Chapter 32
32
Sloane
The past few days are catching up with me, so when Sarah asks if I’d rather take a plate to the pool house, I say yes and escape into the quiet with a burger, fries, green beans, a bean salad, a potato salad, and a leafy green salad, all of which I offer to share with my cat.
Beyond the burger, she doesn’t have much use for my food.
Understandable.
Eating takes effort, and who wants to expend more effort today?
Davis isn’t far behind me.
And he brings popcorn.
We’re both splayed out in the little living room area, our feet propped on the coffee table, legs touching, not saying much as we eat. Peggy sprawls half on my thighs and half on Davis’s.
Like she wants us both.
Relatable, kitty.
The man’s growing on me in all of the wrong ways for a fake fiancé to grow on a girl.
I leave half my hamburger untouched so I can dig into the popcorn instead.
Salt and butter.
Classic.
Delicious.
“For all that it’s frustrating that we didn’t find what we were looking for, today was fun,” I tell him. “Thank you for letting me borrow your family for a day.”
He swings his head around to look at me, and I realize he’s just as exhausted as I am. “They’re yours whenever you want them.”
“Ellie told me she’ll be insulted if I don’t call her for lunch the next time I’m in Copper Valley.”
A smile flirts with his lips. “Good.”
“I didn’t realize that was still bothering me.” I yawn and shift lower on the couch, getting a look from my cat, who clearly doesn’t like that I just moved her butt. “It’s good to keep letting things go.”
He casts a long glance my way, and just when I think he’s about to say something profound, he flips on the TV. We watch part of a Thrusters hockey game while being lumps on a log.
“Where did the real Thorny Rock live when he was alive?” I ask.
“His house, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“The real Thorny Rock. The one who founded Sarcasm.”
“Yes.”
“The real Walter Bombeck—the one who founded Shipwreck—lived at the base of Thorny Rock Mountain. Old cabin that was torn down and replaced with the parking fields at the end of Blackbeard Avenue. Why’d they name it Blackbeard Avenue? You’d think it would be Thorny Rock Street.”
Is he distracting me? “It was originally Thorny Rock Street. One of his grandkids got pissed at him and changed it, and nobody ever changed it back. And I know he lived on what’s now the parking fields. There’s an old photo of his house in the museum. But where did the real Thorny Rock—the guy posing as Walter Bombeck—where did he live?”
He frowns at the television as it cuts to a commercial break. “No record. Roger might know.”
I debate picking up my phone and texting Annika, and I decide I’m too tired.
And that’s the last conscious thought I have until I realize I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch, because it’s suddenly dark in the living room, no television, no cat, but a blanket covering me while I drool all over Davis’s arm.
He’s flipping through the journal we got from the freaky man in the museum last night, and I can only imagine his eyes have to hurt given that the pages are only illuminated by the outdoor lights filtering in through the gauzy curtains.
I straighten and wipe my chin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…” I gesture at the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sleep’s important.”
“You’re not sleeping.”
“Mind over body.”
That answer doesn’t surprise me at all.
I gesture to the book. “Find anything?”
“No. More of what’s in the other journal. My pirate rival ruined my life . These dudes—not a lot of depth. Just a lot of gimme gimme gimme .”
“I really thought the treasure would be at the waterfall, but the more I think about it, the less sense that makes. Why hide it by water? The area would be prone to flooding, and that could wash it away or expose it.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Go back to sleep. We’ll solve it in the morning.”
I sigh and snuggle closer to him.
He shifts so he can wrap an arm around me, then kisses my forehead again.
This , my heart whispers. This is how good relationships are supposed to feel .
And there I go.
Just like that.
Realizing that I’m falling hard for Davis.
Way to catch up, Sloane , my brain whispers.
Like it didn’t start when he kissed me back Saturday night. When he said that soft watch yourself when Nigel started being Nigel in the museum.
When he sat with me after my house was tossed.
When he gave me a place to stay.
Made me popcorn.
Told my grandmother off.
Shared the stories behind his tattoos.
Trusted me with what he knows about the real history of Shipwreck and Sarcasm.
Gave me the orgasm of my life to put me to sleep without complaining about getting his too.
Making sure to replace the cinnamon roll he stole off my plate with two more this morning.
Being here.
Just being here.
I’m so screwed.
I’m not falling for Davis.
I’ve already fallen.
Hard.
When to him, this is all temporary.
For show.
A convenient partnership where both of us get what we want.
My knowledge of the area to help find a treasure for him.
