Chapter 7
CONFESSIONAL 1131
Judson, Lana (Public Relations Director: Juniper Ridge)
Never lose your cool. That’s PR 101, right?
You’re like a duck paddling wildly under the water’s surface, but on top? Smooth as can be, just cruising along the shimmery glass like?—
[dramatic eyeroll]
Stop quacking, Cooper. I mean it.
Don’t make me come over there and kick you in the nuts.
* * *
“Who’s filming the singles mixer at the water park tonight?” Big brother Dean looks from Lauren to Gabe. “Is one of you grabbing footage?”
“I’m on it.” Gabe fiddles with the lens cap on his camera. “We traded so Lauren can shoot chowder next week.”
“Shoot chowder?” Cooper makes a face. “Please don’t ever use that phrase again.”
I glance at my watch, needing this meeting to end. Dal’s picking me up for our two-hour drive to Bend. Apparently, the landlocked city has a spot with world-class chowder Dal’s dying to try. We’ll have a late lunch at Float and then head back to Juniper Ridge by evening.
“Are we good here?” It’s a struggle to not sound impatient. “I need to duck out and?—”
“Fuck!” The doors burst open and there’s Dal. He’s breathless and looks like he ran all the way here. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“Me?” My heart starts to race as my siblings’ eyes bore into me. “What for?”
“All of you.” He bends at the waist, panting like he ran here. “My uncle shared something that I think needs to be part of the story.”
Lauren frowns. “About chowder?”
“About my father having fucking Parkinson’s.” He plants his hands on his thighs and looks up with dark eyes flashing. “About fucking medical records saying he shouldn’t drive. That he could fucking kill someone if he did.”
I’m instantly on alert. Not just because three fucks in two breaths signals Dal’s pretty upset. I jump to my feet as my brothers and sisters glance uneasily at each other.
“Who knew about this?” That’s Dean at the head of the table.
“How are you feeling, Dal?” That’s Mari, of course. “Do you need to talk to?—”
“Shit.” Lauren points at Cooper. “And you thought hitting a cow was bad.”
I grab Dal by the arm and usher him out the door and into the vacant courtyard behind the bakery, hoping he missed that last part. I worked hard to keep Cooper’s long-ago drunk mishap out of the media. That’s also not the point here.
The instant we’re outside, Dal tugs his arm free. “I need to say it on camera.” He drags his hands through his hair, looking frazzled and off-kilter. “I need Ji-Hoon to know, without a doubt, it wasn’t his fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault, either.” I’m not surprised he’s more focused on his brother. “Why did your uncle hide this?”
“He says he didn’t know. That my dad hid it from everyone.” The huff that escapes him leaves me guessing he might not believe that. “It doesn’t matter. My point is that Ji-Hoon can stop blaming himself.”
“And so can you.” I shake my head, needing him to slow down. To think through the situation. “What are you wanting to do, Dal? Go on camera spilling the secret a dead man hoped he’d take to his grave?”
“Yes!” He’s pacing now, more upset than I’ve ever seen him. “If it means the world learns my brother’s not to blame for what happened.”
“Why does it matter?”
Dal stops pacing. “What?”
“I said why does it matter whose fault it is? At this stage of the game, is blame really your chief concern?”
His dark eyes flash. “The truth is my chief concern.”
“Okay, I get that.” I catch his arm and it’s vibrating with tension. “But let’s do this thoughtfully, okay? You’ve got your father’s company to think about, and Ji-Hoon’s life. Maybe lawsuits if other drivers were involved. You don’t want to just blurt things out.”
“Why the hell not?” He whirls to face me and there’s fire in his eyes. “Don’t you ever just want to blurt something out?”
I stare at his face, at the set of his jaw.
Buddy, you have no idea.
“I can’t.”
Dal blinks. “You can.”
I’m shaking my head, knowing I need to be careful. “It’s my job to?—”
“Did you fake it on the counter the other night?”
“What?” I can’t believe he asked that. “Of course not. I?—”
“I know you didn’t, Lana.” The heat in his gaze turns my insides to liquid. “I wanted to see your face when you’re being completely honest.”
Well, that’s a dick move. “Of all the manipulative?—”
“What food do I make in the restaurant that you hate?”
I stare at his face, uncomprehending. “I don’t understand.”
“Come on, Lana.” Dal folds his arms. “You can’t love everything I make. Tell me something you didn’t care for. Please.”
