Match Cut: A Standalone Small Town Romance (Foxe Hill Book 1)

by Julie Olivia

  Pressure builds in my legs then in my abdomen, swirling and swirling until I feel my brain dunk into deep water and pleasure wash over me in waves as I moan his name, every syllable sounding perfect on my lips as if they are meant to say his name and his only.

  His fingers retreat from me, removing the last article of clothing and placing both hands on my ass to pull me closer to the edge of the Jeep’s hood. He bends down to kiss the inside of my thigh before walking around to the passenger side of the car. I hear him pop open the glove compartment and rip open a packet. He returns with a condom in his hand, rolling it over his length and down to the base. I reach out to stroke him, and a devilish smile plays across his lips.

  “You are so attractive, baby.”

  “Baby?” I croon. “Is that the pet name we’re calling each other?”

  He centers himself between my legs, nudging my lips with his head. I spread wider for him, our eyes locked as if daring the other to move first.

  “What would be better?” he asks. He pushes part of himself in then pulls out once more. I lean my head back, letting out a small moan.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to say my name,” he says, inserting himself deeper, stretching me bit by bit and touching the soft spot inside me again. He rubs against it with every movement in and out.

  “Keaton,” I moan. “Keaton,” I repeat each time he slides in deeper and deeper.

  “Say it again,” he demands, increasing his speed, pulling my legs up to rest on his shoulders and pushing in inch by inch.

  “Keaton.” I feel his base finally hit me, amazed he made it all the way in but too overwhelmed by the nerves sparking every time he smacks against me over and over to really think about it, moaning in tune with my repeated calls of his name.

  “Oh God,” I yell, breathing heavier and heavier until the nerves build up once more and desire overtakes me. Every extremity of mine tingles and feels spent as he groans, leaning over and releasing himself inside me. He thrusts slower and slower until he finally pulls out and lays his head on my chest.

  We breathe heavily in sync, our eyes closed with only the crickets and the trees to hear us.

  “Why did we wait this long?” I ask.

  “What, ten years?”

  “No, one week.”

  He laughs. “I don’t know, but I don’t wanna wait again.”

  So we don’t.

  Sixteen

  Violet

  I wake up in an unfamiliar bed to the sound of birds chirping outside and the smell of bacon wafting around me. I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the room in front of me. My contacts were in all night and I can feel the ramifications now as they attempt to correct themselves.

  The room comes into focus, and everything from last night comes flooding back.

  I’m in Keaton’s room. I had sex with Keaton two—okay three—times. Two at the secret cliffside, one in the middle of the night. That or I dreamt it, in which case Keaton has a very, very dirty mouth in my dreams.

  I sit up, looking around at the room I was too rushed to pay attention to just a few nights ago. The house is cleaner than I expected, and I’m not sure why. Maybe I still have the impression of him as a long-haired, wily teen, but his room does not reflect that. The king-sized bed is adorned with striped sheets and topped with a thick forest green comforter. The walls have shelves with neat stacks of books ranging from nonfiction titles to a few sci-fi novels I’ve heard of but never read.

  Hearing the distant sounds of pans and plates clacking together, I climb out of bed and grab a shirt from his closet, letting it hang loosely over me. In just that and my underwear, I tiptoe out of the room, hissing once my bare feet hit cold hardwood instead of carpet. At the end of hall, I see the television is on, but it’s only displaying a playlist he must be casting from his phone. I turn the corner into the kitchen, where Keaton is moving around with the grace of a man experienced in doing so, running a spatula over the bacon to flip it, reaching into the fridge to pull out orange juice in one smooth motion, just as elegant as he might be at his shop.

  He spots me, and a dimpled smile shines through his beard. My heart soars. So, it did happen. It wasn’t a dream. We did have sex. I did spend the night at his house, and he is making me freaking bacon.

  “Mornin’,” he says. “Didn’t want to wake you. Well, I did, but I figured it would be better with bacon and eggs.”

  “Ooh, there’s eggs too?”

  “Only if you like them with some spices.”

