39. Pebbles Tossed at a Window
39
Pebbles Tossed at a Window
I text Uncle Andy and Cass that I’m heading home.
But the only person I really want to text is Luke. I want to tell him about the Baroness. I want to finish our conversation. I want to make things right.
But after freezing him out and his finding my list and everything between us today, I’m probably the last person he’d want to hear from. I wouldn’t even read texts from me if I were him.
Halfway across the parking lot, someone calls my name. Tru waves from the passenger seat of a car full of his college friends. “We’re going out. Join us.”
“Another time,” I say.
I keep walking, my feet aching and legs sore from the long day. At least they won’t feel any worse when I get home.
I kick off my shoes once I’m in the door and strip off my clothing on the way to shower. I get in before it warms and enjoy the cool water washing over my body. I grab the shampoo and scrub, then the body wash, getting every last inch of me, every roll, every crevice, until I feel human again.
I slip on a pair of slides and cross the living room in an old pair of pajama pants and a ratty T-shirt. I make myself comfortable on the chaise longue pushed up against the windows and pick up the nearest book to unwind with, but the words on the page won’t stay in focus. It slips from my hand and I fall asleep.
Something repeatedly striking the window wakes me.
I sit up and rub my eyes before going to the window.
Luke stands in my backyard, arm pulled back. I realize he’s throwing pebbles.
I grab the silk robe I left draped over the back of the chaise longue and toss it on as I open the door and step onto the porch.
“I was wondering if I had to break some glass to get you to come outside,” he says.
I stand at the railing. “What are you doing here?”
Luke glows golden and silver standing in the moonlight on my lawn. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept going over all the things I need to say to you.”
“You came to tell me off some more?”
“No,” he says. “Well. Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”
I yawn. “Can it wait until tomorrow afternoon then?”
“No.” Luke continues to stand there.
“If you’re not going to say anything else,” I finally tell him, “I’m going to go back inside.” I pull the robe around me and step toward the door.
“I never read past the first chapter of the book you loaned me,” he blurts out.
My hand rests on the doorknob. “Because you didn’t like it?”
“Because I need to know they end up together. Do they?”
I nod. “Of course they do.”
Before I finish the sentence, Luke sprints across the grass and leaps onto the edge of the porch, swinging his legs over the railing.
I stifle a gasp. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I get around you and I don’t know what it is, reason and logic stop working. And when I’m not around you, I can’t stop thinking about you. You drive me crazy, and you argue with me and frustrate me, and challenge me, and I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I don’t care if I was one of your plans.” He steps closer to me, his breathing heavy. I can smell his sweat mixing with the grapefruit and aftershave and laundry detergent. “And I don’t care if I wasn’t.”
“You were just what happened.”
“I like your crazy schemes. And I like your meddling and your good intentions. And I like that you’ll work to make the most unrealistic dreams attainable not just for yourself but everyone around you.” He brushes his hair back with both hands. “You know I don’t believe in grand gestures. But if I have to, I’ll keep throwing pebbles at your window. I’ll smash every window in Little Elm or whatever you decide is enough until there’s a sign or gesture big and unmistakable enough to make you understand how I feel about you. I don’t care if it’s all a manipulation. Manipulate me. Tell me what I’ve got to do, Casanova. I’ll do it.”
“This,” I say, our eyes locking together and a current traveling between them. “Just this.”
Luke grips the back of my neck and yanks me toward him. His lips press to mine, urging them open. They willingly part to accept him. He holds me against him in the kiss as his other hand moves up my body, urgently groping, as if warring between savoring every inch and wanting to race on.
I cover his hand with mine to stop him, knowing he’ll feel every bulge and that no amount of clothing or dark water can ever hide my body from his touch.
But lightning crackles through our every touch and ripples through the night air around us. And if my insecurities were clothing, I’d strip them off and let them ignite in a blaze at our feet, because now that I’m in Luke’s arms, the only emotion to control us is desire actualized.
I grip his hand.
His fingers dig in and travel over my flesh.
And I know I’m helpless to stop him because I don’t ever want this to stop. I press his hand to my chest. He pushes me against the wall with his body, pinning me in place, kissing me over and over, his stubble leaving my skin raw and alert and alive.
We come up for air. I hold his hips against me, part of me afraid he’ll pull away. But he rests his forehead against mine, panting. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips still wet from his mouth.
“Casanova?” he asks, his hand moving down my back.
“Luke?”
“That night in the pool, I peeked too. And you should know whoever designed your cover,” his hand slides farther down and squeezes, “did a really good job. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
I smack him in the chest with my palm as I laugh. “You’re so weird. Add that to the list of things never to say to me again, love Grinch.”
He kisses up my neck and nips at my earlobe. I’m unable to contain a moan.
“Pickle jar,” he whispers into my ear.
I hit him softly again before I yank him by the front of the shirt into the house.