CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
JAMES
I rest my hand on the pistol for a second, then sigh and drop it back in the drawer, letting it clatter against the wood. It still doesn’t feel real, like we actually pulled off the impossible.
The lake house isn’t just a place anymore; it’s home. A good, safe home. I used to think that kind of safety didn’t exist. But here we are.
Another month has gone by, and for the first time, there’ve been no surprises. It’s strange, too good to be true, but I can hear the proof in the voices coming from the dock.
I lean against the doorway, taking it all in while Bon Jovi’s “Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night” plays from the scratchy old speaker.
Michael and Lorelai are sitting in front of the bonfire by the dock, beers in hand, already mid-argument. Not the kind that’s gonna ruin anyone’s night, just their usual ridiculous bickering. Lorelai’s jabbing her finger at his chest, all fired up about something.
“You drilled a hole in the living room couch! You fix it!” she snaps at him.
Michael puts on his mock-innocent face and rolls his eyes. “I don’t have to fix anything. If you don’t like the hole, you fix it.” He holds a stick over the fire, marshmallows already burning on the end.
“Oh, for crying out loud. Little boy, you’re really living up to your nickname right now,” Lorelai fires back, poking him in the chest again for emphasis.
His gaze drops to her finger, the corners of his mouth twitching up.
I know that smug-ass look all too well. Yep, here comes the bullshit.
“Keep touching my bare chest, and I’ll show you the big boy.”
Lorelai narrows her eyes at him but pulls her finger back. He takes a slow sip of his beer, and she does the same, mirroring him like it’s some beer-drinking showdown. A second later, they’re both cracking up.
It’s so obvious they’re still fucking each other, and they’re really bad at hiding it. How Sarah hasn’t figured it out yet is beyond me.
And now I’m actually wondering—does Ryan just step out of the room? Or does he just stand there and watch Lorelai with Michael? Or do they fuck her at the same time?
Shit. Now I can’t unsee that.
Jesus. Fuck my life. Michael’s a bad influence on me.
A bright orange butterfly flits past me, catching my eye. I look away from the disaster duo at the bonfire and spot the real gem down on the dock.
Sarah.
She sits at the edge of the dock, her toes barely skimming the water. Her pink tank top clings to her in all the right ways, and that long skirt covered in tiny butterflies, floating all the way to her ankles, does nothing to hide how stunning she is.
Ryan’s sitting way too close to her, hanging on every word she says like she’s the only girl who’s ever talked to him. Then the bastard has the nerve to reach out and brush his fingers along her arm.
And she smiles. Smiles! That smile is all mine!
What the hell is this?
Her hands drift to his shoulder, tracing the lines of his tattoos while they keep chatting like everything’s totally normal. Just because he shares Lorelai with Michael doesn’t mean I’m gonna share Sarah with him.
I’m halfway down the dock before I even realize I’ve moved. My boots carry me straight from the house, through the garden. Suddenly, I’m behind them, and the words are flying out of my mouth before I can think twice.
“Too fucking close, Ryan! She’s mine,” I growl.
Their heads snap up, both looking at me like I just dropped out of the sky.
Sarah stifles a laugh—a laugh!—while Ryan, smart enough not to test me, scrambles to his feet and retreats to a chair next to Michael, who’s too busy arguing with Lorelai again.
I claim the spot next to Sarah, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her close until her back is pressed against my bare chest.
“Why did you do that?” she asks, tilting her head at me with that innocent look that isn’t fooling anyone.
“Why were you touching him?”
Her lips curl as she tries to hold back a laugh. “Someone’s been spying.”
“Sarah,” I warn, my voice low.
“James, relax! He was just showing me his tattoos. He has forty-eight of them. Can you believe that? Forty-eight! I’ve never seen so many. Dad only had one on his shoulder.”
“And why was he touching you?”
Her eyes light up with pure mischief. “Because he’s my secret lover. You didn’t know?” She licks her lips in that sexy way that sets every nerve in my body on fire. “He’s good, you know. A little rough for me, but—”
My breathing quickens, and I can’t listen to another second of this.
I grab her and haul her over my shoulder, ignoring her squeal of surprise. It’s a move she calls “caveman style,” and I use it when she’s really pushing my buttons.
“Put me down right now, James Hill!” she demands, smacking my back.
“You’ve been a naughty girl, Sarah. And naughty girls get punished.”
“You’re a barbarian, that’s what you are!”
She gives me another smack on the back.
God, I love it when she fights me.
I grab her ass and give it a squeeze. She lets out a small whimper, half protest, half something else.
“Barbarian!” she huffs again, squirming in my hold, still trying to escape.