  “Is there any other way?”

  He takes me in his arms, and I wrap mine around his waist. He’s well-built, so defined that I wonder if he had time to work out this morning and his muscles are still flexed from that. Or maybe all our activities have made him sore. When I squeeze his waist tighter, I feel my arms pinch and know I am.

  He plants a kiss to the top of my head, and I nearly melt.

  “So, I say we eat breakfast and then…” He trails off, kissing my forehead and cheek. “Then do you want me to fuck you over the counter?”

  I laugh, standing on my toes and tilting my head to kiss him deeply. Even though my lips ache from last night, I relish the fluttering wings of butterflies in my chest.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  It turns out I wasn’t dreaming—Keaton is a very handsome man with a very nasty mouth.

  We hop in the shower together, resisting another go-round so he can make it to work on time, and an hour later I’m driving the five minutes it takes me to get home, replaying the events from the past twelve hours over and over. I hope he knows that dirty talk will only hold me over for so long.

  I pull into the gravel driveway, and my mom sits on the porch in her Adirondack chair per the usual schedule, phone close to her face and coffee mug steaming on the armrest. She looks up and my stomach drops. How do I explain my absence? Where would I have been? I could say I was at Asher’s, but that little white lie would be dashed the second she asks him about it.

  I cut the van off and walk to the porch. It would be suspicious if I didn’t stop to sit with her, so I do. She has an eyebrow raised in my direction, and I’m still trying to think as fast as I can. It’s weird how I am nearing thirty yet the second I’m back under my parents’ roof, the rules of high school still apply.

  “And where were you?” she asks.

  “Lily’s house,” I say. Well, that lie came quicker than I expected.

  “Lily, Lily…” she repeats, no doubt trying to match the name to the person. I’m hoping to God Lily’s notoriety is not nearly as prevalent as Kayla’s. To my astonishment, I’m correct. “Who is Lily?”

  “A friend,” I answer, just a bit too quickly—so quickly it gives me away in an instant and we both know it.

  “Uh-huh,” she repeats slowly. “A friend. And would Lily be the code name for a boy?”

  “No,” I answer.

  “Not a boy?”

  “No,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Now I need to go shower.”

  She lets out the motherliest mix of a scoff and a laugh, as if chastising me for even thinking I could have fooled her. “We can discuss later if that works better for you.” She pulls the phone back to her face, lowering her glasses and reading the news once more.

  I stand up, only partially relieved by the interaction, until she calls back to me, “I won’t tell your dad, but I hope you were safe.”

  “Ahh, no more talk, thank you,” I say, covering an ear as I open the screen door and silently climb the stairs to my bedroom.

  Dazed as the thoughts of Keaton gripping my hips while I rode him in the sheets fill my mind once more, I flop on the bed, sprawled out starfish-style, feet hanging off the ends. I reach over and grab my laptop, which is right where I left it before sneaking out last night, and I open it to view the progress I made yesterday.

  I was close to finishing, but I still hadn’t looked over the footage from Thursday. I pull it from my saved files and pore over every clip.
Foxe Hill is both so small and big at the same time. Maybe it’s the personalities of its residents or the experiences that come with it, but a million words could be said about the stores on Main Street alone.

  Once I feel satisfied with a test reel, I turn my attention to a text file, copying over every note I’ve made in my brainstorming journal regarding this project. The subtle ways small-town life can sneak up on you, starting with apprehension and ending up as something resembling home—a feeling very unlike the overwhelming nature of a big city where you’re just one in a million. In small towns, everyone has a purpose. Everyone matters.

  I record a quick voiceover for the trailer, compile both the final product and the finished movie treatment, and send it in an email to Sean and Dean. I look at my phone to see that a few hours have passed, and I’m overwhelmed with about twenty group texts.

  Kayla: Added Violet to the group text. Hope you’re all okay with it. If not, fuck off. Also, I got a new puppy. His adoption party is tonight. Be there.

  Lily: Are adoption parties a thing? (Hi, Vi!)

