Chapter 19 #2
She doesn’t need to beg. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing than this. Burying my face in her pussy, squeezing her thighs, and letting her dig her fingers into my shoulders as she bucks her hips up.
And afterward, when she’s come down from the orgasm, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than lying in this bed with her, her head resting on my shoulder and our legs tangled together.
We talk in hushed voices about nothing important and drift in and out of sleep. Each time I open my eyes and she’s the first thing I see, my heart does a dangerous little flutter.
I’m not supposed to fall for her.
But it feels like she’s somehow tethered herself to me, like all she has to do is blink in my direction and I’m being pulled toward her.
So yeah. I’m probably screwed.
I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to the damn Mayweather singalong. I may have walked around the festival yesterday, and okay, it wasn’t terrible. But this is ridiculous.
My buzz from drinking at the lake has long since worn off, and now I’m nowhere near intoxicated enough to deal with what I’m witnessing here.
All these grown adults sitting around firepits toasting s’mores and belting out the words to cheesy pop songs and rock classics.
Although, from the look of it, most of them are intoxicated, so maybe that’s the trick.
I honestly didn’t know what to expect when people told me about the singalong. But it certainly wasn’t something this elaborate. The entire town green is covered in blankets and camping chairs, with plenty of firepits spread out and tables set up beside them with s’mores supplies.
Then there’s one table set up on the edge of the green where Ellie, the children’s librarian, is selling red cups of her apparently famous Mayweather Party Punch.
I’ve been warned it’s deceptively strong and the hangover is a killer.
Ellie also has blue cups of regular punch for all the teenagers and kids.
Looking around, I see a ton of people holding red cups, and I wonder if I’m being a wuss for fearing the Party Punch.
But I do have to drive home after this, while I know most of the Mayweather residents will be walking.
Some people have also brought their own beers and seltzers, which I suppose I could have done, but again, I really wasn’t planning on participating in this madness.
The singalong itself is surprisingly organized.
There are a few large projector screens set up around the gazebo that have song lyrics scrolling across them like at a karaoke bar.
And the whole thing is being led by the high school band director, who is standing on the steps of the gazebo, waving his arms in the air like a conductor, while a handful of students from the band are set up inside it playing the music.
I sure hope they’re getting extra credit or something for learning all these songs.
As insane as I find all of this, though, I can’t say I truly regret being here.
Because Riley is beside me, sharing a blanket and wearing a cropped white tank top with my flannel tied around her waist. She’s singing along enthusiastically with everyone else, waving her red cup in the air as she does.
Her voice somehow sounds as lovely as ever, despite the fact that she’s on her third cup of punch and swaying so much to the music that I’ve had to catch her to keep her from tipping over more than once.
During a break in the songs, she turns toward me, her grin wild and carefree. “I love this!”
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” I tell her.
I notice a tiny smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth from the s’more she ate earlier, so I reach out and wipe it away with my thumb.
I do it without really thinking, but then we both freeze, my hand hanging in the air between us.
Everyone around us is drunk, and nobody’s paying us any attention.
Except for maybe Andrew and Toby, who are sitting a few feet away in the chairs they brought to the lake earlier.
But still, I’m aware of the stakes here.
I’m aware of how important it is for her not to get caught in another compromising position.
And as much as I hate the fact that her simply being with me would be considered compromising, I never want to be responsible for harming her career. I respect how hard she’s worked for it.
She doesn’t look all that worried, though.
Just surprised. And—as her gaze falls to my hand and she leans in toward it—maybe a little turned on.
But she’s had enough punch to cloud her judgement, so I do the only thing I can think to do in this moment to stop her from trying to wrap her lips around my thumb.
I bring my hand up to my own mouth and suck the bit of chocolate off it.
She lets out a whimper that luckily only I’m close enough to hear. Then she raises her cup to her lips and tips her head back to finish the contents of it before proclaiming, “I think I need another one.”
“I promise you, you don’t,” I say with a laugh.
She huffs adorably. “Well, fine. I guess I don’t need one. But I want one.” She widens her eyes at me in what I assume is an attempt to look innocent and sober, then adds, “Please?”
I shake my head, unable to hold back my amused smile.
It’s cute that she seems to be asking my permission.
I’m tempted to tell her she’s had enough, but she’s an adult, and I suppose there’s no harm in letting her get wasted if that’s what she wants.
As long as she doesn’t blame me in the morning when she feels like shit.
Not that I’ll be with her in the morning. I’m not assuming anything.
But I do know I’ll make sure she gets back safely.
“You’re the one who’ll have to suffer the hangover,” I remind her.
Laughing like that was a joke, she starts to stand up, but when she almost falls, I urge her back down and tell her I’ll get the drink for her.
“Thank you!” she says, smiling and batting her long eyelashes at me. “You’re the best.”
As I get up, she’s already turning away from me and joining in with the rest of the group singing what sounds like an edited version of “Get Low.” There’s something seriously wrong with this town, I swear. Maybe we should start checking for gas leaks.