I give her a light slap on the ass, and she stops fighting.
“Explain yourself.”
She sighs, knowing I’m not letting this go.
“I asked Ryan if he could do my butterfly tattoo on my arm. He said he lost his gear, but if he ever finds a new kit, he’ll do it for me.”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder at her.
Her butterfly tattoo. Her biggest dream.
She told me about it once. I remember it like it just happened—the way her eyes lit up, the way my heart went crazy just listening to her, and how I wanted nothing more than to kiss her and make that dream come true.
I lower her down to the dock, my hand lingering on her waist.
“You’ve got a hell of a way of telling me something important.”
Her lips twitch, and then she’s grinning. “It’s more fun when you’re jealous.”
We head back to the bonfire, and I drop into the chair next to Ryan, grabbing a beer and offering him one too.
Ryan catches it. “So… did she tell you about the tattoo?” He smirks, not even trying to hide it.
I roll my eyes, taking a sip of my beer. “Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky to still be breathing.”
Sarah reaches out to grab a beer of her own, but Lorelai is faster, snatching the bottle right out of her hand like a mom catching a kid sneaking cookies.
“Lorelai, come on! Give me the beer.”
“Absolutely not! You’re nineteen. You have to be twenty-one to drink.”
Sarah tilts her head, completely serious. “Wait a second. I can have sex four times a day, but I can’t drink?”
Michael and Ryan choke, spitting beer everywhere.
“Too much information, Sarah!” Michael shouts, glaring at me, clearly considering punching me in the face.
Ryan shakes his head at me. “Dude, what radioactive spider bit you?”
“Four times a day?” Lorelai repeats Sarah’s words, raising a brow so high it vanishes into her bangs. Then she looks at me. “Damn, cowboy! I knew you were good for the sound effects next door, but four times?”
She hands Sarah the beer. “Here, girl, take it. You need it. How are you still walking?”
Sarah grins shamelessly and grabs the bottle, taking a long sip. I pull her onto my lap, and her hands naturally slide behind my neck. My eyes meet hers, and she’s still smiling.
I could stay like this forever.
My hand slides down her back, stopping to squeeze her hip, and I lean in, murmuring in her ear so only she can hear, “From now on, it’s gonna be five times.”
She lets out a little gasp, the kind I live for.
A few more beers later, the day stretches warm and lazy, smelling like wildflowers and fresh earth. A perfect day to forget all the usual bullshit we deal with.
It doesn’t take long before we’re having a full-on jumping contest off the dock into the lake. Sarah joins in, of course, even though I keep telling her to take it easy. Every time she leaps, I swim over and check her from head to toe. I don’t want another surprise like a broken arm this time.
“You sure you should be jumping? You spent half the morning doing a full ballet routine. That ankle’s just healed; take it easy.”
Ever since her ankle healed and I told her we’d stay at the lake house, she’s been using the office as her studio, dancing again almost every day. I know she’s okay, but I still worry.
“It’s fine. You’ve kissed it enough to cure a broken bone. Honestly, you’ve spent more time kissing my ankle than my mouth this past month, just saying,” she says, raising a brow, mock-accusing.
“To be fair, it is pretty damn kissable.”
“It’s just an ankle.”
“Every part of you is kissable.”
“You really love saying that, don’t you?”
“Because it’s true.”
Her cheeks turn red, but I pause, brushing my thumb along her skin under the water. “But seriously, are you one hundred percent sure your ankle’s ready for all that dancing?”
“This is the first time I’ve actually had space to practice since the cabin. Not gonna lie—most times I’ve hurt my ankle, it was dancing. So why stop now?”
Come again?
“Hold up, ‘most of the time’? Is this a regular thing? Am I just now finding this out?!”
She bites back a laugh at the look on my face, probably because I’ve got that panicked-and-pissed combo going again.
“In ballet, ankles are like… the sacrificial lamb.”
She’s out here casually admitting she keeps injuring herself and thinks that’s normal? Nope. Not happening.
I scratch my jaw. “You ever think about doing something… I don’t know, less dangerous?”
“Like what, Outsider? Cooking?”
Shit! That’s even worse.
I shake my head fast, eyes wide. “God, no!”
Her eyes flare.
“Sorry, baby, but you, fire, and food? That’s a lethal combo. Stick with ballet.” I nod to myself. “Yeah, definitely safer.”
She smacks my shoulder, and I chuckle.
I pull Sarah into me, wrapping my arm around her waist. She leans in, her green eyes catching the sunlight, glowing like they always do when she smiles at me. She wraps her legs around me, and we float lazily on the surface of the water.