Chapter 13
Shira
The sun is peeking over the alfalfa fields when I wake up in the back of Jonny McKay’s truck, the little spoon to his big one. The air is frigid against my face, but inside the blankets, it’s warm and toasty.
Judging by the soft sound of snoring, Jonny’s still asleep.
And judging by the size of the bulge pressed against my back, I’m going to be one happy woman when he finally lets me unwrap his package.
But even though I’ll admit to being a little disappointed last night when Jonny asked if we could just “hang out,” it ended up being perfect.
The girls won’t understand this—I might not even tell them—but once Jonny made it clear we weren’t having sex last night, I was able to relax and open up in a way I haven’t before. With anyone. We stayed up until nearly two a.m. talking about everything under the sun while we lay under the stars.
Jonny told me about growing up in Azalea, where he’s pretty sure his reputation as the “bad apple” of his family began in kindergarten, when he refused to close his eyes during naptime.
He wasn’t tired, and he didn’t have any interest in following rules just because someone told him to.
He still doesn’t like pointless rules (like why is the speed limit only thirty miles per hour once you get past the city limits?), and he never bothered to try to change people’s perception of him.
It wasn’t until he left Azalea that he realized how stifled he’d felt growing up, and how free he felt being somewhere else.
Like he could reinvent himself—be whoever he wanted in a big city where no one knew about all the mistakes he’d made.
He told me how hard it’s been coming back, knowing that he’s changed, but the way the town sees him hasn’t.
I told him I knew something about reinventing myself, too.
Only I hadn’t wanted to be different; all I wanted was to fit in.
Even from a young age, I didn’t feel like I belonged with my family.
As the only child of two brainiacs—my dad is one of the top economists in the country, and my mom is a district judge—I never felt like I was smart or analytical enough to be worthy of their time or attention.
Even when it came to reading—something all three of us loved—our tastes were drastically different.
I preferred losing myself in fictional worlds instead of the dry, academic ones they favored.
I think it disappointed them that I read for escape and entertainment, not enrichment.
When they looked down on the books I read, it felt like they were looking down on me.
That’s why I spent as much time as I could with my Bubbe.
She gave the best hugs and told the best stories.
She was the only person in the world who made me feel like I was enough, that who I am is exactly who I’m supposed to be.
That’s why it’s been so hard, feeling that weird push and pull of being proud of myself and wanting to hide the parts that are different.
Sharing those stories of our past and the people who made us who we are was oddly intimate. I feel closer to Jonny than I’ve felt with any other man, and we haven’t even seen each other naked yet.
This morning seems like as good a time as any to change that. It’s a brand-new day, and I’m ready for our physical connection to catch up to our emotional one.
When I arch my back and press my butt toward Jonny, I’m not thinking about what Talia would do if she were here; I’m not thinking at all. I’m fully embracing the part of me that’s tired of apologizing for who I am, for what I want, and what I need. And what I need right now is Jonny McKay.
I can feel Jonny respond, his hips shifting toward me, and I’m not sorry. Not one bit.
I glance behind me to see if he’s awake; his breathing isn’t quite as steady, but his eyes are still closed.
I press back a little more and swivel my hips.
I’m already wet for him, this man who kisses me like it’s the main event, who tells me I’m beautiful, who let me talk for hours about my dead grandmother, and who literally made me a miracle with his own two hands.
“Trouble,” Jonny hisses as he grinds against me. His lips are on my neck, and his arms wrap tighter around me. “You are nothing but trouble.”
“The good kind, I hope.”
“The best kind,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean to make you sleep in the back of a truck, though. I should’ve taken you home—sorry about that.”
“I’m not.” I shift so we’re facing each other, lying on our sides in the back of his truck. Our lips find each other, and his kiss is sleepy and sweet and slow. I shift again, trying to wedge my leg between his, desperate to feel him against me.
“Not yet,” Jonny says again, still on the edge of sleep.
I groan, frustrated. This man’s self-control would be something to admire if I weren’t trying to shatter it.
Mine, however, is not so strong. A new thought flickers in my mind, something I have never done—at least, not in front of anyone else.
But I’m kind of liking this new, bolder version of myself.
And if Jonny’s not going to help me, then I’ll have to take care of myself.
