24. Klein
A cocoon.
This bed is a collection of angel kisses, a cloud that?—
Oh shit.
Last night’s fantasy about being in this bed somehow became a reality at an unidentified point during the dark hours.
Orange blossoms.
A scent burned into my memory.
Paisley.
My leg twitches, a movement that forces a swift run along a thigh too smooth to be mine.
The sleepy fog in my brain clears, and now I’m remembering my middle of the night wake up, how every part of my body except my head was on the ground, the air mattress a pancake beneath me.
If it weren’t for Paisley’s offer, I’d either have significant back pain from the ground or be on the couch risking someone finding me.
As directed, I stayed on my side of the bed.
Paisley may have issued the memo, but she did not abide by it. She is not only on my side, she’s curled around me.
My gaze drifts down, to where the top of her head fits under my chin.
The parts of my body that are connected to Paisley’s suddenly come alive.
My chest... and her back pressed against it.
My knees... tucked into the space behind hers.
My nose... buried in her hair.
And last but so very far from least, her lovely backside curled into my center like a double rainbow.
Oh, for the love.
Her T-shirt bunches around her lower back, revealing the top of that sheer thong that matches her eyes. It hugs her flesh, round and firm and disappearing into the concave space made by my body.
Waking up like this is a dream I didn’t dare have, but here she is, tucked into me, the lines of her body pressed to mine like she was made to be there. Like she was made for me.
Whoa. Slow down. What kind of thought was that?
I mean, yeah, Paisley is the total package. She’s funny and kind, whip-quick and intelligent. She’d do anything for her family, as is evidenced by the fact we’re here. I’m learning that while she may seem unruffled on the outside, she’s softer on the inside. She has a figure that makes my body groan from head to toe.
But, made for me? That’s intense.
I have to get out of here. Go downstairs and pour caffeine down my throat. I’m Paisley’s fake boyfriend who promised her a make-up kiss because my ego can’t handle being her worst. That’s all.
Fighting my desire to carry out lascivious acts—thank you, drunken Paisley—I retreat from the warm, soft bed. Footfalls quiet, I slip out of the room.
Though Paisley remains in bed, her body heat simmers on me, her smell lingering on my skin.
A bitter,smoky scent greets me in the kitchen. A coffee carafe, filled to the brim with dark liquid, sits on a gold cart at the end of a counter. Also on the cart: six types of flavored syrups, sugar cubes in a glass canister, and a stainless steel creamer.
Wow. This family takes their caffeine seriously. Not that I’m complaining. At any given time of day I am likely to be some degree of caffeinated.
I grab a mug and prepare my coffee the way I like, and by the time I’m stirring creamer into my cup, Lausanne is walking into the kitchen.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
I nod, noting that once again she’s dressed exactly the way Paisley described her yesterday.
Coastal grandma. I’ll definitely be tucking that one away and using it in a future novel.
“I did, thank you.”
“How was the bed? The mattress is new. You two are the first to sleep on it.”
“Just right,” I assure her. Thanks to my middle of the night bed switch, I don’t have to lie.
“Good,” Lausanne remarks, adding a splash of vanilla syrup to her coffee. “The rest of the family will descend upon us today. You need to be well rested for them.”
She joins me at the table in the eat-in kitchen. The bay window to my left showcases the sunrise over the ocean.
“Thirty years of waking up to that view, and I’ve yet to tire of it.”
“Pictures don’t do it justice.” I’d looked up the island online, searched the images. Good photography isn’t a replacement for the real thing. Tomorrow morning, I plan to be out there when the sun first peeks over the horizon. For now, I need to be here talking to Lausanne and learning more about the Royce family before they arrive.
“Paisley told me her parents have a tumultuous relationship.”
Lausanne laughs softly. “That is one way to put it. My daughter spent a few years wanting to kick her ex-husband out of her life for good, but calmed down when she saw how much it was hurting her children. Paisley, especially.” Lausanne looks at me with concern, as if perhaps she’s said too much. I nod knowingly, to mollify her. I knew most of that already, though learning it hurt Paisley the most is a new detail. I stymie the desire to probe, to ask why Paisley more than her siblings. It feels like something Paisley should tell me, not Lausanne.
We talk about my job as a bartender, and the book.
Lausanne is warm and funny, and reminds me of my mom. She has an ease about her, and I’m immediately comfortable in her home, and in conversation with her.
Paisley creeps into the kitchen, eyes squinting.
“There’s my bright-eyed, bushy-tailed granddaughter,” Lausanne teases.
Paisley grunts. She fixes her coffee, coming our way with the cup nestled between cupped hands.
I rise, pulling out the seat beside mine and guiding her into it. “Good morning, Ace,” I say, keeping my tone light as I press a soft kiss to her temple. It’s what a boyfriend would do, or at least, it’s what I would do if I were her boyfriend.
She leans into me, my touch, pushing back against my lips with her head.
“Ace?” Lausanne asks, bending a leg and tucking it beneath her. “How cute is that? I need the background on that nickname.”
