Clementine
Dear diary,
Duke made toffee apples last night and we all ate them out in the garden. I made such a mess of myself, smearing toffee over my cheeks and chin, and Meg nearly peed herself laughing at me.
Duke didn’t laugh. But he did smile, reaching over the picnic table to clean my chin with his thumb, and the second he touched me, I went so still, practically panting with longing.
Every part of me zeroed in on his skin against mine. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except listen to the thud of my heartbeat in my ears as he wiped away the toffee, so gentle and kind.
And lord, his big hand. His thick, strong fingers.
Now, as I replay the moment in my head, I’m adding a few extra details.
Like: what if I caught his wrist between my hands, and sucked the toffee off his thumb? Closed my lips around the knuckle; scraped the pad with my teeth? Flicked out my tongue, brazen as anything, and met Duke’s dark eyes across the table? What would he do?
Obviously, none of that really happened. And anyway—his daughter was right there. My best friend.
Ugh, I’m the worst.
But daydreams don’t count, right? And as long as I keep these thoughts trapped on paper, no one ever needs to know about my off limits crush.
* * *
“One more lap, Clem.”
“Can’t,” I wheeze, flailing to keep up with Meg’s giraffe limbs. “I’m done. Too hot. Too thirsty. Done.”
My best friend grumbles, but she steers us back along the street that leads to her dad’s house. She acts so prickly, but she’s a softie really under that spiked up hair.
Not many people know that. I count myself lucky.
Our sneakers pound against the sidewalk, echoing in the lazy, mid-morning street. Meg’s barely broken a sweat, her long legs bounding easily over the ground, but I’m red-faced and gasping for air. It’s so humid this morning, the air heavy and damp, and I can’t freaking breathe.
Running is a terrible invention.
I only do it because Meg likes the company—and okay, because it’s good for me. Details.
Mostly, I use our morning runs to burn off the frustrations from the night before. Sleeping a few doors down from Duke’s bedroom every night and knowing he’s close by, maybe taking a shower, maybe stretched out in his bed, bare chest rising and falling with each slow breath… it’s a lot.
I love these summer breaks with Duke and Meg, but by the end of them, I’m wound pretty tight.
“Woah.” Meg laughs at my sudden burst of speed, loping to keep up easily. “Is that a yes to another lap?”
Yeah. I guess it is. Because after the toffee apples with Duke last night, and the way he brushed his thumb against my chin…
I’ve got a lot of frustrations to burn off this morning.
Twenty minutes later, I stagger through the side gate to the backyard, my legs like jelly.
Trying to walk is like wading through thick soup, and I must look like a zombie as I shuffle down the garden path.
Escaped strands of my hair stick to my forehead, and my arms and chest are flushed so red, my freckles are invisible.
Don’t want to even think about what my face looks like.
Meg’s still going out there. Better her than me.
The pool glitters over by the wall, the water turquoise and welcoming.
It would feel so good to sink beneath that water, dunking my head and feeling the coolness seep through my hair, but it’s so impossibly far.
I weave over to the side of the house instead, strip down to my sports bra and shorts, and crank on the garden hose.
“Shit.” Duke’s voice makes me jump. He hardly ever curses—yet another difference between him and his tearaway daughter. When I glance over my shoulder, blinking the sweat from my eyes, he stands wide-eyed by the back door, a coffee in his hand.
Why is he staring like that?
I peer down at my flushed, bare skin, and my heat-addled brain remembers. Oh, yeah. Stripping in public is frowned upon.
“Sorry,” I mumble, testing the spray from the hose against my hand. It’s warm at first, but gets colder with each overtaxed heartbeat. “I’ll go inside in a second, I swear, but if I don’t cool down soon—”
“I’ll fetch you some water.”
Just like that, Duke’s gone again and I’m all alone. Left to wonder, surrounded by the hum of insects and the shade of waxy green leaves, whether he was really here at all, or if I’m seeing things. Hallucinating from heat stroke.
Heavy boots crunch against the tiny stones gritting the path. Not a daydream, then.
“Here.” A cold glass of water pushes into my hand, the sides beaded with condensation. “Trade me.”
My grip is loose on the hose, and I give it up easily. With one shoulder slumped against the wall, I sip my cold water as Duke works the hose over me, misting my body with his big thumb blocking most of the spray.
Lord, I’m so much trouble. This man has been like my guardian angel over the last three years, and I’m nothing but a pest to him.
The thought has me slumping even worse, my eyes drifting closed, suddenly too miserable to speak.