His word that he’s my one true love to get my family off my back for me.
I bolt straight up. “Bathroom. Real bed,” I mutter.
I don’t watch to see if he watches me.
Don’t have to. I can feel him watching me.
I do my business in the bathroom, then retreat to the bedroom swiftly, where I promptly face-plant on the bed.
He’s right. Sleep’s necessary.
But my heart is suddenly pounding out a there you went and did it again, dummy rhythm, and I don’t know if I can sleep now.
Should’ve gone back to my house.
After breakfast but before we left for the nature preserve, the sheriff came out to take our statements about what we found in the cabin basement. He told me I could go back to my house.
The house I need to clean up. Face. Make myself feel safe in again.
Daaaaaammmmmmittttt.
Definitely not sleeping the rest of the night now.
There’s a rustling in the doorway, and I tilt my head enough to watch Davis’s shadow. He’s pulled off his beanie—first time all day—and his profile looks different with his hair sticking up spiky all over.
Stay still , I order myself. Pretend you’re asleep .
Davis sits on the edge of the bed. It shakes a little.
Probably taking off his boots.
There’s a zip—or an unzip—and then the sound of denim swooshing to the floor.
My heart pounds faster.
So he’s just in his underwear now.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, but my mind flashes with images of the hard planes of his lean body beneath his tattoos, the lean limbs, his very prominent hard-on that truly does make him hashtag blessed , even if he was…erm…quick about it.
Which I’m telling myself was lack of recent practice.
And that makes me glow a little.
If it’s really been a full freaking decade since he slept with someone, and he picked me to be the person to break his sex fast with, that’s?—
Nope nope nope.
Not thinking about what that is.
The bed sags again. The sheets lift. Can you hear a head hit a pillow? Because I think I hear Davis’s head hit the pillow.
And my heart is trying to claw its way out of my throat while beating even more furiously.
Davis rolls over next to me.
I hold my breath.
Is he facing me now? Or facing away from me? Or did he start on his side, and now he’s on his back? I don’t think he’s on his stomach. Getting on your stomach takes far more effort.
Something lands on the bed, and I spin and bolt up with a shriek. “ Off, raccoon! ”
Peggy yowls at my feet, then yowls again, like she’s saying get a grip, crazy lady .
Fuck .
Just fuck.
“Sloane?” Davis says softly.
“Bad dream.”
“You weren’t sleeping.”
I make a you weren’t sleeping either face at him in the darkness, and I feel him smile.
I don’t want him to smile at me.
I want him to pull me into his arms and kiss me and make love to me where we both come at the same time with his penis in my vagina, which will make magic fireworks explode and show me that this time , I’ve found someone who’s not a problem who wants to date me for real.
But that’s exactly the problem.
Every time I think this one will be different , they’re not.
But what if he really is different, and I don’t give him a chance?
I snort softly to myself and flop back onto the bed.
Great theory.
Except he doesn’t date either.
He probably does have sex even if he doesn’t date.
And he probably comes early every single time.
And that’s probably why he doesn’t date.
It’s very kind of him to give orgasms with his hands and mouth though. Very thoughtful.
Also very unusual in my experience.
Must be something wrong with you , one of my boyfriends said once.
Female orgasms are a myth , another said.
If you wanted it hard enough, you’d work for it like I do , a third told me.
But not Davis.
Davis asked me to show him what I like. He made it his mission to make me come.
So does that mean he’s a good guy, or does that mean he knows how to use sex to manipulate me?
You know he’s a good guy , my brain whispers.
“Sloane,” he says again.
“What?”
He answers by gently tugging on my elbow.
My body responds without my permission, reclining back on the bed until he’s spooning me, him under the covers, me on top of them.
His arm draped around my stomach.
Not touching my breasts.
Not touching between my legs.
Just resting.
Holding me.
His penis is half hard against my back, but not all the way.
That is definitely not all the way hard.
He sticks his nose in my hair and breathes, a slow, steady pattern of deep breath in, deeper breath out.
Deep breath in, deeper breath out.
Slow, deep, in. Slower, deeper, out.
My shoulders relax as I listen to him.
Then my heart.
My eyelids.
This , my heart whispers again.
This is what love is supposed to look like .
I tell it to shut up.
I think.
My brain is getting heavy.
So are my limbs.
Because I’m safe.
I’m safe with someone who cares. Even if he doesn’t care, he’s doing a damn good job of making me feel like he cares.
And for tonight, that’s all I want.