8. Chapter 8
That’s all I have to say about that.
I awaken with a smile on my face late Tuesday morning. I’d written four more chapters last night, had another go with Mr. Lemon, and fallen into a deep, sated sleep at about two in the morning.
Sitting up in my bed, I pull my laptop from the nightstand and open it up. After reading through the comments from Holly and Eden in the document, I make the necessary corrections and start on the next chapter.
This one is filled with funny friend-group banter, and I bang it out before lunch.
I think a lot of the writer’s block I’d been experiencing came from indifference about this book, but now I’m thrumming with excitement.
My characters are really taking shape, and the chemistry between them is off the damn charts.
Kind of like your chemistry with Reno Swain.
After my shower and morning routine, I dress in denim cutoffs with fringed hems and a lime-green tank top.
The hill I’m hiking up today isn’t steep enough to require hiking boots—thank goodness because I don’t own any—so I slip on my black Adidas with bright-green stripes and then slide the adorable pineapple bracelet onto my wrist.
With nimble fingers, I fashion my long blonde hair into a pretty fishtail braid, thinking of Dad and Pops while I do so. When I was a little girl, Dad’s rough mechanic hands couldn’t manage more than a slightly lumpy ponytail, but Pops’s fingers were a bit more handy when it came to girly hairdos.
There was a braid craze in my elementary school in the nineties, and when I came home from school crying about my tragic, braidless existence one day, Pops picked up a couple of books on braiding hair from the library.
Together we learned to do a simple braid and then a French braid before moving on to more complicated styles.
I send both of my fathers a hey, I’m still alive, hope you have a great day text before heading down to the lunch buffet.
While I’m in line, I meet and chat with Brittany and Melissa Richardson, a same sex couple who I learn live in Chicago.
They’re adorable, walking down the line with their pinkies linked while they push their trays with their free hands.
Deciding not to eat anything too heavy since I’ll be doing some exercise—which I hate—I settle on a refreshing pasta salad with small chunks of veggies, Italian meats, and mozzarella.
I try—and fail—not to search for a certain spicy-book-scene-inspiring hockey player when I stroll into the seating area.
I take a seat at a small teal table near the windows overlooking the main pool area. Not the nudey one, thank goodness, because if there were things flopping and bobbing on the other side of the glass, I would probably begin craving hot dogs, and I didn’t see those on the buffet.
Then, as if there’s an environmental shift of some sort, the air around me condenses and warms my skin, and I raise my gaze to the entrance of the restaurant.
He’s here.
If I’d said that out loud, it would have been breathy in that wanton hussy kind of way. Luckily, I’m playing it cool. Except for the goofy grin I can feel my traitorous lips performing.
His eyes scan the dining room, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s looking for me too. My question is answered when his scanning drags to a halt on me. I’m giddy. Especially when he smacks me in the gut with that panty-dropping smile of his.
He gives me a little head bob that says, I’m coming for you, baby. At least that’s what my lusty brain is imagining in his deep voice. In reality, it’s probably something much more benign like, I’m going to grab some lunch. Save me a seat.
Still .
In a valiant effort, I don’t watch Reno move through the line, instead concentrating on my food.
Three bites of pasta and two sips of tea later, he appears tableside.
He’s looking damn delicious in charcoal cargo shorts and a forest-green V-neck tee that molds to his torso like a second skin.
His dark, curly hair is stylishly messy, with one piece that swoops down almost to his left eyebrow.
“Can I sit here, or were you saving it for someone else?”
I pretend to glance around the room before arching my neck back to look up at him. “Well, I was saving it for someone tall, dark, and handsome, but I guess you’ll do.”
Commencing Operation Flirty Pants.
He chuffs out a laugh and sits across from me, setting down his tray that holds a plate of grilled fish over cauliflower rice. “Are we still on for cloud gazing today?”
“If you want. It’s a good day for it.” I glance down at his dark-green shirt. “But only because you got the memo to wear green today. Otherwise, I’d have to leave you here.”
“Ah, are we going to be one of those couples who have to color-coordinate their outfits?” he asks, forking up a bite of his food. “I mean, not that we’re a couple or anything.” He blushes. Literally blushes , and it’s cuter than a bucket of kittens.
“Oh, we definitely have to coordinate. Tomorrow the designated color is pink.”
“Because on Wednesdays we wear pink?” he retorts, and I laugh.
“A guy who gets Mean Girls references. I’m impressed.”
Reno brushes imaginary lint from his shoulder. “I’m a man of many talents.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a marvelously indecent rasp. “Were you a good girl yesterday, Juliette?”
