Chapter 19 #2
Grace blinks at him, gives the circle a quick once-over, then makes a face.
They’ve shown such restraint over the past couple of days, and she hadn’t asked a single probing question about Why?
, figuring the answer would be something along the lines of Not mixing business and pleasure.
But now, as Crew stares at her with hungry eyes and slightly parted lips, she wonders if he’s reached his limit, too.
If he’s been getting himself off in his tent thinking about his hands on her body the same way she has.
He must pick up on her hesitation, because his expression softens and he says, “We’ll be good.” With a quick look around the circle, he adds under his breath, “They’re all two sheets to the wind anyway.”
It’s true—they’d decided to go shot for shot in a particularly sloppy game of quarters after dinner and haven’t stopped drinking since the activity shifted into loud, off-key campfire songs.
None of them are paying Grace and Crew any mind, the initial novelty of PDA having faded.
If they keep going like this, not a single one of them will remember anything about this evening in fine detail, if at all.
Grace grins upon the realization, a gleeful affirmative that hell yes, she does want to go somewhere with Crew. She wants to go anywhere and everywhere with him.
They slink off without notice, staying quiet and keeping their footsteps light until they’re completely out of ear- and eyeshot.
In a nearby copse of trees, they find themselves in the clear, and before Grace can even breathe out her relief, Crew is pushing her into one, pressing her back into the wide, ridged trunk, and slanting his mouth over hers.
The sound that echoes from his throat when she grants his tongue entrance into her mouth is broken and beautiful.
Grace wants to lie in it forever. His hands are frantic, spanning across her body in erratic patterns, trying to make up for lost time.
But his mouth is determined and concentrated, and with each slide of his tongue against hers, Grace melts into him.
She keens, wanting more and more and more, and if they keep kissing—if he keeps making those sounds and grabbing at her body like he’s trying to own every inch of it, she won’t be able to refrain from taking this further.
Already, her hands are itching to reach for his jeans, to pull down his zipper and take him in hand just to feel the weight of him, the hard, hot length that takes up so much of her grip.
And if she does that—well, it’d be far too easy to pull her own jeans down and let him push inside, let him go deep and hard until they both are crying out their shared relief.
But the universe seems to have plans for them other than this—much to Grace’s chagrin—because just as her hand starts to inch its way downward, Crew’s left pec starts vibrating.
They separate with a smack of lips, Grace’s head rearing back to stare at the little rectangle of light beaming in his shirt pocket.
Crew’s head falls back with a little groan, and he reaches for the phone and answers it—voice clipped and audibly tense—without even bothering to see who’s calling. “Yes?”
The murmur that sounds on the other end is unintelligible, but Grace can make out one key feature: It’s a woman, and by the immediate shift in Crew’s demeanor upon hearing it, she thinks she has a pretty good idea of who it might be.
“We pack up in the morning,” he says, markedly less strained than before.
“And I gave them a rash of shit the other day for asking to head back early.” His lips fold into a straight line, and then his eyes narrow, and all the while, the voice warbles through the phone, seeming to pick up in tempo and pitch.
“Mom,” Crew cuts in—flares of agitation quickly returning—and confirms Grace’s suspicion.
He waits, then sighs dramatically. “I do understand that, but we’re also exhausted, and Grace just took down like…
four s’mores in twenty minutes,” he says, then glances down at Grace, eyes flashing with amusement.
Her eyes go wide with embarrassment, and he smirks.
Bastard. “I don’t think she’s gonna be hungry anytime soon. ”
She reaches out and pinches his pec, aghast at being so thoughtlessly thrown under the bus. Crew chuckles under his breath, pulling the phone away from his mouth, then takes his revenge by pinching her side, and Grace folds over with a squeak.
“Okay, Mom,” he concedes impatiently, too concerned with tickling and pinching her to continue their conversation. “We’ll be up in a little bit, but we’re not staying.”
Grace is panting from defending herself when he finally hangs up, and she stands with her hands on her hips, looking at him expectantly. “Up?”
