Savor It

Chapter 11. Fisher

I try a few times to call Indy to check in, but only get a string of irritated texts in response.

Apparently, one of Sage’s geese broke out, waddled over, and won’t leave Indy and Sam alone. She tells me he’s not unfriendly to her, but continues to attack Sam, and they’re busy trying to herd him back to the house.

Since I’m not sure how I can advise on the goose state of affairs, I head in the direction that Sage pointed me in. I can see her off in the distance—already a hundred yards or so ahead uphill, so I try to pick up my pace.

My mind drifts back over the last hours and days. Sage’s assertiveness—the way she took the reins with Indy, with me yesterday, and again today when she plied me with usefulness. While I still experience brief moments of uncomfortable aggravation at having someone insert themselves into my life uninvited—an old, defensive instinct in me that’s probably heightened by being in a small town again—it’s also that same quality about Sage that makes it impossible to be anything but fully present when she’s around. Like when your sock slips down the inside of your shoe and it feels like your entire nervous system becomes focused there. I doubt I could let my consciousness go blurry around her if I tried.

I think maybe I should apologize again for earlier, though. Despite the sarcasm, it obviously upset her when I called her the town golden girl. After hearing more about her ex, it’s clear that while the love between her and this place is reciprocal, she still feels some sort of otherness—something that separates her even though I think she wants to be in step with everyone around her. Probably the same reason why she seems to chafe at any of my small-town commentary, too.

Jesus, maybe I need to schedule another video call with Dr. Deb. I think therapy might be making me more in tune with other people’s emotions instead of helping me sort out my own.

I have to catch my breath when I finally make it to the front of the library, bracing my hands on my knees before I look up, up, up at the castle-like building. It looks more like something that belongs in France rather than in some oblique Oregonian village.

I make my way inside and up the spiral stairs, until I catch sight of Sage through the metal railing when I’m somewhere between the second and third floor. The look on her face makes me pause midstep.

Lips ashen, shoulders hunched, and chin tucked. Her eyes dart rapidly back and forth between the people in front of her, and her cheeks keep pulling up in a smile but falling short, repeatedly. It’s like watching a screen getting hung up on a glitch. This is also when I notice that it’s the cop in front of her, purring over the woman he’s got tucked into his side.

It hits me now that I definitely know why I recognize Sage’s little fissure of insecurity, that strain of otherness that keeps her apart in spite of all she does to incorporate herself.

It’s because it’s the same brand of insecurity for me, much as I hate to admit it.

I’m also reminded, once again, why I despise small towns. You risk running into the same cycle of people around every corner, every day. The same ones who’ve cast you in the same tired roles.

I find myself hurrying up the remaining stairs and stepping in close to her back. I decide not to analyze it when my hand reaches out to press between her shoulder blades. I only know how tensed up she seems, and that I’d like to smooth it away.

The moment my hand glides up to the soft skin on the back of her neck, she softens into it, and I’m filled with something both sharp and tender. For this woman who has no reason to trust or find comfort in me with any amount of quick ease but is leaning into me nonetheless.

“There you are,” I say. I squeeze her neck in reassurance.

“I want to show you something,” she replies dazedly after a beat, and I’m relieved when I see the color rushing back to her face.

“I want to see it. Where is it?”

She points in the general direction of the rest of the library, and I keep smiling like a moron at her pretty face. The woman Ian’s with introduces herself.

“See you around, Officer,” I eventually say, not looking away from Sage.

When I eventually do look up again, I let my palm travel across as much of her exposed skin as I can, holding Ian’s stare as I do it: my fingers along the slope of her shoulder, knuckles tracing her arm, then down to braid her hand with mine. “Nice to meet you, Chastity. Have a good day,” I say to them before I lead us away.

I choose an aisle at random and pull her to my front, facing me.

“You all right?” I ask. Her face is stuck on a strange, confused frown.

“Yeah. I just—I don’t want to talk to them again,” she whispers, averting her eyes. The skin at the base of her throat thrums wildly, a blush smattered across her neck and cheeks.