“Clem?” A big hand takes my shoulder—squeezes me gently. “Clem, honey? Are you okay?”
Yeah. I’m a love struck idiot and shamefully unfit, but… yeah. I’m okay. And I squint one eye open to tell him so, but the sight that greets me chokes the words off in my throat.
Because Duke’s close. Towering over me, so big and broad and manly.
The morning sunshine brings out the bronze flecks in his brown beard, and he’s dressed in dark pants and a duck egg shirt, the sleeves rolled.
The top button of his collar is undone, and the shirt is tucked into his waistband, his belly straining against the fabric.
Oof.
Listen. I know I’m woozy from the heat and dehydration, and yada yada, but you have to believe me when I say that this is the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.
A girl could clamber all over him without ever having to worry about being too heavy for him.
She could plunge her fingers into the thicket of that beard, and scratch his chin, and hear the hairs rasp beneath her fingernails.
She could pet his happy trail all the way down the curve of his belly.
I want to be that girl.
More than anything, I want that.
“Clem?” Duke’s leaning down, brow furrowed. “Should I call a doctor?”
“No.” Finally, finally, my brain thunks back into gear. I don’t need a doctor; I need to stop panting over my best friend’s dad like a horny idiot. “Sorry. No, I’m okay.”
The garden wavers in my vision as I peer around, but I’m feeling better by the minute, tucked away in the shade with this glass of water. Another heavenly sip slides down my throat.
“You’re overheated.” The backs of Duke’s knuckles press against the side of my throat, and I lean into his touch without thinking. My pleased hum makes his throat bob, but he doesn’t pull back. Those knuckles move to my cheek, then my forehead. “Are you dizzy?”
Dizzy for him.
Duke frowns at my burst of giggles. “Okay, that’s it. I’m calling someone.” He reaches for his back pocket and I catch his wrist, fighting to keep my face straight.
“No! No, wait. I’m fine, honestly. Sorry. The water and the hose—they’re helping.”
Duke grunts, and I can tell he doesn’t buy it, but he mists me patiently for another minute or two.
The spray is colder now, straight from the pipes. Still not as icy as I’d like, but combined with the summer breeze rustling the foliage, it’s nice and fresh. Just what I need.
Goosebumps prickle over my bare skin, and my nipples prod against my soaked sports bra. Duke blushes above his beard as I sigh, pushing off the wall and turning slowly under his spray. Treating him like my personal shower.
What the hell has come over me? Did I leave my self control out there on the sidewalk, baking in the mid-morning sunshine?
“Better?” he asks, and his voice is pure gravel.
I hum, and it must be the endorphins from the run or something, because I’m bold this morning. “Getting there. Will you do the backs of my legs?”
There’s a long pause, then the scrape of boots against stone. Duke kneels heavily, the spray moving down to the backs of my thighs, and I bite my lip as I stare at the side of the house.
There’s a caterpillar inching its way up the white stone. I focus on that, and try not to imagine Duke’s teeth scraping over my skin. The water mists over the backs of my knees, then down to my throbbing calves.
What does my ass look like from this angle?
Gah. I’m so out of line.
“She shouldn’t work you so hard,” Duke says suddenly, his voice loud after sharing nothing but breaths. “Meg forgets we’re not all athletes. I’ll talk to her.”
I’m already shaking my head. “It’s not like she pushed me. I chose to do an extra lap, and she runs at my pace even though it’s way too slow for her. Honestly, it’s my fault.”
The last thing this situation needs is Meg somehow shouldering the blame. She’s my best friend, and I’m out here coaxing her dad to spray me with the garden hose, wondering what my ass looks like from his eye level. Yikes.
“All done,” I squeak, my throat suddenly tight. My stomach churns, but this queasiness is all guilt, not heat stroke. “Thanks, Duke.”
I turn to face him right as he stands up. He pushes upright, and just keeps going, and going, and going. My neck aches from staring up at him, but I always find it so hard to look away.
I’m like a flower tracking the sunlight. Whenever I look at this man, I don’t even want to blink. And it’s no excuse, but nothing less than this non-stop longing could make me forget myself around my best friend’s dad.
Meg is so important to me.
But for the last three years, Duke’s been my center of gravity. He’s what I orbit around. When I step back, my chest aches. He turns away, and I’m bereft.
The side gate squeaks open and Meg calls out a greeting, but I’m too tongue-tied to respond. Too busy staring at her dad’s back as he goes inside, wishing and praying for one final glance.
He doesn’t look back at me. He never does.