Chapter 7 Briar
brIAR
No doubt my bed is small, but when I wake up with my chest flush against Dawson’s shoulder blades and my morning wood digging into his lower back, I freeze.
I can’t help inhaling the soapy scent on his skin and try to convince myself I’m not thinking that way about my ex’s twin.
Dawson’s so different, though, I find Nathan barely enters my thoughts except when I feel guilt.
Dawson rubs a hand over his face. “Well, good morning to you too.”
His voice is groggy, but I can hear the teasing tone underneath, and that helps break the tension. I huff out a shaky laugh and scoot away, not that there’s much room to maneuver in this bed without landing on the floor. “God, sorry.”
“No worries, it’s natural.” He turns onto his back. “Full bladder and all that.”
I can’t keep my gaze from roaming over the front of him, from his broad chest with a smattering of hair that trails down to his waistband, then lower to where his stiff cock is tenting his pajama pants.
Well, damn. My cheeks heat. I meant it when I said Dawson is gorgeous, but this tingling in my groin is another sort of feeling I recognize all too well.
I’m definitely attracted to him. And not only his enticing body and sculpted face.
His personality as well. I love how mellow he’s being about this trip, how effortlessly he laughs and puts me at ease, and I really hope we can remain friends after this, and hang out outside work hours.
“You first?” he nudges.
“Sure.” I scramble off the bed as gracefully as I can and practically sprint to the bathroom when I feel his gaze on me. Using his logic, it’s only natural to check each other out, right?
Once we’re done washing up in the bathroom, we sit side by side on the bed and discuss the day’s schedule of activities. More snow had fallen overnight, and as a kid, it always reminded me of a pristine, white blanket first thing in the morning.
“How about we take out the snowmobiles after breakfast?”
“Sounds great. I’ve never ridden one before.”
I like the idea of me showing him for his first time. “Then you’re in for a treat.”
We head down for breakfast, and I kiss Mom on the cheek on the way to retrieving our dishes from the cupboard. Dad has already gone to the farm, and Mom will follow suit in a couple of hours.
“What are you boys up to today?” Mom asks as she sets a plate of scrambled eggs in front of us.
I reach for a slice of toast. “Snowmobile ride first.”
“Oh shoot.” Mom winces. “Sorry to wreck your plans, but Dad took one of them to work this morning.”
“No worries, we’ll make do.” I send Dawson a reassuring smile.
When we’re finished eating, Dawson helps load the dishwasher while I clean the frying pan. Then we head to the mudroom to get suited up for the cold. Dawson pulls down his knit cap, zips his coat, then follows me out the door to the snowmobile.
“It’s a two-seater, so you’ll have to ride on back.” Doubt creeps in. “Or we can wait until both are available.”
“I don’t mind,” Dawson says easily. I nod and start the engine. Once I’m seated, he hops on behind me. “Maybe it’s better this way my first time.”
“Maybe,” I force out because it’s hard to concentrate with him sliding his hands around my waist. His breath is on my neck, and the last time I’ve been in this position with a guy I liked was Mark in high school. Shaking that thought away, I rev the engine. “Hang on.”
“Holy shit!” He grips me tighter as I take off across the field with increasing speed. I let out a whoop because that first rush is always invigorating, and I feel him huff a laugh against my skin.
The path I follow is one I know like the back of my hand, could probably do it with my eyes shut.
I head through the pine forest and all the way back to the saplings planted just last year.
Beyond that is the pumpkin patch picked over from the autumn harvest and young apple trees that have yet to bear fruit.
I make a mental note to ask Dad about it.
“This is great!” Dawson shouts into the wind as the cold bites my cheeks. I notice that his grip on me has loosened the more comfortable he’s become.
Near the foothills of the mountains, I slow down, coming to a stop.
We catch our breath and shake out our legs before Dawson pulls his phone from his pocket and snaps photos of the picturesque backdrop.
I follow Sip and Savor on social media, where he mostly posts daily specials, but now I wonder if he has a personal page.
“I can’t believe how beautiful it is here—and exhilarating.”