It’s the pleading that gets me. That, and the pain in his eyes. I don’t know how, but I sense the only thing that might make it better is honesty. Complete and total honesty, even about something so trivial.
“The vegan potato leek soup,” I blurt. “You had it on the menu last spring.”
He frowns. “You’re not vegan.”
“No, but I love potatoes.” It’s pretty tough to fuck them up, which might be part of my fondness. “That soup tasted like feet.”
Dal nods without a trace of offense. “Thank you for your candor.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’ll notice it’s not on the menu anymore.”
“Did someone else complain?”
“No.”
I wait for him to point out that if they had, the less-than-perfect soup would have disappeared sooner from the menu. That if I’d been honest from the start, I’d have spared other patrons the taste of toes.
“What’s your favorite thing about your body?” His heated gaze holds mine. “Don’t worry about being vain. Just say it.”
“Tits,” I say without thinking. “Wait.” That came out wrong. “I meant my smile.” Something less conceited, less sexualized.
But Dal’s shaking his head. “Your first answer sounded more honest.”
I’m not sure that’s a good thing. But he’s right, it feels nice just saying the first thing to pop into mind.
“Is my makgeolli really your favorite dessert on earth?” He’s daring me now, challenging me to be honest.
“No.” I lick my lips, tasting ginger. “But it’s really good.”
“What’s your real favorite?”
“Nutter Butter cookies with canned whipped cream.”
Dal winces. “Really?”
“You asked.” Should I have humored him? “But as far as gourmet desserts go, the makgeolli’s really great and?—”
“What do you hate most about your family?” He’s moved on already, and I’m happy to go. “The fame? The constant presence of cameras? Don’t think about it—just answer.”
I’m so thrown by this pivot that I blurt out my answer. “Being treated like the baby. Like some little girl who’s just playing in the family business, but not to be taken too seriously. I fucking hate that. I hate it more than ingrown toenails or rush hour traffic or people who make phone calls on speaker in public.”
Did I just say that?
Dal breaks into a smile. “There.” His voice rolls like thunder. “That felt good, didn’t it?”
“It did.” Almost as good as what we did on the counter.
What I’m urgently hoping can happen again.
“Kinda nice,” he says, “being brutally honest.”
Nice isn’t how I’d describe it. “It felt weird.” Dangerous is more like it. “Really weird.”
“You say weird, I say good.” He smiles. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”
“You’re just trying to appeal to my potato lust.”
His grin gets bigger. “Is it working?”
“No.” It totally is.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“So?” He’s right that there’s something freeing about speaking those words out loud. But there’s more to it than naked honesty. It’s not so simple.
“You’re right that telling the truth can feel terrific.” I hold up a hand when I see him start to speak. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be thoughtful with the truth. Consider who it might hurt before blurting things out.”
“I disagree.” Dal folds his arms. “The truth is kindness.”
“Kindness is kindness.” We’re running in circles here.
He must decide I’m right because he offers an olive branch. “Tell me one more true thing,” he says. “Just one.”
I ache to say it. To blurt out the big one, the secret I’ve hidden since I was ten years old.
But I chicken out. “Car sex,” I say instead, because this is also true, “I want to get laid in a car.”
Dal blinks. “What?”
“With you,” I clarify, in case that wasn’t obvious. “I never got to do the whole ‘crazy teenagers snog in the car’ thing that’s a rite of passage for most people.” I shrug and glance away, a little self-conscious of my confession. “It’s not really an option for a kid who grows up chased by paparazzi.”
“I see.” There’s amusement in Dal’s low rumble. Amusement and… intrigue? “The restaurant closes early tonight. Mondays tend to be slow.”
“Okay.” What is he suggesting?
“After our trip to Bend,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “after I’m off for the night?—”
“Yes?” The breathlessness in my voice makes me blush.
“Let’s see what we can do about that wish.”
I stare at him, wanting to say something clever. Something to snap the tension. “Okay,” is all I manage, but it makes him smile.
“Meet me at the car in ten minutes.” He steps close, skimming his thumb underneath my chin.
“Gonna need a little more foreplay than that.” That’s a lie, and he probably knows it.
His chuckle flows low and sexy over my skin. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m a gentleman. I’ll buy you a meal first.”
“You think I’m that easy?” I totally am.
He laughs again, his thumb trailing softly down my throat and over my collarbone. “Wear something easy to slip off in a car.”
