Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I’M HER DAVIS
“ D avis,” I breathe, spinning to face him.
Every clichéd body reaction roars awake. Clenched belly. Wobbly knees. Stuttered breath. There may even be a few I’ve never experienced before.
Davis’s handsome features spark beneath the glow of the streetlamp, making that boyish grin pop bright.
The one he wore throughout our second chance date, or whatever it was, at Fisher’s Landing.
The one I imagined stretched across his face after I texted him Thank You for the muffin and tea.
The same smile that I imagine he wears each time we exchange quick texts about Doc’s recovery.
“You’re going with Davis?” he says with a cheeky lilt.
“It’s your name.” Good god, am I batting my eyes?
“I did say you could call me whatever you wanted.”
“Yeah, and I choose Davis.” Dragon-size wings flutter in my abdomen.
“You choose Davis.” Winking, he holds up a shopping bag with Arvida Books printed on the front. “I picked up those other books you recommended.”
It’s clear our texts go beyond just checking on Doc. They also include Davis’s romance reading education. We agree that for him to have a well-developed opinion, he should sample the genre.
“I just suggested those this afternoon.” Head tipped back, I let out a soft chuckle that sounds a little too much like a giggle.
“Well, Peach , I’m a good student. I learn quickly.” It’s somehow a little dirty the way it slips from his smirking mouth.
The possibilities of that eagerness crackles between us. My body’s temperature rises with the fantasy of Davis, his mouth close to my ear, whispering, “Tell me how you want to be touched.” His hands roaming just where I tell him.
“Yeah?” I bite my lower lip, tamping down the breathiness in my voice.
A throat clears. “Hi. I’m Owen.”
Oh crap! I’m on a date… Sort of. Blinking away the sex-charged headiness, I look between Owen, who stands just a step behind me, one eyebrow quirked with accusation, and Davis, who shifts foot-to-foot.
“Owen?” A furrow notches Davis’s brow “Like in your books?”
“It’s a common name.” I swat the air.
One dark eyebrow cocked, Davis studies Owen.
“I’m… Peach’s friend.” A question mark is almost visible in the wrinkle of Owen’s brow at me being called Peach. “ Just friends,” he adds, reaching out his hand to Davis.
“I’m Davis… Her Davis.” Taking Owen’s hand, he clicks his tongue twice. “I mean Peach’s…Georgia’s friend …” He clicks his tongue again. “I work with her brother Jackson.”
“I know Jackson. We’re pickleball friends.”
Davis’s head tilts. “I’ve never seen you at the court before.”
“New pickleball friends,” I blurt.
“Okay.” Davis juts his chin to Owen. “You should come with him on Saturday. It was just going to be Jackson and me, since the rest of the regulars all have plans.” He clicks his tongue.
“Though that makes the teams uneven. You can do one-on-ones or doubles. Maybe we can round robin a few matches or?—”
“I’ll bring my friend Lars. He’s very competitive.” Owen tosses me a wink. “Maybe Peach will come to cheer us on.”
“It’s an indoor court,” Davis teases.
A silent laugh lights my face. “I am an indoorsy girl.”
“So, you’ve read Peach’s books?” Tipping his head toward Davis, Owen pushes his hands into his pockets.
“ Twice Baked Love and I’m halfway through The Duke’s Darling .” His gaze meets mine. “I hear it’s her best one.”
Swoon! Someone get my smelling salts. With a bite of the inside of my cheek, I attempt to quell the heated tipsiness fogging my brain from making good choices.
Friendship may be the nature of my relationship with Owen, but there are still two other potential suitors to deal with.
Until I can discover a way to send them back to their stories, I shouldn’t indulge in this gooey sensation inside me about Davis.
I should say goodbye and leave with Owen.
“You’re halfway through it?” I ask. Really, Georgia? You’re the literal worst.
“Yeah.”
“Me too!” Owen grins. “Isn’t our Peach a talented writer?” He nudges me with his elbow.
It’s not subtle, and it’s one hundred percent something Hope would do. No wonder there’s no chemistry with Owen.
“She’s very talented. I’ve been up late the last few nights because of her.” A seductive grin flexes the corners of his mouth, causing a clench in my core. “I’ll admit that I’m not sure how I feel about Lord James. He’s a bit of a smug bastard.”
“He grows on you.” Owen chuckles. “Wait, are you at the part in Lady Cecily’s father’s study?”
“Yeah.” Davis’s ears turn bright pink.
That scene may be one of my steamiest. Lady Cecily, her cries of passion muffled after she lets Lord James ball up his cravat and shove it into her mouth, sits on the edge of her father’s desk, her legs wide.
