Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Clint’s pencil moves over the paper for what feels like several minutes straight. When he’s done, he slides his book across the table toward me.
I read, pressing my fingers against my lips as I do.
Because the moment his words transport me back, I remember.
We didn’t go to town much. My mom homeschooled me. My dad worked here on the island, doing what I do now.
When I was old enough, when we went to town, my parents would let me have a little time on my own.
This one time, when I was around ten, Mom and I went to Swan River for supplies.
My mom went to the grocery store, and she let me wait for her at the park.
There was this field of wildflowers there, and I stopped to pick some.
I didn’t know it was weird for boys to pick flowers. That’s all my dad did for the hotel and its guests.
I feel the prick of tears behind my eyes, knowing what’s coming.
I remember that day. These two boys from my middle school—they were loud, obnoxious jerks. I avoided them and they mostly left me alone. I was quiet and bookish, but my dad employed theirs down on the docks, where he owned a shipping business.
I saw the boy when I first arrived. He was already tall then, but gangly. He looked so happy, so content to admire the beautiful flowers I sometimes liked to read in.
I watched him that day, from a bench on the other side of the park, too shy to go over and sit near him.
But those boys—they weren’t shy. They saw what he was doing and started laughing at him. Calling him slurs. Homophobic ones at first, for picking flowers. And when he wouldn’t respond, ableist ones.
Then one of them pushed him over.
Mostly, I’m a quiet person. But when I see things happen that shouldn’t, I get angry. I always have. My mom says it’s my father’s working-class blood.
“I remember,” I whisper now. I remember it so clearly. I stormed over there and pushed the one who’d shoved him.
I wasn’t very strong, but he hadn’t seen me coming. So he fell over. Clint rolled out of the way to avoid getting fallen on, then jumped to his feet.
“I yelled at them to leave you alone, I think,” I say. I can’t quite remember.
You did, Clint writes. Then you said ‘the world would be a better place if more people loved flowers like he does.’
I laugh softly. “Good memory.”
He pinkens slightly. How could I forget those words? They validated my existence. Plus… He smiles. You were wearing this flower thing on your head. There were roses on it. That’s the last thing I saw before I ran away.
I laugh. “My rose headband. I loved that thing. I might still have it in a box somewhere.”
Clint hesitates, then writes something quickly, shoving the book to me as if he needs me to see it before he changes his mind.
I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
I grin. “You hadn’t seen many, if you hardly ever came to town.”
I have now, and it’s still true.
My skin prickles all over, warmth spreading across my chest.
I never thought I needed compliments. Jeff definitely didn’t give them. But being admired, especially so earnestly, and for so long?
Good God.
Clint scratches the back of his neck, and I get a view of the stretch of his bicep through his sleeve.
I turn away, looking over at the roses. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable with this reaction.
But I can’t help it. I feel like I’ve swallowed something shiny and beautiful. My skin is on fire in the best possible way.
It’s his kindness, that’s all. And a shared moment in our past.
But I never felt this physical reaction when I was with Jeff. Not even once. Not even when he first asked me out.
Clint must sense my inner turmoil, because he pulls the book back and gently rips out the page, crumpling it in his hand. His expression is apologetic.
But I shake my head. “No.” I clap my hand over his, stopping him from shoving the paper into his pocket. I unwrap his fingers, one by one. His skin was warm to my touch before, but now it feels like I’m touching live wires. I pull the paper from his hand and flatten it on the table.
It’s still true.
“I’m going to keep this,” I tell him almost sheepishly. “So I can look at it any time I feel bad. You really know how to make a girl feel special, you know?”
I say that last part in a silly voice that makes me instantly mortified.
But Clint’s expression is confused. I feel like if he spoke, he’d say How could you forget?
“Jeff always talked about how people didn’t need compliments,” I explain. “‘If you do, you’re insecure,’ he’d say. Maybe I was, but I wouldn’t have minded one or two here and there, you know? Not even about my looks. Just anything beyond the perfunctory would have gone a long way.”
Clint makes a confused face and points to his lips. He writes in his notepad, Sometimes I can’t catch all of what people are saying.
