by Lush, Tamara
“Um, which bedroom’s mine?”
He shrugs. “Whichever you want. There are two downstairs and four upstairs. They each have their own bath, and as far as I can tell, they’re all about the same size. Big.”
“I’m not picky. I’ll just take one upstairs. Lead the way.”
Don’t look at his ass…don’t look at his ass…don’t…oh hell. I’m going to look. Seeing Oliver’s muscular frame reminds me of beaches and swimsuits and home.
Even after three and a half years at a Vermont college, I’m still homesick for Florida. Don’t get me wrong; I love it here. Love the trees and the quiet and yeah, even the snow.
But there’s nothing like a handsome, half naked, bronze man on the beach, amirite? And now that Oliver has all those muscles, I can imagine him playing volleyball or something next to the ocean.
He pushes open a door, and we’re inside a room decorated in shades of lavender and cream. There’s a framed print of a cartoon dog on skis, which reminds me of the gift I bought for Mom. The bed is draped in a soft-looking lavender blanket.
“This okay?” Oliver stands by a wide brown leather chair and matching footrest.
“Totally okay, yeah.” I go to him and tug the duffel off his shoulder, realizing that I’m treating him like he’s the bellhop or something. Which is hilarious and awkward because he’s probably the richest guy in our home state of Florida under the age of twenty-five. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and grins again. It’s what I’ve always loved about Oliver, that even though he’s from a wealthy family—far wealthier than my own—he’s humble. Polite. Kind.
Which is what made our last encounter all the more baffling.
We lock eyes, and a zing of awareness shoots through me. Oliver’s part Cuban, from his dad’s side. He obviously inherited the classic Spanish Caribbean DNA: dark hair, dark eyebrows, and bronze skin. His eyes are like obsidian, near-black and gleaming, and when I was younger, I always felt I could get lost in them. Things haven’t changed, apparently. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry as burned toast.
“Thanks,” I repeat. My gaze falters to the large bed, and then back to his eyes. Apparently along with his height, his shoulders, and his muscles, his eyelashes have also grown since I last saw him. “So. How’s Boston? How’s MIT? You’re getting your Master’s right? Business? How was Panama? We haven’t talked in so long.”
“Panama? It was okay. Glad I’m back in the States. I’m in a finance program. It’s…wow.” He runs a hand through that thick dark hair. “Hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“That must be saying something. You always aced every class you ever took.” Even though we didn’t go to the same schools—Oliver went to an all-boys private school in St. Augustine, hours from where I grew up. I was in public school in Orlando at the insistence of my mother. Still, I’d heard all about how brilliant he was from his sister. And my mother. And my father. And everyone who knew him.
While his brother was the athlete and as handsome as any GQ model, Oliver took after his sister. All through school, he was wiry and beanpole-tall. Awkward, too. I think in middle school, he might have even had a pocket protector for his pens, but he sprouted a veneer of geek-cool in high school. And yet, I adored him as if he were Justin Timberlake.
I stare at his chest without blinking.
He chuckles. Can he tell I’m checking him out?
“Yeah, I look a little different. I’ve been going to the gym.”
Gah. Embarrassing! “You look good.” Understatement of the year.
“So do you.”
“Thanks.” My face blooms hot, and I inspect the strap of my duffel. When I raise my eyes, I notice he’s staring at me.
"Hey," I blurt, suddenly remembering a key detail. "Isn't it your birthday in a couple of days?"
“Yeah, it’s Saturday. How'd you remember?" He licks his bottom lip.
I shrug, suddenly overcome with shyness. So unlike me.
“How’s University of Vermont? Wait, don’t answer that.” He takes a step back in the direction of the door. “Sorry. I should let you do your thing in here. Unpack and stuff. ” He points to the door, and I see a subtle flush of pink bloom on the tops of his cheeks. “We can talk later. If you want. I’ll be out there, watching TV.”
He grins again and looks down, almost bashfully. Then he strides out.