* * *
“This was a mistake.”I whisper the words behind my menu, shielding my face from the server. “Something’s not right with this chowder.”
Dal surveys the dining room of Float and its cheerful décor. It’s Bend brewery chic, with rustic wood tables and tons of copper accents. Tourists pack booths in the outdoor courtyard as the scents of hops and yeast drift from the backroom brewery.
Everything looks normal. Everything feels normal.
“This chowder tastes like a wet dog smells.” Dal’s spoon clatters into the saucer. “I’m finding the owner.”
He starts to get up, but I catch his arm. “Wait, please.” The last thing we need is Dal storming through some other chef’s kitchen. We’re not filming, but still. Someone usually is.
Squeezing his arm, I smile to defuse things. “Maybe the chef isn’t even here.”
Odds are good he won’t be, which means we’ll be safe to share feedback in a tasteful, carefully worded email. Something less…confrontational.
Frowning, Dal flags down our waitress. As she skids to a stop at our table, he growls out a greeting. “I’d like to talk to the owner.”
The girl can’t be more than sixteen, and she shifts uncomfortably with her notepad in hand. “Is everything okay?”
“We have some questions,” I say quickly, resting a hand on Dal’s arm. “About ingredients in the chowder.”
“Allergies,” she says with a sigh of relief. “Of course. We’ve been getting some questions since Terce took over.”
“Terce?” Dal stares. “Is that a name or a medical symptom?”
“Terce Horseway.” She waits for our aha moment. Seeing none, she continues. “The celebrity chef?”
“Celebrity,” Dal growls at the same time I chirp, “Influencer.”
“That’s right.” The server smiles. “He racked up more than five million followers and made tons of money posting cooking videos.”
I’m dimly aware that Terce Horseway got famous for showing his followers such culinary gems as “Eight ways to cook ramen on your dorm room radiator.” That was followed by, “Five things to make in the microwave when you’re stoned.”
Glancing at Dal, I’m not sure he knows this. But I do know this needs to be handled delicately. The last thing we need is Dal getting cancelled by some twerp with a TikTok fandom.
“We don’t have allergies,” I tell our waitress, offering my perkiest smile. “Just some questions about changes in the chowder recipe.”
“It’s different, huh?” She says it like this is a good thing. “He likes shaking things up. Trying different techniques in the kitchen, you know?”
Dal looks incredulous. “Like running the clams through a sewer pipe?”
She laughs like he’s not on the brink of flipping the table. “Hang on, I’ll get him for you. He’s back in the kitchen.”
The instant she’s gone, I look at Dal. “Please, for the love of all that’s holy, let me handle this.”
“Fine.” He pushes aside his barely touched chowder. “You want to watch folks with hemochromatosis drop dead, knock yourself out.”
“Hemochro—” I don’t even know what he said.
“Hemochromatosis,” he repeats. “It’s a form of abnormal iron metabolism. Pretty common. Folks who have it and eat undercooked shellfish keel over quicker than a fainting goat.” One edge of his mouth twitches, though his scowl doesn’t waver. “And not like the goats in cute TikTok videos.”
It’s weirdly sexy that he knows this. Also, I get his concern.
“Just let me try talking to him.” I see a man strolling from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a stark white bar towel. “Please?”
“Go nuts.” Dal folds his arms as the guy approaches.
He’s got a brown floppy man-bun and tattoos up both his bare legs. He’s wearing shorts in a kitchen? Okay, well…I’m no health inspector. I steal a quick glance at Dal as the guy stops at our table.
“Terce Horseman.” He hikes up the sleeves of his neon blue chef’s coat and crosses his arms. Glances from Dal to me like he’s waiting for applause. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Horseman—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Terce, please.” He flashes a smile that’s way too white to be natural. “We’re pretty chill around here.”
“I hear ya.” I force out a breezy laugh and try a little small talk. “When did you buy the place, Terce?”
He flips a highlighted curl off his forehead. “Couple weeks ago, and I paid cash.” He pauses again for applause. “The fans wanted to see me run a real restaurant, and this place was popular, so—” He shrugs like that’s a reasonable business decision. “Here I am.”
“Here you are.” I step on Dal’s toe when he snorts. “The thing is, Terce?—”
“Hey, you know what?” He makes a box with his hands and frames up my face. “You’re a hot girl. Ever thought about being an influencer?”
