Chapter 15 #3
Taking a seat as directed, I tuck my hands into the hoodie pocket and look out over the rocky, sand-covered yard.
It’s a little less cold here than it was at the lighthouse, the sun shining down directly on the patio and the breeze dampened.
Shiloh’s inside for longer than I’d been expecting, and by the time I’ve decided I should go in and find him, he’s stepping back out the open door with a baking sheet in one hand and a pair of beer bottles in the other. He brings those over to me, smiling.
“That okay?” he asks.
“Perfect. Thank you.” I’m not a big drinker usually, but then again, I’m usually drinking alone. I peek at the tray as I take his bottle as well, putting it on the little wooden table between the chairs. “Kabobs, too?”
“I figured we’d better get some vegetables in you since you probably haven’t eaten anything green in years.”
“I live in LA, smart-ass. Green smoothie central,” I joke, but it falls flat. Shiloh’s face, so open and relaxed moments ago, shutters slightly, and he turns away, walking back to the grill.
I wait for him to ask whether I’m planning on going back, stomach turning a few slow somersaults.
I don’t want him to ask, because I don’t have a plan.
I don’t actually know the answer. So no, I don’t really want him to bring it up, but there is a part of me that does.
A part of me that hopes he forces me into a decision, forces me to stop overthinking and just make a choice based on what I want and not what I feel like I should do.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he puts the tin foil–covered salmon on the grill, followed by the veggie skewers.
He lets the silence spool out until the natural flow of that conversation fizzles out in the ocean breeze.
Once everything is cooking, he joins me. Sitting down with a groan I feel low in my belly, Shiloh kicks his legs out until his feet bump up against mine. I drop an ankle over the top of his, hooking him into place for the time being. He looks at me, a quizzical tilt to his mouth.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask, feeling us slip even further into that sublime space we occupied as kids, where words were rarely needed for us to communicate.
“I don’t know,” he admits softly, taking a sip of his beer. “You’re not seeing anyone in California?”
“No.” I strangle the stab of pain that tries to take root at that question.
He’s right to ask it. He doesn’t know me as an adult.
For all he knows, I could be married with kids, here to have a holiday fling with my old friend before flying back to my family.
He nods, not looking surprised by my answer, which further soothes my slightly ruffled feathers.
“I want you to be around,” he tells me. Or tells the ocean, rather, as he’s no longer looking at me but out at the horizon. “I want to keep spending time together.”
“I want that, too,” I agree. Applying a little pressure to where his leg is tucked underneath mine, I add, “In whatever capacity you’re comfortable with.”
He sighs, fiddling with the bottle in his hand.
After a second, he places it back on the little table and looks at me.
I wait, maintaining eye contact and doing my best not to blush under the scrutiny.
Whatever heat has simmered to life between us matters little in comparison to his friendship.
If he doesn’t want to date or hook up or enter into any romantic engagement with me, fine.
I can live with that. I don’t want to live any more days without his friendship, though, so if that’s where we settle, I’ll die a happier man than most.
“Well…” He trails off, frowning, a little pull between his eyes as he thinks.
After a second, he gets up to use the grill as an excuse not to answer.
I turn my head to watch the back of him, happy with the amount of spank-bank material I’m obtaining today.
Those jeans are a blessing. When he opens the grill, a fragrant cloud of smoke is expelled, and I nearly groan.
My stomach rumbles, and I try to remember the last time I even ate a full meal.
Yesterday, I’m pretty sure, and it was nothing that smelled that good, that’s for damn sure.
“That smells amazing,” I tell Shiloh as he rejoins me. “How much longer until we eat?”
He chuckles, looking pleased. “Soon. Do you need a snack while we wait?”
“Beer will do me.” I look up at him, surprised when he steps over my stretched-out legs instead of going around the way he’d done before. Putting a hand on the armrest of my chair, he leans down until our faces are close enough for me to see the freckles dotted on his cheeks from sun exposure.
Putting his hand on my neck, he tips my chin upward with his thumb.