And I’m left standing in the middle of this unfamiliar bedroom, nose in the air like a cat searching for nip, so I can catch another addictive whiff of him.
* * *
OLIVER
Charlotte King is the only woman I’ve ever loved.
I knew it when I was seven, and she kissed me on the cheek. I knew it when I was seventeen and kissed her full on the mouth, tongue and all. That had been my big moment, and I blew it.
She was fifteen. I was going away to college in New York, filled with anticipation and bravado. I’d wanted to kiss her for a while and worked up the courage that night on the boardwalk through the ocean dunes.
It was our first kiss on my last night in Florida. My dad interrupted us, and he later made me feel like I’d done something wrong.
She’s only fifteen, he said in a voice I’d never heard. Dad didn’t usually get angry, but he sounded incredulous and pissed. You’re going to college.
By the time I was in my dorm room a week later, it hit me how young she was. And I felt ashamed, like I’d done something wrong. I was on my own, a man. She was a girl.
I assumed my feelings would fade with the years. They haven’t. Now she’s twenty-one and even more gorgeous. She still has that devilish glint in her eye, the one that always makes me think of endless possibilities. Of spontaneous road trips and beach bonfires and singing along to ‘80s music.
I love her spark. She’s not going through the motions like so many people.
While I pace the living room of the cabin, I wonder if I should’ve stayed in Boston for spring break, holed up in the library. But when Mom asked me to come to Vermont, I jumped at the chance. Even though I have papers to write and books to read.
It was a chance to see Sharkie. To make things right. To see if my feelings for her were still there.
They’re here, alright. They came raging back the moment I laid eyes on her. Her spark has turned into a goddamned wildfire.
I walk into the kitchen and yank open the fridge door, nervous. Maybe she’ll want to eat? Now that we’re in this mountain cabin alone, I’m not sure what to do. How to act. What to say.
I’ve never been good with women. I had a few casual girlfriends in high school, nothing serious. Same with undergrad.
Now that I’m in grad school, I’ve been trying. Even been on a few dates in the past couple of months. It’s hard because my dad’s kind of well known, and some women are attracted to me just for money. Or they’ve heard of my brother and assume I’m some playboy like him. And I’ve been so busy studying that I told myself that I didn’t have time for anything serious. I need to focus if I want to someday take over Dad’s company.
It’s all true. Sort of.
Deep down, I’ve been waiting for her.
Over the years, I’ve never forgotten how Charlotte made me feel. How easy she was to talk to. Her laughter. How her quirky, hippie clothes accentuated her classic beauty. What’s up with that fluffy scarf she had on, anyway? It looked like someone sewed cotton candy around her neck. Still, she looked amazing.
Growing up, my family would always visit the King family. Or they’d visit us. Vacations, weekends, trips to Disney.
Charlotte was the highlight of every moment.
She never cared that she was subtly different than other kids. And that made everyone want to be her friend. That could’ve made her stuck up, but she marched on to her own unusual beat and connected with everyone. Even me, the geeky Cuban kid who liked math.
I even coined her nickname: Sharkie. It was when I was about eight, and she was six. She loved sharks. Adored them. Forced me to si
t through Shark Week three years running, and Jaws One, Two, and Three when we were in middle school.
So, because the first syllable of her name is pronounced shar, I started calling her Sharkie. Soon, everyone else did too. It’s both adorable and fierce, two words that describe her perfectly. She’s still so goddamned beautiful that it makes me ache.
Her dark curls tumbling everywhere, a stunning contrast to her alabaster skin. Those sky-blue eyes. Her smile. It’s like angels sing in a chorus when she smiles. And how she’s short, and how she has sexy curves…and, and, and.
If I were like my older brother Alex, I’d be in bed with her right this second. He’s a famous soccer player in Madrid who screws a different woman every night of the week.
I’m more like Dad, who never forgot his first love. Never let go of my mom from the moment he met her, even though they were apart for a few years. His soul burned for her, he told me. Nothing would ever compare to her, he said. Not any model or actress. Not the moon or the stars.