“I—” Oh, boy. It’s nice in a way, not to be recognized, but really? “I’m good, thanks. But your chowder?—”
“I’d cut you a deal on my social media workshop.” He leans in close, like he’s spilling a secret. “I let you in on all the tricks and tips that got me where I am today. Stuff like how to make the most of your ring light and which filters won’t make your ass look fat, you know?”
If this child thinks he’s schooling me on crafting a public image, he’s sorely mistaken. I learned these tricks in the cradle. “I’m sure it’s great,” I say, trying to keep our friendly rapport. “I’ll definitely check out your channel.” I will do no such thing. “But I actually have some concerns about?—”
“Picture this.” He pulls out a chair and flips it around, straddling it backwards as he rests both elbows next to Dal’s bowl. “You do some kind of angle, right? Like, ‘Hot MILF gobbles glizzies.’ Something really niche.” He pronounces niche like it rhymes with itchy, instead of dish or quiche, both of which would be widely accepted by American dictionaries.
And Terce is as American as star-spangled tube socks.
So is Dal, though he’s puzzling out that last one. “MILF?” He frowns at me. “Glizzies?”
“Glizzy is a slang term for hot dog,” I inform Dal, who doesn’t look any less baffled. “And MILF is shorthand for ‘mother I’d like to f?—’”
“Hey, now.” Terce holds up his hands and chuckles. “We’re a family restaurant. Don’t go putting words in my mouth.”
Dal mutters something I don’t quite catch. Sounds like, “They’d taste better than your chowder,” but I focus on trying again with Terce. “I’m not a mother, actually. And social media isn’t really my?—”
“Hot older chick doesn’t have quite the same ring, though, does it?” He chuckles and nudges Dal. “This is what I teach in my class. How to put the best spin on things, right?”
“Right.” Dal gives me a dead-eyed stare. “How about it, Lana? Want to learn spin from the best?”
At the table behind us, I hear someone whisper.
Is that Lana Judson?
A murmur rolls through the restaurant. Someone passes our table and pokes the guy next to him.
Gritting my teeth, I turn back to Terce. “Look, I’m trying to help you. The old chowder recipe had a lot of great buzz and made the shortlist in several major culinary publications. Food and Wine? Bon Appétit?”
Terce laughs like I’m speaking Pig Latin. “Print media’s dead, babe. If you want to get famous?—”
“I don’t want to get famous!” My shout erupts like lava. Even Dal looks surprised. Drawing a breath, I smooth out my voice. “Not to split hairs, but those food mags have robust fan bases spanning multiple social media platforms. On Instagram alone, Food and Wine has more than 4.1 million followers and nearly 200,000 impressions across various food blogs. Bon Appétit has been a leading source of culinary insight since 1956, and their YouTube channel alone has nearly 7 million subscribers with?—”
I stop when Terce puts his head on the table. He gives a loud snore, smacking his lips for dramatic effect. Dal looks dangerously close to dumping chowder in his ear.
“That’s it.” I stand up and shove back my chair. “Do we have a doctor in the house? A medic, maybe?”
Everyone falls silent. The servers stop moving. The diners quit chatting. Even Terce sits up straight. In a corner booth, a woman in a purple T-shirt points her iPhone our way and starts filming.
Good.
“Sorry to bother you, folks.” I gesture at Terce, who gives a feeble wave. “This man is experiencing a dangerous reaction to undercooked seafood. As I’m sure you know, hemochromatosis can be fatal when combined with shellfish poisoning.” I’m not sure that’s precisely right, but everyone’s watching like I’m a medical expert. Say it with confidence, and folks will believe you. Maybe I should teach workshops. “We’ve notified OSHA and the Oregon Health Authority about the dangerous preparation methods used in crafting the chowder at Float.”
Dal drags out his phone and I have no doubt he’s texting inspectors he knows. Good. Also, I’m pretty sure that’s respect in his eyes.
“Wait.” Terce stands and starts waving his arms. “This bitch is crazy. Just some old chick who came in here running her mouth like?—”
“Misogynist!” a woman beside the one filming starts to shout. “Float is run by a sexist jerk!”
They’re zeroing in on Terce, and I step out of the frame so folks firing off pictures can get a clear shot.
“Wait—” he sputters. “She’s just some dumb woman off the street.”
A lady in green and pink shorts snickers next to us. “Does he seriously not know who she is?”
