?
Ruth Barber . . . what the hell were you thinking?
I want to crawl into a hole so deep, and when I reach my apartment, I don’t bother changing for bed.
I throw off my shoes, slip under the covers, and I cry. I cry myself to sleep, praying that what I just did was a painful dream . . . not humiliating reality.
* * *
“Are you okay?” Rylee whispers to me as Harper spins around blindfolded, trying to stick an illustrated dick on a cutout of Rogan. Pin the dick on the groom, one of many games we’ve played so far.
I completely forgot about Harper’s bachelorette party until Rylee came barreling up to my apartment, pounding on my door fifteen minutes before it started. Beck clued her in on why I hadn’t gone downstairs. She pushed me through the shower without a word, picked out a sundress, helped me put my hair in a tight ballerina bun, and slapped some mascara on me.
We haven’t spoken a word until now.
“I might throw up,” I say through the side of my mouth.
“Legit throw up?” She turns her head to look me in the eyes.
“Questionable. It’s touch and go.”
“What happened last night?”
“Not talking about it,” I say, feeling my throat choke up. “Not the time nor place.”
“After. You and me, your place, we’ll go over everything.”
“Can’t wait,” I say sarcastically.
Everyone around us is drunk, well, besides Ren. She claimed DD for the night for obvious reasons. I’m still nursing the same drink from three hours ago. It’s lukewarm swill at this point and bringing it even close to my mouth makes my stomach roll.
“Ahhhh,” everyone cheers when Harper nails Rogan right where his dick is supposed to go. How fitting. She lifts the bandanna off her head and cheers for herself.
“Do I know my man’s penis or what?” she asks as everyone cracks up.
Poor Mrs. Knightly.
I glance over at her and she has a glass of wine in her hand, a smile on her face. Whoever thought inviting the mother of the groom was a good idea, I have no clue, but from the look of it, her eyes are a little heavy. I’m pretty sure that’s not her first, second, or third glass of wine.
“Is this almost over?” I whisper to Rylee.
“I think so. That was the last game. Presents were opened. Dick cake was consumed. I think you could slip out soon.”
“Thank God.” I take a deep breath and say, “I’m going to put my drink in the sink. Want me to take yours?”
“Yeah, that would be great.” She hands me her drink and I walk through Harper and Rogan’s house to the back where the kitchen is. The boys are over at Griffin’s house, doing Lord knows what. It was announced that no strippers would be involved at either party, because neither the bride nor the groom were interested. Rylee was disappointed of course, she wanted Beck to be the main event. Apparently the boy has moves. Salsa-type moves. The amount of times I’ve heard Rylee talk about the wedding they crashed together—and how he moved on the dance floor to the song Havana—is obnoxious. She swears, she fell for him in that moment. At least, that’s what she claims now.
I empty our drinks in the sink and set the glasses on the counter. When I spin around, I run straight into Mrs. Knightly.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologize, I was crowding your space.” She sets her drink down and chuckles. “I sent a text to my husband that he needed to come pick me up, as watching my future daughter-in-law carve a replica of Rogan’s penis out of a cucumber did me in.”
I let out a laugh. “Yeah, I can see how that might induce the consumption of wine.”
“Just a little.” She sighs and places her hand on my arm. “I’ve yet to thank you for letting us use the Parlor for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night. We really appreciate it.”
“Of course. Anything you guys need. Your sons have been quite helpful with renovations. It’s the least I could do.”
“Yes, Brig is quite smitten with you,” Mrs. Knightly says with a mischievous look in her eyes. She leans in and whispers, “He told me about the kiss last night.”
Oh.
Dear.
God.
She must see the mortification in my eyes, because she pats my hand and says, “Don’t worry, he’s sworn me to secrecy. I’m the only one he told. Said he can’t trust his brothers. He also said he asked you to the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night as his date. I always knew you two would be perfect for each other.”
I swallow hard as I try not to pass out from the air being squeezed from my lungs.
“Um . . . I didn’t . . . the kiss . . .” My lip trembles and Mrs. Knightly—although tipsy—notices and takes me by the shoulders. Like the wonderful mom that she is, she moves me past the kitchen to the solarium, where it’s quiet and vacant.
“Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
I shake my head, tears falling rapidly from my eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry in front of you.” I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes. “There, I should probably get going. Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Knightly, but I’m okay.”
I start to walk away but she stops me, a serious look crossing her face. “You’re not okay, you’re trying to be brave. No need to be brave around me, sweetheart. Talk to me.”
More tears.
God, why do the Knightlys always want to talk? Why can’t they just let someone wallow in their own pain? At least I know where Brig and Griffin get it from. And Rogan for that matter. Reid seems to be more of the dark horse.
“You know, I don’t think this is a great time—”
“Hush, they’re all drunk in there. They won’t notice. Now tell me, what did my boy do?”
God, this is humiliating.
Biting the side of my cheek, I try to figure out how to say this in a way that doesn’t make me look like a complete loser, but there’s really no way to avoid that.
“I spur-of-the-moment kissed him. He didn’t kiss me back. I know he doesn’t like me. It was stupid, and I’m trying to just . . . get over it.”