I grin at his genuine enthusiasm. It’s so refreshing. “Yeah, suppose it is.”
“I’m determined to help you remember.” He slides his phone back in his pocket. “So what now?”
“Ride back and then head into town for lunch?”
“Sounds great.” Guilt crosses his features. “You sure you don’t have to help at Blooming Acres? I can always—”
“Maybe later when it’s busier. Mom will be there too, getting ready for the fair.”
“It sounds like a lot. I’d be happy to pitch in again.”
“It’s only a table and tent where we sell mostly the pine cone wreaths Mom makes and holiday trinkets. We can definitely help load boxes and set up shop the day of.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Of course you do,” I tease. “Want to drive back?”
“Yeah?” A big smile breaks over his face. “If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely. Go slow at first until you get your bearings.”
Once settled on the seat, I direct him to start the engine, and then I’m the one holding on to him from behind.
The warmth I feel radiating through my body from the simple act of being close to Dawson is silly.
I must be romanticizing things again. Or just happy I get to experience this with someone, even if it’s pretend.
He’s shaky at first as we navigate toward the familiar path but gains confidence by the time the house comes into view. “Promise I can do that again before the week is over,” he says once we park.
“Definitely.”
We hightail it inside to get warm and change out of our heavy snow gear.
About an hour later, we’re in my car and heading to town.
He noticed the shops on Main Street on our way into Bright’s Hollow, but I can feel the excitement rolling off him as I find a place to park.
We walk for a bit, checking out storefronts and decorations, Dawson acting like a kid in a Hallmark candy shop.
“Do you mind if we stop in there?” he asks, eyeing Giving Grace, the gift shop owned by Mrs. Grace since before I was born.
I follow him inside, and when the bell above the door jangles, she and her counter staff greet us warmly. Some strands of her brown hair are starting to gray, but other than that she seems unchanged, still wearing her characteristic flowy tops and skirts. “You get over here and give me a hug.”
As I step into the embrace, her perfume assaults my nostrils. I’ve never been a big fan of the spicy, earthy scent of patchouli, but there are worse smells, and besides, it reminds me of home.
She eyes Dawson. “I think some introductions are in order.”
“This is my boyfriend, Dawson.” The lie rolls more easily off my tongue this time.
“Pleased to meet you.” Dawson plays the part by stepping up and affectionately throwing an arm around my shoulders.
The weight of it both grounds me and sends my stomach into a tailspin of butterflies.
The reaction confuses me, and I consider stepping away, but I also like it too much, even if we’re just playacting.
Dawson must read something in my expression because this time he’s quick to unwrap his arm, even though I want to protest. He casts his gaze around, taking in the advent calendars and Santa signage on the walls. “I love your shop.”
“Thank you.” She winks at us. “Feel free to have a look around.”
As he browses the shelves that display everything from handmade soap to mountain-view postcards, Mrs. Grace and I make small talk near the door. “He’s very handsome. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.” Feeling uncomfortable, I change the topic to a family I recognize walking by with bags in their hands. By the time she’s finished filling me in on town gossip, Dawson’s already rung at the counter whatever he’s purchased.
“We’ll head out,” I say to Mrs. Grace.
She pats my shoulder. “See you two at the tree lighting?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Dawson replies, and I know he means it. And who am I to keep him from experiencing everything in his small-town fantasy?
I glance at my watch, noting it’s already lunchtime. There’s a reason I don’t come into town too often. With all the visiting, I hardly get anything done.
Dawson has his phone out again, snapping photos of the decorated shops, and with the snowy backdrop, they would no doubt make nice postcards for Mrs. Grace’s shelf.
“Mind if we take a selfie?” he asks, and no way I’ll refuse. I wind my arm around his back, and the grin that splits his lips is infectious. I realize then that my cheeks hurt from smiling so much this trip, and it’s all due to Dawson.
“How about lunch at the diner?” I suggest.
He arches a brow. “Depends. You promised me some famous blueberry pie.”
I snicker. “Coming right up.”