Another woman with two kids and an oversized purse stops to glare at Terce. “Shame on you.” She pulls each of her toddlers close. “I won’t be bringing my family here again.”
At the table beside us, two teens on a date stand up. “You’re cancelled, buddy,” says the taller guy. “Count on it.”
The shorter guy puts an arm around his sweetheart, guiding them both to the door. “We don’t patronize businesses with discriminatory practices,” he says. “Good luck getting any traction in this town.”
I turn to face Dal, folding my arms as he gapes.
“Holy shit.”
Damn right. “That went well.” I push in my chair, cool as can be, smiling for real this time. “Shall we go somewhere else for lunch?”
* * *
“I won’t lie.”Dal slings an arm around me in his passenger seat as a symphony of crickets sings approval. “That was hot.”
“The Bulgogi we had for the second course?” I’m distracted by Dal kissing my neck, so I barely recall what we ordered at Yoli.
“No,” he murmurs, kissing his way to the sensitive spot behind my ear. “You telling off Terce Horseman.”
“Oh, that.”
We’re parked on the side of his cabin, right under a willow that’s lush with bright leaves tickling the roof of the car. The oversized parking space for Ji-Hoon’s wheelchair leaves plenty of room for Dal’s Honda. We’re tucked deep in the shadows, a perfect setting for a car hookup.
That’s the plan, anyway.
“Wait.” I slide my hands to his chest so he draws back. “Are we supposed to be in the backseat?”
Dal blinks in the darkness. “You’re asking the rules?”
“Not rules, exactly.” I’m making this harder than it should be, but I want to get this right. “I never got the teenage car hookup. I’m not sure how it’s supposed to go.”
He lifts one hand to brush hair off my face. “I hope you’re not looking to me for instruction.” Dipping his head, he goes back to kissing the hollow of my throat. “I grew up in a city of nearly ten million before moving to one with nine million.”
Seoul and New York, he means. It’s weirdly sexy he can rattle off stats without pause. “Your point?” I moan as he kisses his way to my clavicle.
“If you’re wanting someone with experience parking his Chevy in the ol’ holler down by the cornfields, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
His attempt at a southern drawl shoots a sputter of laughter up my windpipe. Pretty sure I just spit in his hair.
“Look!” I lean over his lap, dragging a fingertip through condensation. “We’re steaming up the windows. We must be doing it right.”
Dal quirks an eyebrow. “Condensation is part of the experience?”
I shiver as he goes back to kissing my throat. His palm slides up my ribcage and I almost forget what I’m saying. “I think so. That’s how it is in the movies.” I’m barely conscious of what I’m saying as he nips at my earlobe.
“We’re using the movies as our standard?”
“You have a better idea?”
“Nope,” he says and nibbles my ear some more.
I don’t know why I keep harping on this point, but it seems important. There’s a first time for everything, and this is mine. “Teenagers park on some starry hillside as the camera pans back and the car starts rocking.” I can think of at least two films Cooper starred in with scenes just like that. Gabe directed a third one with car sex on a beach, which must be in the same ballpark.
“Rocking?” Dal draws back, and I try to recall what we’re talking about. His mouth keeps making me dizzy. “Sounds aggressive.”
“Maybe that’s the point.” Isn’t good sex sometimes like that? “It’s passionate.”
He gives me a curious look. “Is that what it’s about?”
“What what’s about?”
“Your kink.”
I blink in confusion. “What kink?”
“Not kink, exactly.” He brushes my hair off my face. “Turn-on.”
I still don’t know what he means.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and my insides liquify. His thumb skims my chin as a shiver rolls through me and he smiles. “There,” he says. “That’s it.”
“What?” I’m whispering, since the inside of this Honda feels holy. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Except I kinda do, and Dal knows it. “You like when I call you a good girl.” He traces my ear with his lips, making me shiver again. “You’re fierce and in charge and so fucking competent it hurts.” His hands slide up my shirt and his fingers find my bra clasp. “But deep down,” he continues, unhooking my bra, “you want to be told that you’re good.”
“Don’t we all?” My voice sounds high and breathy. I gasp as his big palm scoops under my breast. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Nah.” His thumbs stroke my nipples and I whimper. “Not everyone.”
My eyes drift shut as Dal dips his head and slides my shirt up. He’s kissing my breasts, pushing aside my fear that I’ve just been insulted.
Almost.