Without breaking the kiss, I shift slightly and bring my hand to the waist of my jeans. I undo the top button and tentatively slip my hand inside.
Jonny’s eyes are still closed as he kisses me, deeper with each press of his mouth. I move my hands the way I’d want him to, imagining that it’s his fingers teasing, circling, rubbing. My breath hitches as the pressure builds, and Jonny pulls back.
My hand goes still. His pupils dilate as he realizes what I’m doing. “Don’t stop on my account,” he murmurs. Shivers run down my legs, and I continue. He keeps his eyes locked on mine, like he’s more interested in seeing the pleasure wash across my face than looking at what’s causing it.
Soon, my breaths are coming faster, my muscles tightening.
Jonny dips his head and kisses me, his tongue sweeping against mine as I pick up the pressure and the pace.
The tension builds as he kisses me deeper, and then my hand falls limp as I quiver against him and ride the wave until I’m breathless and spent.
“Fuck,” Jonny whispers, “that was…” He blows out a breath, his jaw tightening like he’s struggling to hold himself back.
Sighing, I stretch out my leg, sliding my toes against his foot.
“Do you want a turn?” I ask, still breathless.
“Hell yes, I do.” He closes his eyes, wincing like he’s in pain. “But not in the back of a truck off a side road my brother might drive down at any moment. Plus, my mama always says that good things come to those who wait.”
I pout. “Yeah, well, my mom says good things come to those who go after them.”
Jonny chuckles and wraps his arm around me. “Opposite ends of the same spectrum.”
“Maybe that’s our problem,” I say, snuggling into him. “Opposites can attract, but they don’t really work, not in the real world.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Just think about last night. How beautiful was it, bringing our worlds, our traditions, together?”
“It was beautiful,” I agree. “Proof that two things together can be greater than each of them is apart.”
“I like that.”
“How about we put it to the test?” I say, sliding my leg between his, feeling him hot and hard against my thigh.
He lets out a low groan, pulling me close for a second before sighing. “I should get you home,” he says. “So you can shower and get ready before you have to open the bookshop.”
There’s something in his voice I can’t read; he feels far away.
“It’s early,” I say, turning so I can see his face. “The store doesn’t open for hours.”
His eyes soften as he brushes hair back from my face. “Hours aren’t enough time for what I want to do with you.”
“You’re killing me, Jonny McKay,” I say, snuggling closer and fitting myself against him.
I close my eyes and focus on the rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of our breaths, the way we inhale and exhale.
We’re not in sync, but we are in harmony.
The thought makes me smile—it’s like Jonny said about our different traditions coming together to create something beautiful and new.
After all, you can’t have harmony with two of the same note.
People might be like that, too. People like me and Jonny.
He wraps his arms around me, and I let him hold me, dreaming of a way this could work even after December ends.
I’m literally giddy as I open the bookshop, counting down the minutes until I can see Jonny again. It’s wild how in one night I’ve gone from melancholy Folklore Taylor to The Life of a Showgirl Taylor, and I’m not mad about it.
There’s a steady flow of customers, which helps pass the time, and I spend the day helping them pick out books to gift or purchase for themselves. Around three o’clock, when the lack of sleep starts getting to me, Jonny walks in wearing a secret smile and holding a big cup of coffee.
I’m talking to Mrs. Landry, who dropped by to tell me how excited she is about the town’s new menorah. She’s saying how sorry she was to miss the lighting last night. It turns out that her college roommate was Jewish, and she has fond memories of the beautiful traditions they shared.
I thank her and tell her that I’ll see her tomorrow to talk about her latest read, The Stolen Life of Colette Marceau, then try not to run toward Jonny and his much-needed caffeine.
“I thought you could use this,” he says, handing me the coffee. “And I could use this.”
He leans in to give me a kiss that’s meant to be quick but isn’t.
“What if I close up early and we play hooky the rest of the day?” I suggest, anxious to continue this behind closed doors.
Jonny playfully tsks. “Remember, patience is—”
“Overrated,” I say, cutting him off with a smile and another kiss.
“What do you want to do later?” he asks. I raise my eyebrows and hook a finger through a loop on his jeans. “Other than that,” he says.