“What do you mean he didn’t kiss you back?”
Not really wanting to rehash this.
“He . . . uh . . . just stood there, ramrod straight. You know, Mrs. Knightly, I feel really weird and uncomfortable about this. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m truly embarrassed over the entire thing. I’m trying to move past it. I know Brig asked me to the rehearsal dinner tomorrow, but I don’t think it’s right for me to show up to such a small, intimate event when things are . . . strained. I don’t want there to be any uncomfortable vibes. I know this is asking a lot, but would you tell Brig I won’t be able to go? I’ll be at the wedding though.”
She shakes her head. “I will say no such thing.”
Well, there goes that idea.
“You’re going to that party.”
“Mrs. Knightly, I appreciate—”
“You listen here, Ruth Barber.” She pokes me in the arm. “Your mom and dad raised you to be an independent, strong woman who takes what she wants. I’ve watched you slowly shrink into a wallflower whenever my son is around and frankly, I’m tired of it. You were not raised that way. You were raised to seize every moment presented to you. Do not apologize for the kiss, because that’s exactly what he needed. You should have seen him last night. Star-struck, confused, happy . . . but couldn’t explain to me why. I love my son,
but he’s an idiot. You caught him off guard last night, threw him for a loop, but you peeled back a layer. When I asked him what he was going to do about the kiss, he said . . . he wasn’t sure.”
Okay, well, how is that helpful?
“Not to be rude, Mrs. Knightly, but that—”
“And then he gave me a wicked smile.” She boops my nose with her finger. “I’ve seen that smile on my son before, and he’s only ever used it when he was about to do something big.”
“I don’t know. He practically pushed me away. I appreciate you talking to me, but it doesn’t feel right to come tomorrow.”
As only mothers do, she snags me by the chin and looks me square in the eyes. “You are going tomorrow night, and you’re going to show up and blow his mind. Do you hear me, Ruth Barber? You are going to blow my son’s mind.”
I bite my bottom lip, rolling it under my teeth.
“I don’t think I have any confidence left.”
“Muster some up. You’re stronger than you think you are. Now, if you don’t show up, then I’ll have to leave my son’s rehearsal dinner to search for you. Is that what you really want? For me to miss my son’s rehearsal dinner? Would you really do that to me?”
Wow, I fear what kind of mom guilt the Knightly kids have endured throughout their entire lives, because right now, she’s throwing down and there isn’t any possibility for me to do anything other than go to dinner tomorrow.
Sighing, I say, “You sure know how to lay down the mom guilt.”
She pretends to dust off her shoulder. “It’s my specialty.” She gently cups my cheek and says, “Hang in there, sweetie. He’s going to figure it out.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying, but I’m starting to believe he won’t.”
“He needs to figure this out on his own.” She glides her thumb over my cheek. “He might not say it, but he was the most affected by what happened in New Orleans. He’s terrified that the curse is true and has therefore built it up so much in his head that he second-guesses everything. He needs to come about this on his own, work his way past his fears, and he needs some grace. You are the girl to do that. I just know it.” She leans in and gives me a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie.” She smiles softly and walks away, leaving me with what feels like ten tons of indecision resting on my shoulders.
It’s times like these that I really miss my mom. Her hugs. Her comfort. Her presence.
What am I supposed to do, Mom?
* * *
I thought I was going to throw up yesterday. Man, was I wrong.
This is when I throw up.
Talk about a terrible case of nerves. I can’t stop my legs from shaking, my teeth are constantly chattering, and my stomach is rolling as my eyes float around the beautiful backyard space of Brig’s garage.
I haven’t been back here in a while, but I must say, he’s done a spectacular job with it. Surrounded by ponderosa pines and native bushes, stamped concrete takes up almost the entire backyard space. Twinkling bulb lights have been strung across the entire space, creating a dreamlike escape where magical things happen.
“So glad you’re here,” I hear Mrs. Knightly’s voice say, as her hand presses to my back. She leans in and gives me a hug. “You look stunning, Ruth.” She then gives me a wink and catches up to her husband, who is getting them both a drink.
Harper and Rogan are holding hands, standing in the middle of the patio, looking blissfully in love while talking to Ren and Griffin. Eve and Reid are helping with the food, making sure everything is set up. Harper’s dad is talking with the Knightlys. Jen and her brood of kids are playing board games with Rylee, Beck, and their triplets. There are a few other people I don’t quite know milling about, but no Brig.
This was really a bad idea.
I shouldn’t be here.
My hands twist in front of me. Insecurities clash through my head. My fight or flight instinct kicks in and before I can even battle out why I should stay, I decide to flee.
I turn around, and make eye contact with Brig.
And oh my God, he looks so freaking handsome. Dressed in a navy suit with a white and blue checkered shirt, his eyes are highlighted by the colors. His hair is rumpled to the side, styled to look sexy messy, and his frame fills out his suit devastatingly.
But it’s the smile on his lips that’s capturing my attention, that has me transfixed and immobile.
Unbuttoning his suit coat, he walks toward me, swagger in his gait, intensity in his stare.
