Chapter Twenty #2
My skin tingles at the proximity, and I realize my own hand has lifted without me noticing, fingers curling around his wrist.
His thumb brushes against my cheek.
“I want to kiss you. Can I?” he asks, voice low.
“Yes.”
His lips meet mine.
Soft.
Slow.
This kiss feels less like a fling and more like a beginning.
My hand slides from his wrist to his hand. My fingers lace with his.
The kiss deepens for a moment, and then he pulls back. His forehead rests against mine.
It’s stupidly, ridiculously perfect.
His eyes lift. “We’re not alone.”
It takes me a second to understand what he means. I turn my head, and all the ladies are there. Standing inside the doorway and at the windows. Even Thumbelina and Dart are scooped up in their owners' hands, watching. Watching like they’ve been watching us the entire time.
I don't doubt it for a second.
Their faces are a mix of amusement, approval, and a wicked satisfaction that says we knew it.
I turn back to him. “They might’ve been as excited for this moment as we are.”
He gives a small laugh and squeezes my hand.
“Wow,” he whispers.
I can’t help it.
I laugh too.
“Nettie wanted me to climb that mountain.”
He chokes. “What?”
“The mountain is you.”
“I gathered that.”
“And if we’re not sore tomorrow, we didn’t do it right.”
“Noted.”
“And no half-assing it.”
He grins, that easy, crooked grin that makes my chest tighten. “I never half-ass anything.” He presses a quick kiss to my nose, then turns and sweeps an arm toward the ladies like a showman unveiling a prize. “Let’s get this party started.
The whole space comes alive in a heartbeat.
Laughter bursts, and glasses clink. The smell of warm dough mingles with the smokiness of the campfire.
I can’t get to my camera fast enough to capture every moment.
Flour dusts every surface, and brown sugar sparkles like confetti. Skewers are neatly arranged, and he guides everyone through the process of rolling, slicing, and wrapping.
The women dive into it like a sport.
They’re unfazed by their fancy dresses and high heels. Flour dusts their hair. Sugar smudges their fingers and cheeks. At one point, Nettie accidentally flicks a blob of dough onto her daughter’s sleeve. It lands with a wet splat. Everyone howls.
I snap photo after photo, documenting the chaos and joy.
“Hey. Come here.” Jaclyn waves me over, cinnamon sugar smeared on her wrist.
I hesitate, camera clutched tight. Too slow. They drag me into the fun, rolling dough, laughing when I burn the first one over the fire.
We dip the warm dessert in cinnamon sugar, then drizzle chocolate and caramel over it.
“So good.” I lick the sticky sugar off my knuckles.
As the night deepens, a small dance floor takes shape beneath the wide branches of a mesquite tree.
Twinkle lights sway above us. Zoe and Zara start a playlist.
The music is made for us. Alanis. Shania. The Chicks. Avril. Loud, unapologetic, sing-at-the-top-of-your-lungs songs that shake the leaves overhead.
Wine spills here and there, heels pile at the edges of the dance floor, and no one cares.
Cash hangs back on the deck, wiping tables, tending the fire, watching us with that sexy smile of his. He’s made the night about them. Not him. And they love every second.
Somewhere between songs, even I lose track of time.
I was so wrong about them. Not a cult. A community. Women lifting women. Kindness and chaos and acceptance all tangled together.
The hostesses retire first, then Nettie, and then, one by one, the lights click off, and the laughter fades until it’s just him and me.
He crouches by the fire, poking at the embers with a metal rod. Sparks float up like fireflies.
He looks up as I approach.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” His eyes soften the second they land on me.
I hold out my hand. “Will you dance with me?”
A smirk curls his lips. And my heart stutters at the way his face lights up.
He slides his hand into mine. “Always.”
We move beneath the twinkle lights, our bodies pressed close. His hand hooks at my waist, drawing me flush to him. My fingers bunch the fabric of his shirt.
One song fades into another. Silence drapes over us between tracks. It’s comfortable and intimate. But it’s our last night, and the weight of that lingers, unspoken.
“What are your plans after this?”
“Back to the restaurant.” His voice is low. “We’ve been setting up for five months, and with me gone this weekend, I’m sure my partner’s probably losing it.”
“Is he a chef too?”
“No. He’s the money-and-everything-else guy. And my brother.”
“You have a brother?” I tilt my head, realizing we don’t know very much about each other, even though it feels like I’ve known him forever.
“I do.” He exhales sharply. “Going into business with him was a big decision.” His gaze drifts to the fire, and I know it’s not about the money.
“The stalker?” I ask carefully.
He nods. “It’s over. She’s behind bars, for now. But it still shakes me. I remind myself she’s getting help, that I’m okay, and the people around me are okay.”
I brush my fingers over the side of his face. “I’m glad you’re able to move past it and do this with your brother.”
There’s a pause. That unspoken weight neither of us wants to name.
“He’s a stickler for details and following rules. Organizing. Spreadsheets. He’s the brains, and I’m the soul.”
“Sounds like you work well together.”
“We do.”
We dance silently into the next song.
“What about you?” His arm pulls me closer. “What are your plans after your travels?”
Is he asking to try to make plans? Are we going to make plans?
“I don’t know yet. I’ll see where my photography takes me.”
“I’m supposed to leave tomorrow.” He says it quietly; it almost sounds like he’s talking to himself.
“I know.” I press closer.
“I wish I could stay until Monday. Or longer. Anything but tomorrow.”
“Me too.”
He sighs, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I hate that this is our last night together.”
I rest my l head against his chest. “Let’s not think about that right now. Just be here with me tonight.”
He nods. “Just us tonight.”
“Just us.” I smirk at him. “Climbing mountains.”
“Not half-assing it.” He kisses me, reminding me how much I want to strip this suit off him.