I shiver, and this time, it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the blue eyes on mine and the cool skin pressed to my face.
I wait, awash with trepidation and excitement and a little bit of fear, like this is my first time being kissed ever and not my first time possibly being kissed by Shiloh.
When he strokes his thumb along the line of my jaw, my heartbeat turns painful.
“This is a date, right?” he asks, voice low and eyes a deep, dark blue.
“Right,” I agree, and am rewarded with another slow caress across my jaw.
“Can we agree to only date each other?”
“Yes.” Forever, I add silently, making a vow to myself.
“And no matter what else happens, we won’t let anything jeopardize our friendship? If the relationship isn’t working, we talk about it and move forward together?”
“Yes,” I repeat, feeling like maybe I could add more to this discussion but suddenly finding it hard to remember other words that exist in the English language. Shiloh exhales hard enough for me to feel it on my lips.
“I need to finish dinner,” he tells me, still bent over my chair and touching my face in a way that makes the words not compute. I stare at him, still hoping our faces will soon be even closer. He adds, “You need to eat.”
The pad of his finger scratches against my stubble as he does his best to show me just how many nerve endings there are in my face.
When he straightens out of his lean and walks back to the grill, I very nearly put my palm to my cheek, wanting to press the feeling into my skin and keep it there.
Blowing out my cheeks in a deep exhale, I slump back in my chair and try to recover from the medical emergency Shiloh just put me through.
I had no idea my shy lobsterman had so much game.
I watch him fiddle around with dinner, moving through the open doorway into the kitchen and coming back out with something new in his hands.
He brings me a blanket, the green plaid-patterned fleece soft against my fingers when I take it from him.
I can’t even say thank you, throat feeling too tight to squeeze words through.
I’m not even that cold. Certainly not now that my entire body is flushed and my brain is buzzing and my lungs have forgotten how to provide oxygen to the rest of my body. He brought me a fucking blanket.
There’s nothing else to do but throw it over my lap, and because I’m soft as hell for Shiloh, I rub my palms along my thighs once I get it settled.
I feel like I might cry, which is ridiculous.
But he was touching my face, and he’s making me dinner, and now he’s given me a blanket; what else am I supposed to do with that but cry?
“Thank you,” I finally manage once Shiloh brings over a pair of plates, steam rising gently into the slowly darkening evening sky. He smiles, leaning down to hand one off to me. I inhale, groaning a bit at the smell of the salmon.
“Warm enough?” he asks, holding his plate up as he sits down so nothing slides off the end. Part of me wants to answer with a joke about being tough and not feeling such human things like cold. The bigger part of me would like to be wrapped up in a blanket with Shiloh.
“For now,” I agree, wishing Adirondack chairs were built in a way that would allow easy sharing of a blanket. I barely manage to swallow back another groan as I put a piece of salmon in my mouth. “Holy shit, this is amazing.”
“Well,” Shiloh replies, twitching one shoulder in a partial, self-conscious shrug. And then, as though he can’t help himself, he adds, “Oliver’s is better.”
“Oliver went to culinary school, so he doesn’t count.”
He laughs, spearing a piece of asparagus and crunching down on the end of it.
Legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, he bobs his foot back and forth in contentment.
I wonder if this is how he usually spends his evenings—sitting quietly on the porch, listening to the hum of the ocean, and watching the stars pop into view on the horizon.
I wonder if he ever felt as lonely as I did, all the way across the country, sitting perched on a stool in my workshop and forgetting to eat.
“Where are Gale and Joe at?” I ask him, still thinking about his dad and the RV travels Shiloh had mentioned in his emails.
“Colorado,” he answers, shifting a little in his chair so we can see each other without giving ourselves a neck injury. “They spent some time in the Springs, Estes, Rocky Mountain…all the top hits. Last I heard, they were wanting to check out the sand dunes.”
“I bet they’re having fun.”
“I bet they’re ready to kill each other, stuck in an RV together all day and night,” Shiloh counters wryly. I laugh, toasting him with my beer.