  Kayla: A celebration is a celebration.

  Asher: Are we celebrating getting the puppy out of poverty?

  Kayla: That’s the spirit.

  Joey: He has a shirt and everything.

  Keaton: Thank God. I was afraid he would be naked. Crisis averted.

  Just seeing his name pop up is enough to make my stomach flip. I imagine him at the shop, leaning against the counter, fingers tapping away on his phone, looking sexy with a black t-shirt pulling against his biceps and the cap he wears backward and that ridiculous but adorable beard hairnet.

  This text conversation goes on for a while, debating puppy names and different outfits that poor dog will be put in over its lifetime. It looks like everyone else has agreed to a Friday night bonfire. I make sure to add in my confirmation as well, and five minutes later, my phone buzzes.

  Keaton: Are you showing up in just a t-shirt as well?

  I smile, starting to type a message back, but a notification slides down, showing a calendar invitation from Sean and Dean. It’s a follow-up meeting early tomorrow morning regarding the pitch I sent over. My heart skips. That was curiously fast, but this is a fast industry so I shouldn’t be too surprised. I accept the invite and go back to my texts.

  Staring at Keaton’s, I bite my lip and close my eyes. If my heart beats any faster, I just might die. I might even be happy if I died in this moment, but I have a movie to make and a man who is scheduled to satisfy me.

  That night, I’m in Kayla’s back yard, sitting on the edge of a white-backed lawn chair. Globe lights hang off the pergola over my head, a fire is roaring a few feet away, and my eyes try so hard not to lock with Keaton’s every five seconds. Thankfully, the puppy is doing a great job distracting him, but the scene of this hot man playing with probably the most adorable dachshund puppy I’ve ever seen only fuels my temptation to stare. At least I can blame it on the cuteness of the puppy and not the man playing with it.

  When I get a new drink, Keaton follows, our hands grazing for a moment before we part ways once more. The touch is enough to last me for another five minutes until I ask Kayla if there’s a restroom I can use and flash a look to Keaton while the others chat about who knows what.

  Ten minutes later, Keaton is in the dark hallway, backing me into the bathroom.

  “Again?” he whispers.

  I nod, closing the door behind us and backing up against the sink.

  “You’re gonna wear me out, Vi,” he says, though we both know it’s an empty protest. His mouth roams mine while I hear the clinking of his belt. I’m already pulling my skirt up. He’s pushing my thong aside. I feel just the tip of him before halting at the sound of a deadening, soul-shattering knock.

  He pulls away from me, fumbling to pull up his pants. I hop off the counter, hissing at him to get in the shower and pulling the curtain shut while he’s still mid-zip. I run my hands through my hair, trying to make sure I don’t look like I was being ravaged by some bathroom ghost demon, and swing the door open to see…nobody. That is, until I look down.

  Standing two and a half feet tall with a mess of brown hair and matching pajamas is one of the twins—Joey and Kayla’s child.

  “I’m getting water,” he says.

  “That makes s-sense,” I stammer out, but I do not move.

  He stares at me, rubbing his eyes and squinting. “Are you going to stay?”

  “Oh, no, no, I’m not,” I say, sidestepping him as he walks past. “I’m sorry.” I tiptoe down the hall, watching the pool of light shine out from the bathroom until the water stops running and he exits into the hall, giving me a small wave then toddling back to his room.

  My eyes are wide, surely displaying the pure terror I feel inside. I’m happy it was just the kid and not anyone else, but can that kid keep a secret?

  I hear the rustling of a shower curtain and out walks Keaton, eyes equally as wide as mine with a hand covering half of his face as if he can discreetly Phantom of the Opera his way down the hall.

  “That was almost not good,” he mumbles.

  “Maybe no more bathrooms.”

  “Agreed.”

  We break our promise a few hours later back at his place, but hey, we’re no saints.

  I leave his house early the next morning, hoping to prepare for my meeting and avoid running into my mom again. Alas, as the gravel rumbles beneath my van’s wheels, she is sitting there with her glasses on the bridge of her nose, no phone but instead giving me a look of pure judgment. Absolutely zero avoidance possible. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was waiting for me the entire night.