He told me all that recently, when we were out to dinner.
Dad can be a bit dramatic.
But as he told me stories about falling in love with Mom, I nodded. I knew what he was talking about. Charlotte has been written in my soul since birth.
And now that we’re alone together, it’s time to tell her how I feel.
I shut the fridge and open the freezer door. I spot a frozen vegetarian pizza. She always loved that. I’ll start there.
Chapter 3
CHARLOTTE
I sink onto the massive bed, flopping onto my back. Uff. It’s way more comfortable than my dorm in Burlington.
This is awkward, being around Oliver. Tense. I can’t wait to see his sister. She’s one of those effortlessly smart and cool girls. We’ll drink coffee and Bailey’s and catch up.
I hear the insistent buzz of my phone, and I roll over to the edge so I can dig into my purse.
“Mom?” I say breathlessly.
“Are you there? I’ve been worried.”
“Yeah, I made it. The place is pretty. And huge.”
“I’m glad you like it. I searched for days trying to find a place that would fit all of us.”
“Who else is coming?” Leave it to me to pay attention now that I’m actually here with my five pieces of luggage.
She sighs. “Well, here’s who was supposed to come. Your father and me, Sarah, Laura, and Christian, Collie and Sam. Rafael and Justine. Alba and Alex couldn’t make it. Alba’s on some research ship in the Gulf, and Alex has commitments with the soccer team.”
“Hell,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry. I know how you adore Alba. Oh, and Oliver. He’s coming. Is he there? He was supposed to drive up from Boston earlier today.”
“Yeah, about that.”
“What, Sharkie?”
“When are you getting here? When is everyone else getting here? Have you heard?”
“That’s what I called to tell you. All flights are grounded because of this damn blizzard. Every last one. We no sooner got in the car when the pilot called.”
“What does that mean? You’re not coming?”
“Oh, sweetheart. We are. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Hopefully, we can get there tomorrow, so we’ll all be together. Justine and Rafael are here to spend the night in hopes that we can get out tomorrow, and Sarah and Laura are stranded in Chicago.”
I tune my mom out as she talks in detail about the travel plans of everyone who’s supposed to be here by now.
“But Mom,” I interrupt, then lower my voice. “I’ll be here alone with him.”
“With who? Who’s there?”
“Oliver.”
“What? You’ve known him since you were born. Oh my God, did he do something weird to you? Was he creepy? I didn’t think he was that kind of boy, ah, man, but you never know—”
“No, Mom. He’s been super nice. He brought my bags in and everything. He wasn’t creepy at all. Far from it.”
“Okayyy, so what’s the problem? I’m glad he’s there, actually. Your father and I didn’t like the idea of you being alone in that big house. But if you feel uncomfortable, we can try to find you a hotel. Although I don’t like you driving in the dark in a storm. You’re probably exhausted. Just stay in your room, and lock your door if you feel unsafe.”
“I don’t feel unsafe,” I cry. “Not at all. He’s a gentleman.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. Tell me more.” I can tell by her tone that the little matchmaking gears in her mind are turning. My entire life, Mom’s tried to make love connections with everyone. It started with Uncle Colin (or so I was told by Aunt Sarah) and expanded to everyone in her path. No unattached person was safe. She even somehow paired the mayor of Orlando with the woman who cleans her bookstore. They’ve been married five years now.
“Tell me more, Sharkie. Give it up.”
I fight back a grin. The older I get, the more I talk to Mom like she’s my BFF. She used to write erotica, so absolutely nothing shocks her. “I dunno. It’s that he’s changed. He’s bigger. Muscular. More like a man. His voice is deep. When I last saw him, he was a boy. Like a geek.”
“Well.” I can hear the mirth in Mom’s voice. “I fail to see the problem.”
“I guess I didn’t tell you. We’d had a thing years ago. Well, not even a thing. A night. Okay, five minutes. I had a massive crush on him.”
Mom gasps. “I thought you told me everything, Charlotte Marie King. I hope you used protection. When was it?”
