32. Jake
32
JAKE
How am I going to walk away from this woman? It’s the only question reverberating through my mind as Iris collapses on top of me. Every instinct in me screams that I can’t, but I ignore all of them.
I’d love to fool myself into believing we can make it work with my pitiful offer of a long-distance arrangement, but she deserves more. Look at how she’s put herself out there at every turn—not only for the sake of fun, but because she’s brave.
And I’m a goddamn coward.
Because even if I wanted to stay, it wouldn’t be enough. It’s never going to work when I haven’t even shared the biggest part of me.
My ego would like to believe the biggest part of me is currently deep inside her, but every fiber of my being is screaming at me to acknowledge the career I’ve kept a secret for so long. My writing is important. It defines me as more than the slacker so many people believe me to be—a role that’s been easy for me to play. Easy with everyone but her.
“Hey, where’d you go?” She cups my face with her hands and kisses my forehead.
“Pretty sure I died and went to heaven.” I move my hands up and down along her naked back as a shiver runs through her. “But we need to get you dressed and fed.”
She climbs off of me, and my body screams in protest as I let her go.
This isn’t the end, I remind myself. Not yet. And maybe it won’t have to end at all. I just wish I knew how to avoid that fate when the path forward feels too damn complicated.
I wrap the blanket around her, pull on my boxers and jeans, slip into my shoes, and carry her back to the truck.
I sit her on the seat again, and she waits while I gather her clothes. She doesn’t say anything as she dresses, but watches me with a pensive gaze.
“How do you feel about charcuterie?” I ask, as if feeding her is my most pressing concern at the moment.
“I feel good about meat and cheese.” She offers an almost shy smile. “I feel good about everything right now.”
If the sex doesn’t kill me, her sweetness will. I press a long kiss to her mouth. “Me too, Dixon.”
The blanket now spread over the tailgate, we settle in as the last rays of sunlight spread golden across the lake. Iris tucks her legs under her, her cheeks still a little pink, brown eyes soft like melted chocolate. I want to believe I gave her that rosy glow. We’re mostly quiet as we eat the simple setup I packed–—slices of salami and smoked cheddar, plus crackers and a cluster of grapes.
“You did good, Byrne.” A smile tugs at the corner of Iris’s mouth as she reaches for another slice of cheese.
To my surprise, I feel my face heat at the simple compliment. “Nothing fancy.”
“But perfect,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I agree. The air buzzes with all the things neither of us are willing to say. Not yet. And maybe they aren’t necessary. I want to believe we both know what this afternoon meant.
Her gaze drifts to the dusky sky, which is slowly fading to a palette of soft pinks and purples. I’m content to watch her, a lock of soft hair trailing over her cheek, her long lashes fluttering against her creamy skin. My chest expands and contracts simultaneously, fitting for how Iris has turned my life—or at least my heart—inside out.
No matter what happens next, the memory of this afternoon is going to be one of my happy places for a long time.
We finish our picnic, and although I’d like to stay longer, I can tell by the way she’s started to shiver every few minutes that she needs to warm up for real. I want to whisk her away to an actual mountain escape with hot water, thick towels, and thousand-thread count sheets and keep her there for weeks until I get my fill of her—if that’s even possible. Instead, I blast the heat on the way home, and she relaxes against the seat back next to me. Lock the world out and live in her warmth.
It’s not late, but as soon as I pull up to the curb, a shadow passes in front of the window at the front of her house.
“He wasn’t joking about waiting for you,” I say, reaching over to take her hand. I can’t seem to get enough of touching her.
“You could come in?” she suggests softly. “Stay the night.”
The invitation is so damn tempting, but I shake my head. “Highly doubt your brother would approve.”
Her lips press together. “Nick is a guest in my home. If I want to invite another guest over, it’s none of his business.”
“As much as I hate to admit it, he’s got a good reason for not trusting me. Yet.” I kiss her mouth and smooth the hair away from her face. “I’ll take a rain check.”
The truth is, I’m at a loss to describe how such an ordinary afternoon can feel like it changed me in some profound way.
“Today was fun,” she says.
Although it doesn’t come anywhere close to describing it, I nod.
“I’ll see you at class.”
Since Fun Fest is less than a week away, Charlotte has stepped up the frequency of rehearsals, at least for her two stars. And I’m not going to complain about more chances to spend time with Iris. “Have a good night.”
She places a hand on the door but looks back at me with a teasing grin. “To be honest, I have another date planned for later this evening.”
I raise a brow. “Stepping out on me already?”
She grins. “My book club meets next week. Things have been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to finish the latest Ellie Spaulding mystery.”
A vague sense of panic settles at the base of my spine even as her smile widens.
“I’m going to spend my evening in a hot bubble bath with Spencer Charles.”
My breath catches in my throat and I try to hide my shock.
“Jake, it’s a joke.” She reaches out and places her hand over mine. “Who knows—maybe Spencer Charles is the pen name for some sweet old grandma.”
I force a smile and squeeze her fingers. “I never thought I’d be jealous of a book, but here we are. Just remember, it isn’t going to make you scream in pleasure.”
“You have a special skill set,” she assures me, but just as I start to relax, she adds, “But so does Spencer Charles.” Each word I’ve ever written under that name suddenly feels like a confession.
She laughs again and heads for her front door while I’m left to drive home, my thoughts whirling. The Ellie Spaulding series is already popular, and the spotlight will be even brighter once the first season of the series that’s filming in Vancouver makes its debut.
As much as I love her, Ellie Spaulding needs to go.
I climb the steps to the apartment above the barn two at a time and burst through the door, divine inspiration blasting me with adrenaline. It’s an idea for the tenth installment of the series, the final book, after which I can leave behind my secret persona and just be me.
It wasn’t the plan, and there’s no doubt I’ll miss this part of my identity. Even on the most challenging days, when the words won’t come, and the plot feels like pea soup in my brain, I love writing. I love the process and the satisfaction of finishing a first draft. I love it as much as Ellie loves solving the case.
If I’m going to say goodbye to her, it will be in grand fashion—the case of her life.
I grab my pad of paper and start scribbling an outline. The plot points flood my brain. The villain takes shape, the red herrings and clues I’ll drop. I work until three in the morning, then climb into bed, exhausted.
When I open my eyes again, it’s to find light streaming in the bedroom window. I pick up my phone from the nightstand. How have I slept until ten? I was supposed to have breakfast with my grandpa an hour ago to review and give input on the foundation’s grant cycle for the next twelve months.
I have three missed calls and twice as many texts from him, along with one from Iris, wishing me a happy morning and good luck at the meeting. I don’t even remember telling her about it, but the fact that she remembered means the world to me.
Except I can’t think about that because I haven’t overslept like this in years. I hate that it will only confirm my reputation for irresponsibility, which is ridiculous. I’ve never missed a deadline, and my writing is a joy to edit—at least according to my editor—because of my thorough research and attention to detail.
One missed meeting, and I feel like a kid again. The screw-up everyone in my family believes me to be.
I scramble out of bed and tap my grandfather’s number, but a phone rings nearby.
“What the hell,” I mutter as I stumble into the main living area.
Grandpa sits at the table, bathed in morning sunlight and surrounded by my notes plus the eight Ellie Spaulding mysteries published since the start of the series.
I open my mouth to apologize for missing the meeting, but trail off after, “I’m sorry,” because there’s so much more that needs to be said. And I don’t know where to start.
“You want to start at the beginning and explain this to me?” he asks, like he’s reading my mind.