Embarrassed, I repeat myself. “I feel so stupid. Because I think it was just me he didn’t compliment.”
You’re so hot, baby. That’s what he said to Clara. In a fucking broom closet.
“I’m not fishing right now,” I promise Clint. “I just…thank you. For saying that.”
I don’t realize my hands are in fists until Clint’s warm hands graze mine. Once again, heat radiates from where we touch.
I stare at our joined hands. And I watch as Clint presses my fists open, making them relax. I watch as, with a kind of reverence, those thumbs gently press against my palms, sliding softly up.
The touch is somehow deeply intimate. Heat gathers between my legs as I imagine the same kind of reverence he’d show in other places.
Clint pulls his hands away like he thinks he’s gone too far.
But I catch them before he can stop.
He snaps his gaze to mine, his pupils broadening.
An hour ago, I was engaged to be married. Now? I want to tell Jeff to go to hell. I want to make him suffer.
I want to feel all the things I never felt with him.
I want to know the touch of a man who actually thinks I’m beautiful.
Finally, I let go of Clint’s hands. He looks chagrinned. But I press a hand to his cheek.
His eyelids flutter, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
And right there, I make a decision so unlike me that I know I have to act before I lose my nerve.
I tip his chin up so he knows to look at my face. When his eyes are on me, I say, “I need to take this off.” I press my hands to my wedding dress.
Clint’s eyes go wide.
My stomach drops as I realize he doesn’t look into it. He looks…terrified.
“I have a slip on underneath,” I say quickly. “I’m just finding it kind of hard to breathe.”
I dip my chin. “You know what? Never mind. I’m fine.” I feel sleazy for coming on to him. I misread the signs.
But Clint’s hand comes to my chin now, his fingers there tilting my face back up. He shakes his head, his expression back to where it was before.
Admiring. Reverent. Mine.
That makes no sense. But there it is.
Clint stands, towering over me once again. Gently, he brings his hands to my shoulders. His fingers are so rough against my bare skin, so strong, I shiver, the sensation traveling down my body. Goose bumps ripple all over me, my nipples hardening.
There. I want his rough hands there. Everywhere.
With tantalizing slowness, Clint turns me around.
It feels as if time has slowed down. As if my senses have all been dialed up to eleven. I feel everything. The heat of his body on my back. The scrape of his fingers against my neck, where he brushes my hair aside to access my zipper.
But when Clint dips his finger under my dress to get the thing unhooked, I shudder. The presence of him under my clothes, no matter how minuscule, sends liquid heat straight to my core.
The slow loosening of the zipper is like thunder in the silence between us.
But then I let out a long, blissful breath as the pressure against my ribs I’d grown used to vanishes.
The dress falls open. I turn around, clutching it to my chest.
Clint’s pupils are blown wide open, his hands trembling at his sides.
I let the dress fall to the floor.
I laugh, then, feeling so free, I sag slightly. I’m still in the heels, though, and the move throws me off balance. I nearly topple over but am righted by a pair of warm hands on my ribs, keeping me steady.
When I’m back on my feet, he doesn’t let go. His hands span my ribcage.
My insides swirl.
The dress is still around my ankles, and even though I’m now wearing a sheer, knee-length slip, the moment his eyes drop to take me in, I might as well be naked.
Clint’s face is crimson all the way to the tips of his ears.
He drops his hands, shoving them into his pockets, his expression apologetic as he looks skyward, unable even to meet my eyes.
Suddenly I’m embarrassed too. What if he doesn’t want this? I can’t just barrel into someone’s life and expect them to, what, touch me?
“Sorry,” I whisper.
But he’s not looking at me.
I step out of my dress and ball it at my chest, as if to put some distance between me and my bad decisions.
I tap him on the shoulder.
When he looks back down at me, his expression is slightly panicked.
Nope, definitely went too far.
“Can I hang this up?” I ask. “If I’m going to return it, I think I should hang it up.”
He nods.
I hesitate, then grab my rose from the table. Then I walk past him, rushing through the open French doors.