She actually took me to Planned Parenthood for the pill a year after my kiss with Oliver, when I was sixteen. Just to be safe.
“We didn’t have sex. It was a kiss. Okay, my first kiss. Well, not my first-first kiss, that was at eighth grade prom with…with…”
“Whatshisname. The boy with the cowlick.”
Only she can make me giggle with so few words. “Right. Yes. Him. But Oliver was my first real kiss.”
At one time, I thought he was my first love, too. But I’ve never told anyone that, not even my mom. I suspect she knows, by the direction of this conversation.
“Hmm. Interesting.”
“My first French kiss. I was fifteen. It was at that party his family had that one summer. You remember. His going away to college party.” Oliver was only seventeen, but because he was so smart, he’d gone to college a year early.
“Right. The one at their house on the beach.” She draws out the last part of that word, and I know she wants me to tell her more.
“Yeah, that one. Really, it was nothing. It felt like something monumental at the time. Then we didn’t really talk after that because he went to college. I assumed it was because he didn’t want anything to do with a high school kid. Or maybe he wasn’t that into me. It’s not like I could even talk to him on social media because he’s one of those weirdoes that doesn’t Snapchat or Instagram.”
“Well, that explains a lot. Justine always said that he asked about you often. I always suspected he was attracted to you. The two of you were so close as children.”
How does she know these things? “Everything was monumental back then, right? It just feels weird now. I dunno.”
“Well, as long as you think you’re safe with him, why don’t you just relax and have a nice time? You probably have a lot in common still. You’ve been studying hard, and I’m sure he’s been studying hard at his school. And you have such a shared history. It’s sweet.”
I groan and flop around on the bed.
“Do you have condoms with you?” Her voice is practically a whisper.
“Mom!” I yelp, pretending to be mortified.
“You should always be prepared.”
“Yeah, of course I have condoms.” Not like I’ve had any reason to use them recently. All the guys at my school are into one thing: Tinder. Endless swiping. Never-ending text threads. Lukewarm hookups. Zero conversation. Subzero attraction. The allure of apps and hookups faded by the end of freshman year. Dating in college is such a grind
. Not the good kind of grind, either.
I don’t have much hope that post college dating’s all that satisfying, either. So I’ve vowed to stay single until I’m thirty. Or forty.
“Good girl. Listen, Justine and Rafael are here, and I don’t want to be rude. I’m glad you’re there safe. Call if you need me. I love you.”
“I love you too. Oh, Mom?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Did you hear from the doctor?”
Her pause sends a spike of fear into my chest. “No, I haven’t. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you when I do. Don’t you worry, okay? Everything will be fine. Just relax and have fun with Oliver.”
I rub my lips together, trying not to burst into tears. “Okay. I love you. Tell Dad I love him too.”
We make kiss-kiss noises and hang up.
And I weep.
Chapter 4
CHARLOTTE
It takes me a while to stop blubbering. Dammit, this is supposed to be vacation. It’s the last winter break of my college years. I’ve got to get a grip. Mom doesn’t want me to worry.
The unknown is hella scary, though. Somehow, Mom’s test result has plunged me into adulthood almost overnight. Or it feels that way. It’s all so serious. I wasn’t ready for this. But I guess no one ever is.
I take a deep, shaky breath.
This damned snowstorm isn’t making things any better. I pull back the curtain and peer out. Holy Frosty the Snowman.
The snow’s blowing sideways in the night sky. My window overlooks the driveway and the parking area adjacent to the house. It’s snowing so hard now my tire tracks have disappeared.
In my three and a half years at school in Vermont, I’ve never seen it snow this much.
Sighing, I grab my phone. I’m surprised to see a warning flash on my screen.
EMERGENCY ALERT
Blizzard warning in this area till 12 p.m. EST Saturday.
Prepare.
Avoid Travel.
Check media.
—NWS
Damn. It must be a bad storm if the weather service or the government or whoever is sending out alerts for the next eighteen hours. I’m grabbing the remote for the TV in my room when I pause.