  I hop out of the van and sit in the same rocking chair as before, hands folded on my lap, looking to the ground.

  “You want to tell me you stayed at Lily’s again?”

  I’m almost thirty and yet here I am, unable to say a single false thing to my mother. I can hide this from the rest of the world, but my mom’s shaming gaze can make me feel like I’m thirteen all over again.

  “No.”

  “Do you want to tell me who this man is yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her lips stretch into a smile, accentuating her laugh lines and giving a small sparkle to her eyes.

  “Yet,” she echoes then leans back in her chair to sip her coffee.

  I rise before another word can be said on the subject then run to the bathroom to get ready for my web conference with Sean and Dean. I’m still living out of my suitcase, so I sift around until I find a simple white top with the only navy blazer I own and some cropped pants because, even though they can’t see my lower half, I’m excited. I sent them a pitch I’m proud of, and maybe I want to dress like some silly executive today.

  I review my proposal one more time, trying to memorize every word, practicing every inflection. I even look up voice exercises, but I don’t think ‘yellow leather, red leather’ helps much.

  Ten o’clock hits and the notification for the calendar event pops up. I take a deep breath before calling the number listed. I shuffle until I’m comfortable on the floor of my bedroom, letting the end of my bed serve as a neutral background. In seconds, both Sean and Dean appear, sitting next to each other in an empty, open conference room, shoulder to shoulder. I wonder if they’ve even left each other’s side since our last call.

  “Good morning,” I say, giving a small wave. They return the gesture in sync, lopsided dude-bro smirks on each of their faces.

  “How’s the weather over in Cali?” I ask.

  “Fine, fine,” says Dean. “Enjoying the small-town life?”

  “It actually hasn’t been half bad,” I say, exhaling and zooming through every word in my head. “I think I’m really hitting my stride. A lot of developments, as I’m sure you saw in my presentation. I wanted to touch on a couple of those points—”

  “We’re gonna stop you there,” says Sean, his hand rising to display an open palm. “First of all, we love your edits. They’re good�
��exactly the quality we knew you were capable of.”

  “Yes, absolutely love them,” Dean adds. “Couldn’t have framed the shots better myself.”

  “Truly.”

  “That fountain?”

  “Oh yeah, great.”

  They’re talking over one another, mimicking the words the other just said, circling around the same sentiment until I clear my throat.

  “Thank you,” I say. “So, what were you going to say?”

  “Right, listen,” Sean says, shifting in his chair, resting his chin in his hand. “We’re looking for something a bit more edgy from you.”

  “Edgy?” I ask.

  “Yes, like your last film. A scathing review of American education? Groundbreaking. A conversation piece, and so nasty.”

  Dean feverishly nods in agreement, holding his hands up as if praising a higher being. “Yes, absolutely disgusting.”

  “Disgusting?” I ask, choking out a laugh. “I don’t know about that. I mean, it was a critique—”

  “A harsh critique,” one of them says, as if correcting me. “But that was good! It’s why it sold!”

  “So fantastic,” the other continues.

  “Genius.”

  That documentary was not meant to be harsh. Sure, I received my handful of bitter emails, but who wouldn’t when commenting on something as sensitive as education? That said, it was by no means nasty…

  “We’re just looking for something more,” Dean says, leaning forward, his nose getting far too close to the camera. “Why is this small town dying?”

  “Dying?” I ask, pressing a hand to my chest. “Jesus.”

  “Yes, why is it ending? Suffering? Going bankrupt?”

  I laugh. “I literally said none of that.”

  “But you could,” Dean suggests.

  “And you should,” Sean continues.

  I stare at them. Am I being punk’d? This is definitely a prank, right?

  “This town has so much more to it, though,” I say, running my palms over my crossed knees, trying to get the ever-building perspiration off. “It’s got charm. And that video I sent…I mean, that was just the start. I’m going to visit other towns, see what makes them special, interview their locals—”