“My parents are going to Victoria in the morning for the Blue Barrel Auction. It’s an annual thing—they go every year and make a weekend out of it. My mother insists on seeing us before they go.”
A pang of nerves throbs in Grace’s belly. “Us?”
Crew lets his head rest against the tree as he pulls her toward him by her hips, holding on to her loosely, lazily.
He stares down at her with soft, smiling eyes.
“Nothing that happens on this ranch ever gets past my mother. I used to be convinced she had hidden cameras everywhere. Porches, trees, fence posts. But I think it’s more likely she just has the undying loyalty of a very nosy staff.
It’s safe to say she knows about the other night. ”
Grace’s cheeks feel instantly flushed. “And you think…” She starts, but realizes quickly that she doesn’t know quite what she wants to ask.
Or, rather, she does, but she isn’t sure she really wants to know the answer.
Crew stays quiet, waiting for her to elaborate.
Encouraging her to be honest with his discerning eyes, his kind smile. “You think she’s okay with it?”
At this, he lets out a quick, rumbling laugh. It isn’t in mockery but surprise, and the toothy grin that follows is a balm to Grace’s anxiety. “Of course she is.” He squeezes her hip, dragging her closer. “Sweetheart,” he breathes. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
Grace lets herself be pulled, lets herself be distracted by his closeness. She shrugs, leaning into him. “I don’t know. I’m no one special. And I’m on her payroll.”
Before she can get the statement fully out of her mouth, Crew is pushing off the tree, closing any remaining distance between them, and wrapping himself around her.
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. He looks deep into her eyes, searching between them.
His mouth hovers near the tip of her nose, and his hot breath fans over her face as he stares and stares.
“You have no idea how special you are, Grace. You’re—” He exhales, deep and shuddering, and presses his forehead into hers.
Grace feels her heart burst into a thousand sparks in her chest at his next words. They’re whispered and breathy. Reverent.
“You’re everything.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
In the dining room of the main house, a dying fire and warmly lit sconces cast shadows across Clint’s and Renata’s forms at the table, where they sit with two large, half-full wineglasses between them.
Renata is leaning on her elbow, bent toward Clint, smiling flirtatiously.
He’s laughing under his breath, absently rubbing her shoulder from where his hand rests at the back of her chair.
The energy between them is effortless but potent, almost decadent, like a century-old cherrywood whiskey.
Grace has trouble reconciling the pair before her with the one from Crew’s story; it’s hard to fathom them ever running out of things to say to each other, let alone separate long enough to sleep entire nights in different rooms. Crew holds Grace’s hand, thick fingers interlocked with hers, as they enter the dining room.
The two lovebirds are aware enough to recognize they’re no longer alone, and when they turn to see the two walk in, their faces both light up with complete delight.
Their instantaneous grins are brighter than the room’s evening glow, brighter than the flames flickering in the fireplace.
“I swear to you, son, I was just telling your father that I was starting to forget what you look like. Wasn’t I just saying that, darlin’?
” Renata leans back in her chair, smacking Clint’s arm.
He affirms this statement, also leaning back, but keeping his grip steady on the back of Renata’s chair.
“Can’t believe you had the nerve to come all the way back up here and couldn’t spare a second to drop in on your mother. ”
Crew stiffens slightly next to her—Grace can see the way his shoulders lift a little toward his ears.
When Renata shifts her glare from Crew right to her, Grace’s mouth goes a little dry.
But the firm line of Renata’s mouth softens, the brightness of her eyes and smile returning in full force. “Hi, honey. I missed your face, too.”
An impatient, irritated sound erupts from Crew’s throat as he clears it, then sighs. “I already told you, there just wasn’t a good time. You would’ve skinned me alive if I knocked on your door at 4 a.m. just to say hi.”
“You don’t know that!” Renata volleys back, but there’s no heat in her tone. It’s light, a little self-deprecating, even, which is an odd—but not bad—look on her.
“I do, actually,” Crew says. “Anyway—y’all gonna offer us a glass, or just make us stand here and watch you drink?” He lifts his chin toward the bottle on the table.