Paisley looks to me to answer. She sips her coffee, and it’s as if I can see the cobwebs begin to clear. I hold her gaze. Her eyes widen, a realization creeping into them. Is she remembering how I made my way into her bed during the night? Maybe she’s thinking about the way she made her way into me.
“Well,” I answer, my eyes on Paisley and her messy ponytail, her rumpled pajamas. “Paisley strikes me as a capable person. You should see the way she walks down the hall at P Squared Marketing. She strides confidently, like she knows she’s the boss. She’s the best. Skilled. An ace.”
A delicate shade of pink blooms on Paisley’s cheeks. “He’s overselling me,” she assures her grandma, lifting her coffee to her lips.
“I doubt that,” Lausanne responds.
Tracing her pink cheek with my fingertip, I say, “Just be happy I chose ace instead of virtuoso. Or champion.”
Paisley’s shoulders bob as she laughs at the same time she swallows her coffee. Coughing, she says, “Ace is preferable.”
My finger travels another inch, gathering a shorter piece of hair that has fallen from her ponytail and tucking it behind her ear. “Ace,” I nod with finality.
Her lips part slightly, inviting me in, then she suddenly breaks the connection of our gaze, asking her grandmother, “What time does everybody arrive today?”
“Eleven. Your mom is planning to make her favorite soup for lunch. I’ll make a salad.”
Paisley nods. “Good. There will be enough time for me to take Klein on a bike ride.”
“Old Baldy?”
My mom, if she were here, would make a joke about calling someone out for being advanced in age and also lacking hair.
I’m guessing Old Baldy is the name of something, a place maybe, and Paisley says, “Later in the week. Today I want to help Klein get a lay of the land. And take him to Nauti Bowls.”
“Nauti Bowls?” I ask.
Paisley answers. “Smoothie bowls. A?ai bowls. Coffee. Baked goods.”
I leave Paisley to finish her coffee while I get ready. We trade places, with her getting ready and me checking the bike tires. They are flat, but have no fear, I also spotted a bike pump near the air mattress in the shed.
The bikes are a matching pair of beach cruisers, one carnation pink, and the other mint green. Fastened to the pink bike is a white basket, with colorful lights wound through the spokes.
Paisley finds me under the house, finishing the last tire. She’s wearing a white dress that hits just above her knees and ties at the back of her neck. Eyes on me, she says, “You’ve done a lot of pumping over the last twelve hours.”
Standing up straight, bike pump in hand, I search her face for a hint she’s making a sexual joke. Worse, that she somehow heard me last night despite the fisted hand I pressed against my mouth in an effort to be silent.
Paisley grabs a bike handle and swings her leg over, adjusting her dress so she can sit properly. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Madigan. First you accuse me of bringing a vibrator on this trip, and now you can’t handle hearing the word ‘pump’?”
She’s teasing me. I like it.
She continues. “I saw your bed deflated during the night. That made it easier for me to push under the bed when I got up this morning, but probably wasn’t so great for your sleep quality.”
I scratch my forehead with my thumb. “About that. Turns out I only got half a night of bad sleep.”
“Why is that?”
“I woke up in your bed this morning. I don’t actually remember climbing in. But, yeah. I woke up next to you.”
Her eyes scrunch closed. “I thought it was a dream. When I woke up, I assumed I’d dreamed it.”
“So you remember me getting in?”
She nods. “It’s hazy, but yes. You pulled back the covers and climbed in. You didn’t say a word, but you”—her eyes flash, something dawning—“you pulled me into you.”
I’m shaking my head before she’s done with her sentence. “You suctioned yourself to me sometime during the night. I know because you were on my side of the bed when I woke up.”
Now she’s the one shaking her head. “Lies. All of it.”
I stare at her. She stares at me with the same determined expression I feel on my face. A stalemate.
“Agree to disagree?” I offer a hand.
She looks at it, turning her chin sharply. “Never.” She pushes off, pedaling over the driveway. Her knee-length white sundress flutters in the breeze she creates.
She looks cute as hell on the bike, ponytail swinging and sun shining down on her. Quickly, I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a pic. I’ll send it to Cecily later.
Swinging my leg over the green bike, I take off after her.
We head north, away from the beach. Soon the vegetation gives way to the live oaks, thick and green. Sunlight reaches through leaves, stretching around branches to dapple the path. Golf carts pass, each driver lifting a hand in hello.
I ride a foot behind Paisley, and a little to her left, so that I’m more in the road than she. She smiles as she rides, her face bright and open. Carefree and happy, Paisley leads the way, slowing as we approach a lawn.
I come to a stop beside her, my gaze lifting up up up until it reaches the top of the lighthouse in front of us.
“Old Baldy,” she announces. “It’s the oldest standing lighthouse in North Carolina. It’s been out of commission for a long time, but people can climb to the top.”
“Are we climbing it?”
“Another day,” Paisley says, repositioning her bike to get on the path. “Nauti Bowls awaits.”
In the middle of the island sits a row of shops. Clothing, café, grocery, wine, and Nauti Bowls. We slide our bikes into a rack out front, and I look around while Paisley walks ahead on the brick walkway. Sun soaks the front patio, dropping over potted plants bunched at the entrance.