“Wait.” I whimper as his tongue rolls my nipple. “Why is that a bad thing?”
From under my shirt, he releases my nipple. “Why is what a bad thing?”
“Wanting to be told I’m good.”
“It’s not.” He nips at my ear, then draws back to brush some loose hair off my face. “Sweetheart,” he says, dark eyes flashing in the dim light of the car. “There is nothing even a little wrong with how fucking good you are.”
“Okay.” I’m still not sure what to make of that. Maybe I don’t care, since he’s suckling my breasts. His mouth feels like heaven, all warm, wet suction. I groan as his teeth graze my nipple.
“What about you?”
Beneath my shirt, Dal stops moving. “What about me?”
“Do you want to be good?”
There’s a long stretch of silence, then Dal draws a breath. “No,” he says, emerging from under my hem. His eyes search mine and he smiles. “I don’t need to be good.” He pauses again, tracing the line of my jaw with one fingertip. “Just honest.”
That tracks. “Is that why you stormed into the meeting this morning?”
He leans back in his seat, pulling me close to his chest. He’s stroking my hair, leaving my breasts achy with need. “I guess it is.”
I’ve killed the moment, haven’t I?
But then his voice rumbles low, soft and intimate in my ear. “I don’t know, Lana. I thought I had it all figured out.”
“How’s that?” His hand on the back of my skull feels gentle and strong. “Had what figured out?”
“What it meant to be a good guy. Honesty, right? Truth.” He shifts in his seat, snuggling me close to his heart. “But deep down, all I’ve ever wanted is to protect the people I love. Ji-Hoon. My parents’ honor.” He pauses, maybe mentally tallying his short list of loved ones. “My uncle Korain. Maybe that’s why I stayed away. I didn’t want to remind him of everything we lost.”
That makes sense. I know we’ve just slowed things down, but that’s okay. It’s funny how Dal can go from white-hot heat to soft, glowy warmth in the span of a heartbeat.
I’m right there with him. “That’s maybe why I got into public relations.”
“Yeah?”
“I think so.” I’m trying to make this make sense. It’s hard with his heart thrumming low in my ear. “The chance to cushion things however I could. To make everything a little bit…I don’t know.” He kisses my ear and I lose my train of thought. “Softer,” I say, with a sigh. “Softer for everyone else.”
“That makes sense.” He kisses me again, lips brushing the lobe of my ear. “I guess blunt honesty felt like kindness to me. Less distance to fall, you know?”
“Yeah.” I consider his history. Not just the accident, but his love life, too. “That’s why your girlfriend’s betrayal stung so much.” I deliberately don’t say Cherri Chiffon, not wanting her here in the car with us. This feels too personal, too intimate. “Why it hurt when your uncle tried to put a positive spin on your worst nightmare.”
“Perhaps.” Dal turns his head, and his breath stirs my hair. Is he smelling me? After a long while, he takes a deep breath. “That’s what I love about you, Lana.”
Love?
He must feel me stiffen, but he doesn’t take it back. “For someone who doesn’t know you, it’d be so easy to peg you as a harmless bit of sunshine fluff. Someone who doesn’t get too deep, you know?”
“Hey.” Pretty sure I just got insulted. Maybe I should re-hook my bra.
“But you’re not like that at all.” Dal’s arm stays tight around me, and I relax. “You’re smart and you’re thoughtful, and you spend so much energy protecting everyone around you.” He kisses my forehead, breath ruffling my hair. “You deserve someone protecting you.”
“Thank you.” Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them back. “This wasn’t meant to be a mushy hookup.”
“Sorry,” he says, cupping my cheek to kiss me. “Want me to fix it?”
“Fix what?”
His eyes flash with mischief as he grins. “Hang on.”
“What?”
Dal puts both hands on my shoulders as his smile turns sly. “Ready?”
“For what?”
“This car thing to get real.” He lifts off his seat and bounces down hard, making the Honda sway. “You’re right,” he says, bouncing with vigor. “The rocking makes it better.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I laugh and then bounce back into my own seat. It’s a little rough with my boobs shifting braless beneath my top, but I like it. I feel free and unfettered and a little breathless by the time we stop bouncing.
He’s laughing as he draws me close. “You’re really something, you know that?”
“So are you.”
