Chapter Fourteen. Clara #2
We landed inside the cab of his truck just in time. In a matter of seconds, it turned into a full deluge. The wind howled through the trees, blowing the rain sideways and rocking the truck a little.
“We should stay here until it calms down,” Reid said, watching the swaying branches through the windshield. He had a point; the drive back to town was windy and steep, with a sharp cliff drop on one side.
We were completely soaked. His dark eyelashes spiked with water, his hair a wet mess across his forehead. We were still in our swimsuits, and he grabbed a dry towel from behind his seat. We dried off as best we could, and he wrapped the towel around my shoulders.
The truck was already warm, but Reid still cranked the knob on the dashboard, turning the heat up higher. He brought my hands to his lips, and his breath grazed my knuckles when he said, “I should’ve told you about Stanford.”
I shook my head quickly. “It’s fine.” The needle of hurt I felt wasn’t fair. We weren’t serious. He didn’t owe me anything.
“I wasn’t keeping it from you, it’s just not a done deal. But I do think I want to stay in California.” He flicked a glance at me, then back down at our hands. “To be close.”
California Film Academy was in the Bay Area—not far from Stanford. Did he mean…?
“Close to what?”
“Here. Home. You know how my dad had surgery before summer training started? I know he’s fine now,” he rushed to say. “But … I want to be closer than the East Coast, which was my other option.”
I nodded slowly. “That makes sense. It’s actually the same reason I want CAFA over some of the bigger film schools. To stay close to my mom … in case.”
Still, I hated myself a little for needing to leave, terrified of what it might do to her.
But Reid understood that. Understood me. My heart jumped as he drew small circles across the skin of my knee with his fingertips. “It doesn’t hurt that Stanford will be close to you, too.”
Fear spread fast from the center of my chest. I couldn’t deny that I had the same thought, knowing it clashed with what my mom said to me.
Find your own feet. Don’t follow his.
“If I get in,” I reminded him. Reminded myself. “If I get a scholarship—”
“I know,” he said, calmly cutting me off. I hoped that he really did know. That we shouldn’t get our hopes up.
“But I wish you believed in yourself more, Clara.”
Out of nowhere my eyes got hot. My own parents forgot about me most of the time. I’d learned long ago not to expect too much from anyone. Only, Reid kept showing up being exactly who I needed. I didn’t understand it. I kept trying to resist it.
Because what if our lives went in opposite directions? What if it was never like this again?
When had that started to matter to me?
I held his gaze, trying to convey the torturous thoughts going through my head.
“Hey.” His voice softened so much I wanted to cry. “What’s that face?”
“You’re really going to leave,” I whispered, my voice almost breaking. It was the closest I could get to telling him how I felt. To describe the rush of longing and desperation coursing through my veins, thudding my heart so hard it ached.
He drew me closer, his fingers squeezing the soft flesh of my waist. “So will you,” he promised.
In that moment, as the pounding rain shielded us from everything else, I needed to be close to him in a way I understood better.
The towel slipped off me as I pulled my hair out of its ponytail; the wet strands slapped against my shoulders. His grip on my leg tightened as the lilac scent of my shampoo filled the space.
Lifting my knee, I slowly hooked it around him.
My hair fell across my face and neck as I moved, and his eyes widened when he realized what I was doing.
I studied the near-invisible freckles across his cheekbones as I hovered above him, my legs on either side of his lap, my back bumping against the steering wheel.
He gripped my hip with one hand, while his featherlight touch brushed my hair behind my shoulder with the other. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” I skimmed my nose down the line of his, dragging my nails along the back of his neck.
“I—I can’t think when you do that,” he said, laughing a little.
“Good,” I teased.
He smiled against my lips before pulling back slightly. “I just mean … Do we really want to do it here?”
“We don’t have to,” I breathed. “But it’s just us.”
Us. A small word that meant so much. That broke so often.
In that searching look, we both knew what we wanted.
Our lips met in a gasp. He usually slowed me down, but we were as frenzied as the wind that shook the world outside. My hands went everywhere—into his hair, grasping down his bare back. I traced my fingertips along either side of his rib cage and felt the moan from his chest in my own.
All the while we barely broke apart. He kissed me harder, his skin hot against mine, and rasped my name across my mouth—my neck.
It felt like a plea. I couldn’t understand why tears sprang to my eyes.
Why the closer we got, why the more we followed this feeling down each other’s bodies, the harder my heart hurt.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
“I know.”
But it wasn’t from the cold. The rumors were wrong. I’d never done this with anyone.
I drew his lips back to mine, clung to him as hard as I dared. Enclosed in that moment, trying to seal it, knowing it was only a matter of time before it shattered. His mouth slid down my throat, and my head fell back, goose bumps rippling down my skin from Reid’s reverent touch.
I let myself get lost in all the sensations jolting through me. Until his hands slowed, light fingertips across my jaw, down my neck, my sternum. My eyes flickered open, and I caught his gaze roaming the same path—my face, my hair, my body above him.
A newfound warmth overtook his expression that dropped my stomach like a stone. Our panting chests rose and fell in tandem as we looked at each other.
“Clara.” He swallowed. The corner of his mouth hiked up. “I—”
I pressed a panicked hand to his mouth. “Don’t.”
He blinked. Once. Twice.
I didn’t know what I was doing, just that I needed to do it. That I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. There was no part of me that could hear it and still let him go.
I had to be able to let him go.
He frowned, and I lowered my hand.
“Don’t?” he repeated, his tone disbelieving.
A heavy silence filled the space as he watched me, waiting for an explanation I didn’t have. All I knew was that look told me we were headed for something I couldn’t possibly handle. Sex was one thing. But this … this was something else. Something that almost overtook me.
I shook my head and slid off his lap, reaching through the pile of clothes for my shirt.
“You were right. We shouldn’t” was all I said.
I snuck a glance at him—his hair mussed, his strong, bare chest glowing in the dim light—and he looked bewildered. Crushed.
“It’s just better if we keep things—”
“Casual,” he finished. “I know.”
He didn’t sound angry, but he wouldn’t look at me. His brow was low, his posture tight just like it had been when I first met him. Everything he had opened to me the past several months had slammed shut the moment I wouldn’t let him finish that sentence.
Wordlessly, I slipped my damp shirt on. He did the same, the muscle in his jaw jumping over and over. The storm outside had calmed, too. Enough to drive, at least. But he didn’t start the truck.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He finally met my eyes again. They were yearning and sad, and I wanted nothing more than to fix it.
But I didn’t know if I could.
Because making promises to him meant breaking promises to myself.