Paisley waits with the door propped open, watching me. “I like watching you catalog everything you see.”
“I want to remember everything.” My gaze drops from the trees lurching overhead, finding Paisley. Her head tilts, the slightest tug of her mouth on the left side.
Everything. Especially the softness in Paisley’s gaze, the oceanic color of her eyes, the way her dress melts over her curves.
Pressing a hand flat on the open door above Paisley’s head, I wait for her to walk in the shop. She doesn’t. She spends a moment that feels more like ten standing under my gaze, close enough that her orange blossom scent washes over me.
She blinks, and the spell breaks. I nod for her to go into the store, and she pushes off the door, walking in ahead of me.
The space is small, sharing a pass-through with the sundries shop next door, and smells of hazelnut and sugar. A long butcher block counter is loaded with individually wrapped baked goods, and two hanging signs list the specialty drinks and bowls.
“What do you want?” I ask Paisley. She’s swaying beside me, hands clasped as she reads the menu.
“Hmm. The Original sounds good. You?”
“Two Originals, please,” I say to the girl behind the counter, removing my wallet from my back pocket.
“I can get mine,” Paisley says, stepping in closer.
I hand over cash and look down to Paisley. “On dates, I pay. Yes, you’re independent. No, you don’t need me to buy you stuff. But if I’m your boyfriend, I’m paying. End of story.”
She thinks for a second, grins, and says happily, “Okay.”
I was expecting more of a fight, and I’m relieved not to be getting one.
We take our a?ai bowls to the sunny patio. I finish mine in record time, but Paisley eats slowly. She places the spoon in her mouth, leans back in her seat with her eyes closed and the sun spilling over her, and sighs contentedly as she pulls the spoon from her mouth.
At this point, it hurts. Her beauty might actually be painful. I might be begging for mercy before the week is over.
“Everything tastes better here,” she says, opening her eyes and nudging the half-empty paper cup on the table. “Everything feels better here. It’s vacation, but it’s home, too. That’s how it felt every summer. I was visiting, but the island was mine.” A blush spreads over her face. “That probably sounds ridiculous. Too emotional.”
“If you want to talk about emotions, I’m your guy.” I take her leftover cup, motioning with the silent question can I finish this? Paisley nods. “Emotions are my thing, Ace. I like them big, I like them small, I like them messy, I like them all.”
A zip of laughter bursts from her. “Are you quoting Dr. Seuss?”
I polish off her bowl, saying, “I’m quoting Klein Madigan.”
She pushes her sandaled foot against mine. “That guy sounds like he means what he says.”
Stacking our cups, I toss them in a nearby trash and hold out a hand to help Paisley up from her seat. “He does.”
Paisley places her hand in my grasp, allowing me to hold it while she stands. I’d like to keep holding it, but we don’t have an audience. Nobody for whom we need to convince of anything.
“Ready to continue the tour?” I ask, pulling Paisley’s bike from the rack and wheeling it to her. She takes the handlebars, and that’s when I notice a tiny purple smudge at the corner of her lips.
Without thinking, I reach out, thumbing at the color. Paisley tenses, her bike frame between her thighs, then relaxes.
“A?ai,” I explain.
Softly, I rub at the spot past when it has disappeared.
“I think you got it.” Her voice is low.
My thumb makes two more passes. “It’s stubborn. But it’s getting there.” One more swipe and I step back, climbing onto my bike with an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. Being close to Paisley is exquisite torture.
We ride around the island, and Paisley points out landmarks we pass. The boardwalk, where ferries come in. The Conservancy, where scientists work to protect sea turtles and conserve barrier islands. The chapel (a beautiful place, Paisley says, but not where Shane and Sienna are getting married). We take a break beside the golf course lagoon, drinking from the water bottle she brought and trying to spot alligators in the water.
“It’s amazing here, right?” Paisley’s throat moves as she drinks. “It’s a secluded island, but it has everything a person needs.”
“There’s a surreal quality to it,” I confirm, taking the water bottle from her outstretched hand and keeping an eye on the water. We’re twenty feet away, but it’s creepy, especially to this Arizona man. Even after five minutes, when nothing rises to the surface, I’m still vigilant.
Paisley tips her head to the sky, basking in the sun. “No alligators today, Wordsmith. Are you ready for our mission to really begin? By the time we get back, everybody should be there.”
Reaching out, I run a single fingertip up the length of her exposed throat. She flinches, eyes open, but doesn’t move away. “I’ll play my part so well, by the end of this week, even you will think I’m your boyfriend.”
She looks like she wants to say something, but the words aren’t there. Using the tip of her tongue, she licks her lips. “Good. Make sure you’re sending pictures to Cecily. You’re not playing the role of a lifetime for nothing, right?”
She mounts her bike and pedals away at a leisurely pace. Using her reminder, I pull out my phone and take a photo of her back as she wheels away.
Before I can forget, I send Cecily the photo. She responds immediately.
I need more.
Send me everything you have, even when you don’t think it’s good. There might be a part of it that’s good when cropped.
I gave her a thumbs-up, then take off after Paisley.