Unsure how to react, I do nothing but attempt to breathe as evenly as possible, so I don’t end up doing something stupid like passing out.
He takes his time closing the distance between us, his eyes traveling up my body, lighting my skin on fire as his gaze sears me. I chose a simple black dress that hugs me close in my torso but flares at my hips. My hair is pulled back tightly at the nape of my neck, and I put on more makeup than I normally do, adding a softer smoky eye and heavy mascara.
When he finally draws close, his hand lifts to my cheek as he studies my face. I try not to shake from his touch, attempting to calm my chattering teeth. I pray my legs hold me still.
Speaking in a soft voice, he says, “You look beautiful, Ruthie.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “But you covered your freckles.”
I don’t know what to say.
An apology seems weird.
A thank you also doesn’t fit.
So instead, I stare up at him, hoping and praying I didn’t humiliate myself the other day. I haven’t heard from him since, so all I’ve been able to focus on is how he pulled away and the disappointing silence that followed.
Sliding his hand down my arm, he links our hands together, our fingers entwining. “Come with me.”
Quietly, he leads me across the patio. I keep my head down, unsure what people might be thinking, but I see him shake a few hands as we pass by. He brings me around the corner of his shop, to the back opening of the Parlor, and then to my surprise, spins me around and presses me up against the wood siding.
“What—”
Oh God.
Brig is kissing me, behind our businesses, his hands capturing my face, his tongue swiping across my lips.
Am I dreaming? The sensation is far too strong—far too wonderful—so it must be reality. But . . . Oh God.
A million butterflies lift off in my stomach, making me feel drunk in lust as my mind whirls with excitement . . . and disbelief.
I’m almost too stunned to react, but he doesn’t pull away, he only presses in farther, and it’s what guides me to do the same. I float my hands up his stomach past his pecs, to the back of his neck where I hold on tight, not letting him go, not wanting this moment to end.
It doesn’t feel real.
My mind is playing tricks on me.
But it’s true, this is really happening.
The earthy sound of his groan as my tongue tangles with his.
The grip of his strong hand on my jaw, tilting my head, granting him better access.
The minty taste of him on my tongue mixed with pure masculinity.
The smell of his leather and spice cologne, intoxicating me, wrecking me from the inside out.
My senses burn for him, to be lit on fire and exposed to the headiness of his soul, the power of his virility.
One of his hands moves to my hip, pinning me so I can’t move, meaning I’m gladly forced to stay where I am as he tilts his mouth to the side and swipes his tongue past my lips. I reciprocate the action, tangling, feeling, tasting.
Taking.
Taking everything I’ve wanted over for years.
Letting this moment soak in, from the grip he has on me, to the way the scruff on his face scrapes across my chin, along my lips, and over my cheeks.
It’s burned into my soul.
Injected into the marrow of my bones.
Tattooed on my brain.
A moment I will never forget . . . for the rest of my life.
His lips lightly
press against mine and I feel him slowing down, as my hand slides to the spot right above his heart. It’s racing, just like mine.
He presses one more kiss to my lips and then pulls away, not too far, staying close, connected.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Sorry? “For the kiss?” I ask.
He nods and once again, my stomach bottoms out. Disappointment laces my heart. No, please don’t let him pull away; please don’t let him take back everything I just experienced.
“Not this kiss.” He brings his lips to my forehead where his mouth smooths over the crinkle in my brow. “For the kiss the other day. For not kissing you back and then for not chasing after you when you bolted.”
I shake my head. “You don’t need to apologize. I was . . . I was—”
“Perfect.” He looks me in the eyes now. “You were perfect, Ruthie Girl, and I was the idiot. I guess I was shell-shocked. I thought, I don’t know, I thought you were sad about that guy, and I didn’t want you to project—”
“It’s you,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“What?” he asks, a cock to his brow, confusion knitting between his eyes.
Oh God.
What have I done? Looks like now or never.
Taking in a deep breath, I say, “The guy.” I swallow hard and look him in the eyes. “The guy I’ve been pining after, it’s . . . you.”
“Wait.” He stands taller, his eyes locked on mine. “You mean, the guy you’ve been talking about, the one who you’ve had a crush on for years, that’s . . . me?” He points at himself completely shocked.
A wave of unease plows through me, threatening tears again. There’s something about telling your crush that you like them that’s both freeing and terrifying.
“Yes,” I say, almost so softly that I can’t hear it.
He steps back, pushes his hand through his hair.
“But . . . you said you found out he didn’t like you.”
I look toward the sky, wishing I wasn’t having this conversation right now. “I got the hints that you weren’t into me. I figured I should stop trying to get you to notice me.”
“Notice you.” He laughs sarcastically, hand still driving through his hair. “Are you fucking kidding me, Ruth?” His gaze pins me. “All I’ve done for the last few weeks is notice you. It feels like you came out of nowhere, flipped my world upside down, and made me question everything I ever thought was real. I’ve been confused, excited . . . horny. Those denim shorts, those running bras, your humor, your persistence. It’s been fucking with my head.” He levels with me. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
That Swoony Feeling Page 20