“Of course you don’t,” I say as firmly as I can in a whisper. Even if I’m selfishly glad to be the one rescuing her in a low moment for a change, I hate that she’s having the low moment in the first place. As little as I know her, I still know she shouldn’t have to be uncomfortable anywhere in this whole tasteless town. Not someone like her—this interesting dichotomy of warm and fierce. Who gives her time, home, and energy to wounded creatures… even the unfamiliar ones on two legs, like me.

“I don’t want to leave, either,” she says. “I don’t want to act like it’s a big deal.”

“Of course you don’t. You shouldn’t be forced to leave anywhere. Definitely not because of that prick.” Guilt rears up once again and kicks me in the chest when I think of how snide I was to her the other night. How fucking condescending.

“God, that was mortifying,” she murmurs. “I froze. I’ve never had to see them together up close like that.” She groans and tries to bury her face in her hands. “I don’t want him, so why should I care?!” she continues whispering rapidly. “And who even is he? He hated PDA. He didn’t even like the library. Always said the dust aggravated his allergies.”

We’re both leaned up against a bookcase, huddled closer somehow. “I think sometimes some people make us different versions of ourselves, whether we mean to let them or not.”

She snorts. “Right. She’s better, so she brings out a better version of him.”

“No, sweetheart.” I push a lock of her hair back behind one of her ears before I can consider it or consider why I’m comfortable doing it. “I’d wager he just knew you were too far above him, so he tried to bring you to his level. By making the things that light you up seem dim to him.” Her lips part, and her gaze sharpens. “I don’t know the guy, but I know his type,” I say. “Besides, it looked to me like he was going out of his way to try to make you jealous.”

She laughs through her nose, rolls her eyes. “It looked to me like it was just natural, Fisher. I don’t think Ian would recognize jealousy if it hit him with a truck. I doubt anyone’s ever made him jealous in his life.”

Having this conversation in hushed tones makes my blood feel like it’s being whisked into a frenzy. “Try me,” I say, because I’m still not second-guessing and it’s the most present and awake I’ve felt in forever.

“What?” Her whisper is barely a breath this time, and now the nerves start to crank.

“I mean, we could try. It might feel good to take something back. If you want.”

Her thigh lightly bumps into mine. “How?” she asks, the blush deepening on her cheeks and her eyes like platinum.

I slant a nod behind her. “They’re across the landing there. I could—I mean—” How do I put this in the least lecherous way possible where she absolutely recognizes that I won’t hold it against her if she declines, but also knows I’m willing and able? “If I kiss you, you know they’ll see.”

Her throat catches on a swallow and—what am I doing? I’m watching my fingers reach out and lightly trace it. The tip of my thumb as it strokes along her collarbone. I choke back a sound when her cool palm reaches up to my jaw, and I nuzzle into it.

And then she pats me gently. “You’re trouble,” she whispers conspiratorially.

I think I might be. Trouble or in trouble—one of the two. But it does rankle a bit that it’s so easy for her to turn me down.

Nah. I don’t buy it. I don’t buy that she’s so virtuous that she doesn’t want to do something selfish for a moment, that she doesn’t need a little win.

“Come on. I thought you weren’t always too nice?” I say it like a dare. “Tell me you don’t want to hurt him back a little.”

“Once again, you are assuming that he gives a shit.” She says it indifferently, but I catch the hint of a question in it.

“Fine. Even if it’s not just about him, don’t you ever just want to take something for you? You said it yourself—this is your library.”

“I mean, I don’t own it.”

“But you said he didn’t even like coming here. Just mentioning the place earlier made your face go bright like it was Christmas morning. Come on, Byrd, wouldn’t a small win feel nice?”

A little crease between her eyes. She’s considering it. And then she quirks a dark brow in a challenge. “Explain how kissing you is a win for me.”

God, I forgot how good flirting with a woman could feel. “I could probably explain better with a demonstration.”

Her mouth and eyes go wide in a smile. “Trouble,” she repeats.