This time when he kisses me, it feels like he means it. His palm glides up my ribcage and keeps going, skipping my breast altogether. Talented fingers take a languid journey up my arm and over my shoulder, continuing until his fingertips brush my cheek.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, drawing back to look me in the eye. “Not just here.” His thumb skims my cheekbone and I shiver. “But here.” As his hand drops down to the center of my chest, I shiver again. “Inside and out, Lana. I hope you know that.”
I nod, though it wasn’t a question. “Kiss me again.”
He does, and it’s glorious. There’s a slow slide of tongues, a breathless energy that leaves me squirming as my hands slide inside his shirt. He’s solid and hot, and his skin feels silky under my palms. I can’t see in the dark of the car, but I feel him stiffen when my fingers trace the spot where the chili pepper tattoo brands his heart.
“It’s part of you,” I whisper, and he stills beneath my touch. “All of it is. The scar. The ink. The flesh and blood human beneath it.”
It’s Dal’s turn to shiver, and he does, which blows my mind. The thought that I could move a man so stoic and solid. Around us the windows grow fogged to the point of opaqueness. I can’t see the trees outside or hear the croak of frogs over Michael Kiwanuka playing softly on the stereo.
But inside this car, I feel it all. Dal kisses me slowly, one hand easing between his legs. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then the seat tilts back.
“Oh,” I breathe against his mouth as he pulls me onto his lap. “That’s how.”
He smiles into the kiss. “That’s how.”
His kiss turns serious then. Not serious. Passionate, just like I always dreamed. He wants me, if the stiffness I feel at my core is any indication. And holy cow, he’s…not small.
I squirm against him, bumping my back on the steering wheel. Dal pulls me tighter, peeling my spine off the rubbery wedge of the wheel. “You good?” he asks when I draw back for breath.
“So good.”
His smile fills the car like a dome light. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
His lips meet mine as his hand glides from my waist to my ribs. As his hands cup my breasts again, I gasp.
“Don’t slow down,” I beg when he pauses. “I want this.”
“Not stopping.” His thumb strokes my nipple and I shudder. “Just enjoying.”
Good idea. “Same,” I murmur as I languidly roll my hips, grinding on the hard length of him. He rewards me with a groan, and I do it again, loving how he feels between my legs.
With my skirt hiked around my hips, there’s just a thin film of satin keeping us apart. Shielding my sex from what’s fighting to bust through his fly. Should I help?
As I reach between our bodies, Dal groans again. “Good girl,” he groans as I drag down his zipper. “There’s a condom in my wallet.”
Which he’s sitting on at the moment. Too inconvenient. “There’s one in my purse, too.” That’s on the passenger seat, and his hand whips out in the corner of my eye. I can’t catch my breath. “We’re really doing this.”
He pulls out the prophylactic. “Not yet.” He smiles. “I promise you’ll know when I’m inside you.”
I laugh and shift against him, raking my center down the length of him. Can he feel how wet I am?
“Baby,” he groans, and I stiffen for a second.
But I see in his eyes that’s not condescension. Dal’s not touching me like a fragile infant. To him, I’m not the pampered youngest child.
He’s treating me like a queen.
“Yes,” I hiss as his thumb strokes my nipple again. “That feels so good.”
I angle back to give him space to work. To sheathe himself without breaking our kiss.
But he doesn’t seem to want to let go of me. The thought makes my kiss-swollen lips curve up in a smile. Breaking the kiss, I lean back to watch him work. To stare in wonder as he slowly rolls the rubber down the length of his?—
HONK!
I jump as my spine blasts the horn. “Oh, shit!”
Dal freezes beneath me, then draws in a breath. “Hold still.”
Right. If we don’t move, maybe no one will see. It’s a chilly night, so maybe no one’s out walking. We’re hidden behind Dal’s house and the trees, so maybe?—
“Dal?” A voice in the distance calls out.
He winces beneath me. Korain, he mouths, and I wince, too.
“You out here, joka?” Footsteps crunch gravel and I hold my breath.
Dal’s hand slides between us and I deliberately don’t look down. The least I can offer is privacy as he tucks himself back into his shorts. I’m not sure what he’s done with the condom, but I snatch up the wrapper and hurriedly slide off his lap.
“Dal?” Our mood killer makes his way to the car. “I don’t mean to bother you, but?—”
“What?” His bark makes me jump as I smooth down my hair, trying to look like I wasn’t two seconds from bliss.
Outside the car, Korain clears his throat. “Something’s wrong with Ji-Hoon.”