I weave my way through the groups of drunken adults and rowdy kids until I reach Ellie’s table. There’s a small line, so I stand at the back of it and quickly realize that the people in front of me are Brenden, Travis, and Brenden’s teenage daughter May.
Travis has a bottle of Sam Adams Summer Ale in one hand, his other arm wrapped around Brenden’s shoulders.
Brenden is leaning into him, and as I watch them, I catch Travis duck his head down to kiss the top of Brenden’s.
It’s way more affection than I’m used to seeing from him, but I’m glad that Brenden has this.
He deserves it. Even if he is way too often a meddling pain in my ass.
The smart thing to do would be to keep my mouth shut. But it’s inevitable that they’re going to notice me, so I get it over with and say, “Hey.”
The little group of three turns around, and it’s immediately obvious that Brenden has had at least as many cups of punch as Riley.
“Addison!” he exclaims. “My wonderful chef! My favorite cook in the world, except for my man, of course.” He slaps a hand against Travis’s stomach, and Travis just shakes his head and tightens his arm around him.
“What are you doing here? Oh, wait! I bet I know why you’re here.
I bet it’s because of someone named R-I-L—”
Travis moves his hand up to cover Brenden’s mouth, which I’m grateful for.
“You’re the one who’s always trying to force me to get into the town stuff,” I tell my boss.
“I feel your pain,” Travis says solemnly.
Brenden drags Travis’s hand off his mouth. “But you never listen to me. Why, oh why, does nobody ever listen to me? People should know I’m very intellibent. Intelli... Indigi...” He shakes his head. “I’m super smart and stuff.”
“Oh, boy,” May says, patting her dad’s shoulder sympathetically.
He brushes her off, and then, as the crowd sings about getting low, he yells, “Oh my god, yes!” and attempts to do exactly that. This quickly results in his ass hitting the ground and his legs swinging up over his head.
My look of utter disbelief must be mistaken for concern, because as Travis bends down to help up his drunk boyfriend, he says to me, “It’s okay, I’m the responsible one here. I won’t let him knock himself out or anything.”
Brenden wipes the grass off his shorts, looking entirely unphased and unembarrassed by his ridiculous lack of coordination.
Right then, the woman at the front of the line gets her cup and moves out of the way, leaving Brenden next to order.
He asks Ellie for one spiked punch and one regular.
When she hands him the two cups, he turns to May and gives her the red one, while Travis is too busy grabbing Brenden’s ass to notice.
Now I’m starting to wonder if Travis might have already had some punch too.
Before I can say anything, May sighs and switches with Brenden for the blue cup. Looking at me, she says, “Don’t worry. I’m actually the responsible one.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I tell her, as Brenden and Travis both give an offended, “Hey!”
The three of them head back to their seats, and I grab a cup of punch to deliver to Riley. When she sees me, she shouts excitedly, “Hey, you’re back!” and almost drops the cup as I hand it to her.
Yikes. Maybe I really should have cut her off.
But I can’t bring myself to ruin the fun she’s clearly having. I also can’t hate the way she starts leaning against me for support once sitting up becomes too difficult for her.
And if I find her enthusiasm so infectious that I end up singing along to one or two songs with her by the end of the night?
Well, nobody can prove that. They’re all too drunk.
When the singalong ends and everyone starts packing up to leave, Andrew turns to me and Riley and asks if she needs to crash on his couch. I experience an unwarranted flare of annoyance at that, but I press my lips together and let her answer.
“Addison’s sober!” she announces louder than necessary. “So I don’t need to.” Tugging on my hand and gazing at me with slightly unfocused eyes, she says, “Take me home?”
And fuck me, why does that sound so good? I don’t know if she means to my house or back to the inn, but the delicate warmth of her fingers wrapped around me has me making the decision for her.
I untie the flannel from around her waist and convince her to put it on, though she leaves it unbuttoned. Then I drive us to my house and help her inside. She’s still energetic and happy, but she’s probably going to be in pain tomorrow.
As I sit her on the edge of my bed and start to get her undressed, she says, “That punch was so good!”
“Have you never had it before?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head so hard she tips over sideways, but I sit her back up. “I was too young the last time I was here for the singalong.”
That makes me worry that she underestimated how drunk she’d get and how hungover she’ll be, but it’s too late now. I manage to get her naked and tucked under my covers. Once she’s lying down, the energy appears to rapidly drain out of her.
Now she’s quiet and her movements are slow. She murmurs something I don’t entirely catch about sexy shorts and maybe collarbones, and I nod like I understood her.
I grab the small wastebasket from the bathroom and bring it to the side of the bed in case she needs to throw up. Then I run downstairs for a glass of water, and I convince her to sit up long enough to take a couple of Tylenol.
Satisfied that I’ve done all I can to take care of her, I slip into the bed on the other side. She rolls over to face me, and with her eyes half-closed, she finally says something that’s clear enough for me to understand.
“I reeeally like you.”
Alarmingly, I feel the shield around my heart start to crack.