Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
I FIND YOUR ABS MODERATELY REPULSIVE
Connor
She kissed me.
She kissed me and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to fist my hand in her hair and tug her closer, press in deeper.
But I knew it didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean.
A sign of something good to come, maybe.
Or it would become the last time I’d ever kiss her.
It was hope and dread all wrapped up in the smallest, softest meeting of lips.
The apology was on the tip of her tongue and I couldn’t bear to hear her say she regrets it.
Twenty minutes later, after a quick run to the nearest store for supplies, we’re parked back in front of the house. The floorboard littered with a dozen crumpled pieces of paper, Gretchen’s anxiety gets the best of her every time she begins again, overthinking every word, every sentence.
Over it, she shoves the notepad and pen in my chest. “Can you just write it? ”
I take the supplies from her unsteady hands. “What’s her name?”
“Cheyenne Ortega.”
After a few silent minutes, I pass the notepad back to her. “How’s this?”
Dear Cheyenne,
My name is Gretchen Fisher.
We’ve never met, but I’ve recently discovered that you are my biological mother. My parents, Paul and Kelly Fisher, adopted me at birth 22 years ago and I’ve grown up in Bloomington, Illinois.
My apologies for showing up unannounced. I respect your family’s privacy, so I do not want to intrude.
That said, I would love to meet you. If you’re interested in meeting me, that is.
I plan to return tomorrow at noon. However, if you do not wish for me to do so, you can leave a message for me at the front desk of my hotel in Sedona (contact info is enclosed), no questions asked.
I hope to meet you soon, but I will completely understand if you decide you don’t want the same.
Sincerely,
Gretchen
She reads the letter several times over before nodding her head.
“Okay. Now, here. I want you to copy that note, word for word, in your own handwriting.” It may not matter who writes it, but this note has the potential to become a cherished memento for Cheyenne and she deserves to have it in her daughter’s handwriting.
She may not realize it yet, but Gretchen will want that too.
She swallows hard, accepting the pen and turning to a blank sheet of paper. “Yeah, okay. ”
When she’s finished, she seals it inside an envelope and I take her hand in mine. “Do you want me to put it on the door for you?”
She closes her eyes through a steadying breath, resolutely shaking her head. “No. I can do it.”
Letter in hand, she climbs out of the car, rounds the hood and crosses the street.
She has no idea how strong she is. It’s not only that I could never understand what it’s like to grow up in a family that doesn’t share your genetic code; it’s more than that.
It’s the quiet girl who doesn’t put herself out there easily, putting herself out there in the most vulnerable way.
It’s the quiet determination, the tenacity it took to get herself here.
And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to witness it.
Once she’s back in the car, I’m ready to lift some of the burden she’s been carrying. “You did it, Gretch.” I wrap my hand over hers. “Whatever happens now is out of your control.”
“You’re right.” The smallest smile tilts her lips and it’s the best view I’ve seen all morning. Gretchen sprawled across the bed, mussed with sleep, wearing those glasses, laughing hysterically at my humiliation, a very close second.
“How about we go explore that downtown area we passed on the way in before heading back?”
That tilted lip turns to a full-faced smile. “Sounds fun.”
Two overpriced fancy coffees later, we’re strolling through downtown Flagstaff when I spot a small indie bookstore across the road. “Let’s go in there.”
She lights up as she grabs me by the wrist and pulls me through the crosswalk.
A bell chimes above us when we step inside and Gretchen bolts straight to the romance and fiction sections while I peruse the rest of the shoebox-sized shop.
The center of the small space has a long row of antique wooden tables, stacks of books about crystals and astrology atop them in an ornate display alongside bowls of different colored crystals and gems. All of it very befitting for the hippie energy of this charming little town.
An array of large coffee table books showcasing the diverse landscapes of Arizona fills the shelves near the register.
I’m casually flipping through the pages of a book highlighting Arizona’s most underrated tourist attractions when I notice Gretchen in the far back corner of the shop, dubbed Collector’s Corner, delicately exploring a small hardback in her hands.
Gretchen notices my approach and quickly tucks the book back on the shelf before meeting me halfway.
“What ’cha looking at?” I ask.
She pops her shoulders. “Just browsing.” Before I can press for more, she adds, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom and then we can go.”
She dashes through the beaded curtain at the back of the shop while I go on a mission of my own.
Coming to the shelf she was “just browsing”, I see it right away: a single copy of Little Women .
The aged binding and the letterpress on the cover that barely has any gold ink left tell me this must be an even earlier edition than what I bought for her all those years ago.