Have freaking mercy .
The number of times I imagined those words from his perfect lips while I was masturbating with Mr. Lemon last night should be illegal. But I maintain my cool and give him a slow eyebrow.
“I was the best girl. Seven chapters. ”
“Wow, I do appreciate an overachiever.”
“I’m ready to show you the wonders of cloud gazing. Did you bring the equipment?” I ask him with a straight face.
His green eyes widen. “I didn’t know I was supposed to. Is it something we can… rent?” He looks completely confused.
Unable to hold back my laughter, I let it loose and shake my head. “I’m teasing.”
Reno visibly relaxes, his mouth curving into a wry grin. “All right, funny girl. Are you ready?”
After stopping by one of the side patios of the main lodge to pick up a beach blanket and a small cooler of water, we head to the back of the property.
“We probably should have brought some breadcrumbs to drop,” I say with concern as we reach the bottom of the hill. “I can be… directionally challenged.”
Reno leads me with confidence toward the head of a dirt trail. “It’s okay. I’m good with that kind of stuff.”
“Glad you are. I got lost in the grocery store one time.”
He laughs as we start heading up the path that meanders through the lush greenery. “You’re joking, right?”
“Nope. Just to clarify, I was only seven, and it was back in the storeroom, which is where the restrooms were. I found the ladies room okay, but when I came back out, I couldn’t remember which way to go. There were just stacks of boxes everywhere, and it all looked the same.”
“I can imagine that would have been scary for a kid,” he says, walking beside me on the wide trail.
“I was only gone for about five minutes before my dad came looking for me. He found me eating an apple I’d dug out of a box.”
Reno snorts. “Why were you eating an apple?”
I shrug. “I was convinced I was lost forever in the back of the Piggly Wiggly, and I guess my survival instincts kicked in.” Giggling at the memory, I say, “Dad picked me up and took me to the front to pay for my pilfered apple. After that, he always walked me all the way to the restroom and waited by the door.”
“And your mom?”
“She wasn’t around much during that time in my life.”
Reno reaches for my hand and folds it inside his much larger one. I like it way more than I should.
“I’m sorry, Juliette.”
“It’s okay. She wasn’t a bad mom; she just wasn’t a good mom. She sent cards and gifts on holidays and birthdays, but she wasn’t a nurturer by nature.” I squeeze his hand. “But I had two great dads.”
“Two?” he questions as we veer to the right.
“Dad is my biological father, and Pops is my stepdad, though I don’t think of him that way. They actually shared custody of me and my three siblings, which sounds bizarre, but it worked.”
“Wow. It’s amazing that they got along that well.”
I release a soft chuckle. “They called themselves the Delphine Caldwell Support Group. That was my mom’s maiden name.”
The trail grows a bit steeper and narrower, and Reno keeps a firm grip on my hand, glancing over his shoulder at me as he takes the lead. “How old were you when your parents divorced?”
“I was almost two. Shortly after the divorce was final, she married Pops and almost instantly got pregnant with my brother Bubba.”
“So she had Bubba when you were about three?”
“Yep. Delphine stayed until Bubba was a year old and then took off.” I watch the bunch of Reno’s thick calf muscles as he climbs.
“I became instantly attached to my brother when he was born. That’s why our dads decided to go for the unusual arrangement.
They didn’t want to separate us. Luckily they found a judge willing to go along with it, and they were granted fifty-fifty custody, so Bubba and I spent half our time with Dad and half with Pops. ”
“That’s really cool. Where did Delphine go?”
“Oh, let’s see… We got postcards from Oregon, Arizona, D.C., a small town in Michigan, and Virginia. She had a bit of a wandering soul. After three more marriages and divorces, she came back home when I was a teenager.”
We crest the top of the hill and find a flat spot in the emerald-green grass. Reno sets down the cooler before taking the blanket from me, shaking it out, and spreading it on the ground. “Did she have more kids?”
I sink down onto the blanket, and Reno sits beside me with his legs bent, elbows on his knees. My fingers itch to touch that swirl of hair over his forehead, but I manage to control my urge.
“Not with any of the other husbands, but apparently, she and my dad hooked up and she ended up pregnant. Again. So he married her. Again.”
“This is like a damn soap opera,” he says with a chuckle.
“No shit. So shortly after I turned fourteen, Xander was born and two years after that, they had Jordan.”
“And did Delphine stick around?”
My lips roll in between my teeth, and I shake my head before lying back on the multicolored blanket. “Why don’t we look at the clouds now?”
Because in the words of Forrest Gump…
That’s all I have to say about that.