“It’d also show him you can’t be alienated.” Plus, that lower lip has a spot in the middle that looks berry-stained, and I really want to know if it’s just as sweet.

“Are you sure?” she then asks, teeth pressing into that spot. Something gives a hopeful lurch in my chest.

But, am I sure? I don’t know when I was last sure about anything. My thoughts and emotions resemble shattered glass lately. Pieces of them everywhere, sharp, some fragments so tiny and hidden I’ll never find them until I unavoidably slice myself on them later.

I am sure that for no logical reason I’d like to go punch that idiot Ian in the face, though. I’m pretty sure I’d wear an entire banana-and-coconut-printed jumpsuit to taste her mouth right now. I’m almost sure they’re pumping something into the air here. “Yes.”

And then I do. We do—or, most accurately, she does.

She presses up on the tips of her toes and sinks her hands through my hair in a way that makes me nearly gasp before she softens her mouth against mine. A gentle press, before I take each of her lips between my own, one at a time. She’s smooth and cool, and the slightest eagerness in her makes it roar through me. I thumb her chin to part her rosy mouth wider, and when the tip of her tongue touches mine shyly, something in me fractures and heats. She’s so sweet, coaxing my tongue with hers, angling her head to offer me more, to take more. She nibbles my lip, and a tight noise leaves her, something that makes me feel electrified and slightly frantic. I lick at that sound like I might find it again and see what it tastes like when her little fists curl against my scalp. Her back pushes up against the bookcase with a muted thud as she tugs me against her. Then her hands leave my head and scrape along my back, down until they reach my ass, and she hauls our hips together. Suddenly, none of this seems like it could be about anyone else anymore, nothing shy or vengeful or fake.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Too fast. Too much. I’m already stiffening, and she’s pressing me against the softest parts of her, grinding. I tear myself away, groping for her hands and trying to regain control. I grab at her wrists and push them apart and above her head, and fuck, it’s somehow both better and worse, so much worse, but I cannot come undone in a fucking library. My pride can’t take that hit right now, but every breath presses her chest into mine, her nipples pebbled through her top—

A drawled-out yowl sounds from just above, jolting us apart.

I let out a distinctly unmanly yelp when I spot a pair of gargantuan gold eyes staring at me from the top shelf, huddling myself over her, my shoulder like a shield.

“Jesus, what is that?!” I hiss. I’ve dropped Sage’s wrists and spot them pinned against her sides. She huffs out a small pant that lands against my Adam’s apple.

“Well,” she says, breathing heavily, gulping. “I am not able to turn around to see for sure, but I’m guessing it’s Cupid—Cupid the cat.”

I take a deep breath, but don’t move. “Just—I need just one second,” I say. I glance warily at the beast again. “Christ! That thing mixed with a tiger?” It’s the biggest domestic cat I’ve ever seen. This place is like a carnival fun house of animals.

“No,” she replies, still searching my face. “It’s just… really big.” And then she claps a palm over her mouth to cover a hysterical laugh. The way her body vibrates against mine with it sends a bolt of molten torture through me.

I push away but let my forehead fall to her shoulder to muffle my own laugh, even if I’m not sure I get what’s funny.

“Shh, we’ll get kicked out,” she squeaks between another short bout. My eyes get tripped up on her lips—thoroughly kissed—and I have to make myself look away and focus on some title beside her ear. Farts and Arts: The Craft of Lighthearted and Life-Changing Comedy by Farley Jones.

When I meet Sage’s gaze again, she darts a sidelong glance across the way and back. “I’m—I’m not sure if it worked or not. It looks like they moved.”

“Oh, uh…”

“I don’t think they even noticed,” she says, frowning.

Inoticed. I definitely took notice. I’m still too alert. “Shit. Sorry.” I’m not sorry at all. Not in the slightest.

Another laugh through her nose and a smile that could guide a ship into safe harbor. “Don’t be. It was fun. Let me show you my favorite section.”

And then she pecks me on the cheek like a friendly relative before she ducks under the cage of my arms and starts walking away, leaving me wholly stupefied.