A few minutes later, she meets me at the exit. “Sorry that took so long. It’s a lot of work to pee in a romper. Oooh, what did you get?” She eyes the brown paper bag with white tissue paper peeking from the top that I’m carrying.
“Oh, just a coffee table book about Arizona for my mom. She collects them.”
She pats my cheek as she passes by me on the way out the door. “Such a cute little mama’s boy.”
The front desk attendant back at the resort informs us there are no messages yet from Cheyenne.
Leaving that note, understanding it’s out of her control now, has settled Gretchen. It’s all over her face, her gait, her mood—she’s relaxed. An afternoon by the pool is the perfect way for both of us to shake off the heaviness of the morning.
I tuck the bag from the bookstore in my suitcase and change into my swim trunks while Gretchen changes in the bathroom. Stepping out of the closet, I come face to face with the source of my latest indignity.
The king-sized bed taunts me. It thinks it’s so big, of course two people can share it—I mean, look at all that space. But it’s a lie. I know it, the bed knows it, and now Gretchen knows it.
My mind spins as it plots and plans how I’ll handle another night sharing a bed with my best friend’s sister.
It spins and spins until the bathroom door opens, the woman in question emerging wearing a cherry red two-piece bathing suit.
The bathing suit a frightening reminder of another two-piece I saw her in six years ago.
A sight that changed how I saw her from that point forward.
An open weave cover-up falls over her shoulders, but it doesn’t cover much at all.
When she bends over to grab the pool bag, giving me a perfect view of her ass, I have to turn away.
I grab a t-shirt and push my head through the top of the fabric in time to find Gretchen’s hungry eyes aimed at my torso.
Caught red-handed, she busies herself with her sunglasses, sliding them onto her face as she asks, “You ready?”
Stifling a smile, I grab her arm as she passes by me on the way to the door. When her chin lifts, face in line with mine, I slide the pool bag off her shoulder. “I got this,” I whisper, throwing in a wink to drive her crazy.
She rolls her eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” I quip.
“I didn’t roll my eyes.”
“Oh, yes you did.”
“I’m wearing sunglasses, Connor.” Her tanned arms cross over her chest, a challenging grin playing on her lips.
I move in closer, her neck falling back to hold my gaze.
“Yes. You are, indeed, wearing sunglasses inside our hotel room.” I cock my head and let my smug grin break free. “And I know you rolled your eyes, because when you do, this brow,” I lightly stroke my finger across her right eyebrow, “lifts just a little higher than your other one.”
She stills, the air between us a live wire cranked to eleven.
Then, she uncrosses her arms and closes in.
Her body, warm and all baby soft skin, presses in on mine as she brings two fingers to rest against the pulse point on my neck.
“And I know you’re turned on by this right here.
” She gently taps her fingers over the throbbing vein.
“It’s your biggest tell. Your body can’t hide when your heart starts racing because this pulse point damn near thrums out of your skin. ”
She steps back sporting a proud grin to match mine. Well played, Gretch. Well played.
“I’ve seen it up close a time or two,” she adds as she spins to leave. “That and your erection.”
My panicked eyes dart to my swim trunks.
Gretchen laughs. “Made ya look.” She throws a pleased smile over her shoulder as she stalks toward the door. “Let’s go, old man.”
“You’re staring, QB.”
Her red two-piece pops off her tanned skin.
The strapless top with a bow detail tucked between her breasts is secured by a knot at the back.
She’s swept her hair up into a clip, putting the breadth of her collarbone glistening under the sun on full display.
Matching retro-style red bottoms sit high on her waist and I don’t even miss the skin hidden beneath the extra material covering her lower stomach.
Gretchen Fisher doesn’t need to show a ton of skin to be sexy.
Our eyes meet, smiles bouncing off each other.
“Oh, damn. I forgot.” I lower my aviators. “There.”
I swipe my t-shirt off with one pull over my shoulder and toss it into the pool bag. Gretchen props her sunglasses on her head before rubbing a layer of sunscreen over her face and down her neck.
When she hands the bottle to me, she makes a show of sliding her sunglasses back down so she can ogle me unashamedly from behind the tinted lenses. Her face breaks out in a wily smile.
“Well, look who’s staring now,” I say .
“For the record, I find your abs moderately repulsive.” She settles into the lounger next to me. “But at least you have a pretty face.”
She grabs her margarita and we clink our cups together, memories ringing through my mind like the toll of a bell.