On his knees before her, Lord James, almost a little feral, fucks her with his mouth, her father just down the hall unaware of his rival’s ravishment of his daughter.
“Oh… That scene.” I swallow thickly, imagining myself on that desk and Davis between my legs. Stop it, Georgia!
“Yeah,” he says, his darkening gaze falls to my lips.
It may be my own attraction speaking, but the lust-filled thoughts are almost visible in his pupils. Like a picture window, showing me the filthy things he imagines, all of which involve us reenacting the spicier parts of my books.
“Yeah,” I repeat, desire swelling between my thighs.
“It was well written.” Owen’s cough extinguishes the charge in the air.
In its place, awkwardness hangs. It’s clear we should all depart. Owen and I are off to continue our non-date, and Davis to whatever plans he has for tonight. Still, we all remain on the sidewalk.
“Ice cream!” Owen claps his hands together. “We were just about to get some ice cream, want to join?”
“I…” Davis rubs his nape and clicks his tongue a few times. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your plans.”
“Nah.” Owen makes a dismissive gesture. “You’re not interfering at all.”
“Are you sure?” He looks between me and Owen.
The smart thing is to tell him goodbye. To not drag him along. It’s clear there is something between us. Something I shouldn’t pursue until I resolve the issue of my book boyfriends.
“You should come with us.” My vision locks with his.
What am I doing? It’s like my brain is speaking a different language than the rest of my body. Inviting Davis is a bad idea. Texting Davis is a bad idea. Yet here I am, the queen of bad ideas.
“If you’re sure,” he murmurs.
“I am.”
“Excellent!” Owen grins. “Lead the way, Georgia Peach.”
It’s a short walk to Gemma’s Creamery. Just enough time for Owen to nudge my shoulder and whisper, “He calls you Peach?” and for me to poke him back and mutter, “It’s not like that .”
The small parlor is quiet, which isn’t surprising on a weekday evening.
With its bubble gum pink interior and new selections weekly, Gemma’s is one of my favorite ice cream places.
It also takes food allergies and preferences seriously with peanut-free, vegan, and GF-safe sections with dedicated scoopers.
Owen gets two scoops of cinnamon roll ice cream from the non-GF section, while Davis and I get single scoops from the GF section; his chocolate, while I choose peanut butter.
Davis isn’t gluten free. It’s just one of the many topics we discussed the other night.
I don’t expect the people around me to have the same diet as me.
The only time it’s an issue is with shared meals or intimacy.
Will would get frustrated when I pulled away from him if he tried to kiss me after he’d been drinking or eating something that could cause a reaction.
“It’s a little overkill, Georgia,” he’d scold each time, but he wasn’t the one dealing with a reaction. I was.
“Why two?” I point at the two spoons stabbed into Davis’s ice cream.
“The second one is for you, in case you want to try. I know how you feel about double dipping”—he winks—“but peanut butter and chocolate go great together. Thought this may be a fair compromise in case you want to try some?”
“That they do.” I spin and grab a second spoon from the little dispenser beside the register. “In case you want to try some.” Flashing a sassy smile, I hold up the second spoon and sashay toward the small booth in the corner that Owen has claimed for us.
My steps halt at Owen’s expression. From the little booth in the corner, his eyes sparkle with playful accusation reminiscent of catching a child with their hand in the cookie jar. Though my hand isn’t in anyone’s cookie jar, even if the idea of Davis’s in mine prickles heat up my spine.
Eyes narrowed, I mouth, What?
You like him , he mouths back.
“Not happening,” I mutter under my breath and take the seat across from Owen.
He looks to where Davis is paying for our ice cream. “Why not?” he whispers back.
“Lars and Lord James, remember?”
“They’re not your him .”
“What makes you say that?” I whisper-hiss.
“Neither of them makes you look like that.” He aims his spoon at me.
I release an annoyed breath. “My focus is on the three men I accidentally wished for, not the one that I may or may not?—”
“Liiiiike?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Should I grab us some water too?” Davis approaches and places his dish on the table.
“I’m okay. Thank you.” I smile, ignoring Owen’s assessing gaze.
“Oh no, I have to go,” Owen says, his tone robotic.
I shoot him a what are you doing look.
His answering smirk is so much like Lars or my brother’s, I wonder if they are rubbing off on him.
“Is everything okay?” Davis asks.
“Yep. Just an early morning. Those muffins don’t bake themselves, you know?”
“Muffins?” Forehead pinched, Davis looks between me and Owen. “You’re a baker like Owen in the book?”
“What are the odds?” A nervous laugh punctuates his retort.
“Do you need to go too?” Davis looks at me.