Chapter 35
[Neve]
“Iwill,” I answer about Tate’s suggestion to move in with him.
I love the idea, but everything seems to be happening so fast. And right now, I’m just riding a high that Wren is sleeping and Tate set up this romantic evening for us.
I don’t consider myself terribly romantic at heart, and yet . . . maybe that’s because no one has ever done something as sweet as he’s done here. The hay bales. The pumpkins. The mood.
A private barn dance without the barn.
Instead of giving him a better answer, I kiss him.
While the kiss is a response to his, it moves from candle flicker to bonfire in a matter of minutes. I’ve missed kissing him. Missed him when I’ve never missed anyone before. Maybe that’s the issue. I don’t get close, so I don’t have to miss someone.
But the feeling inside me is more than missing Tate. Missing implies lack, but I love Tate because he’s present.
I love him.
The thought arrives fully formed, but I don’t accept it immediately. I almost reject it on instinct because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done. Love isn’t something I’ve trusted. Love is something that changes shape as time passes, something that disappears.
Something that can leave you feeling like a hole exists in your heart.
But Tate doesn’t feel like leaving. He feels like staying. Like something steady I don’t know how to hold without shaking.
The idea of loving him is so foreign it almost makes me step back from myself, like I’ve said it about someone else. And yet, Tate feels so familiar, it scares me more than the unfamiliar ever did.
I don’t want to lose him.
When he scoops me up in his arms, he carries me to the swing, where he situates me so my legs drape over his lap. He sets a pillow against the armrest behind my back. Then he leans over me, and we kiss some more, as the swing gently sways in the autumn breeze.
The last time I made out with a boy was in the seventh grade.
I can’t remember his name, and it doesn’t matter.
No one has ever kissed me the way Tate does.
Like he’s truly savoring me. Every soft suck of my lips.
Every tender swipe of his tongue. I love it hard and fast with him, but when he takes it soft and slow . . . I just melt.
My cold heart becomes a puddle.
We don’t do more than kiss, as it’s only been three weeks since I had Wren. Still, the kiss might be more of a turn-on than sex. The way his hand skims my hip, and his chest presses over mine. The way my legs fit over his lap. The way his mouth recognizes mine.
With the first squawk from Wren, we pull apart, both of us breathing heavily. His forehead comes to mine, and I cup his cheeks.
“So, Elvis,” I state again. “Sounds like this year’s Halloween costume.”
He chuckles and pulls back, his eyes full of desire and laughter. “Wanna have sex with Elvis?”
I laugh. I want to have sex with him, and I look forward to doing it again soon. No repeats might have been my motto in the past, but with Tate, I only want to experience him again and again.
“Just you,” I whisper, letting my fingers coast down his jaw to his neck.
“Sounds good,” he says, leaning in for another kiss. “Soon.” He smiles against my mouth.
When Wren cries again, we know she isn’t going to settle back to sleep.
“Think she needs to eat?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Probably.”
“I’ll get her.” He gives me one more kiss, then says, “Stay here.”
Within minutes, he’s back with Wren and a large plaid blanket. He hands me Wren, who I position at my breasts, after unbuttoning his shirt. Tate sits next to me, tossing the blanket over both of us, and wraps his arm around my shoulders.
The gentle slurps from Wren mingle with the hum of Elvis crooning a tune.
“Hungry girl,” he says, swiping his hand through his hair.
She’s not the only one. I’m hungry for the hunk sitting beside me.
I should have known he was up to something when he sent me to the shower and told me to take my time, no rush.
Then he suggested a dress which I don’t have here, because I still have my own house.
Most of my belongings are still there, but I quickly release the thought.
“Thank you,” I say, glancing at him, taking in his long lashes and scruff-covered jaw.
He smiles at me, but his eyes say he doesn’t know what for.
“For tonight. For all the nights. For being here with me. With Wren.”
“Nowhere else I want to be.” He kisses my forehead, and as much as I usually hate forehead kisses, I hate them a little less when they come from Tate.
Tate leaves late Sunday night so he can be in the office on Monday morning. That first night alone, I feel lost without him. His house suddenly doesn’t feel as comfortable in his absence.
The other side of his absence is the realization that I miss Tate. I miss him desperately, even though it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. And it isn’t just because he’s so helpful with Wren.
I miss his existence in the house. The quiet knowledge he is there, even if he’s behind closed doors working.
I miss his chatter with Wren and his morning greeting to me.
The way we’ve become accustomed to sharing coffee or pumpkin pancakes.
The way he takes one more kiss before he swears he’s locking himself in his office to work.
The way he holds Wren and loves her as much as I do.
I need to get out of the house for a while, or I’ll go crazy with this new sensation.
Missing him.
Lumi and Isolde both work, but I ask Lumi if I can come over for a visit in the late afternoon, just to give myself some distance from the house. I haven’t left it in weeks, other than for Wren’s checkup.
As I drive away from the house in the SUV Tate left behind, infant seat already properly installed, all I can think about is his invitation.
Move in with me.
Tate and I have moved faster than a witch on a broom, zipping across the sky. We hardly know each other, but like he said, he wants to live together, to learn more about each other. There is just this teeny-tiny element called love that might be missing from the equation.
Tate likes me. He cares about me, as he said. He adores me. But I want him to love me. In many ways, he’s shown he does, but strangely, I need the words. I need that confirmation.
Driving down the coastal highway from one small town to another, I will pass Rusty’s Wrecks to get to Lumi’s house.
I wish there was an alternative route, but there just isn’t.
Construction fencing isn’t in place on the property yet, but a giant placard is set in the small strip of grass beside the driveway to the bays.
I expect it to say, SOLD, but instead, it looks like a design.
An image, perhaps, of the future Bucky Beaver Body Shop.
Curiosity has me pulling onto the shoulder, then checking over my shoulder for oncoming traffic before reversing into the driveway. I park a few feet from the sign, check that Wren is still asleep in her car seat, and exit the SUV.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at my past. The building looks even sadder than it did the last time I left here.
The sign above the entrance is gone. Saint pulled it down for us, and it is one more thing in Lumi’s garage.
The plant pots on either side of the entrance were taken by Isolde, so the front door looks dull and uninviting.
I swallow thickly, considering I put an application in with Bucky Beaver, although they didn’t have this location open for hires yet.
I applied early with the assumption that having the application already in their system would help expedite my employment once they start hiring staff. Tate is my top reference.
With a heavy heart, I trudge over to the sign that feels even larger up close. Like it’s looming over me when it’s just two thin fence posts and a large board.
But that board has me catching my breath.
My heart might even stop beating.
Because that sign doesn’t show the future for Rusty Wreck’s as Bucky Beaver Body Shop.
This land is going to be developed . . . into a hotel. A sprawling, three-story resort facing the scenery at my back. A view I don’t need to see to envision.
As my feet go numb and my fingers begin to tingle, I lift my phone, which I had in my hand.
I press call on the top number in my contacts. A number I purposely moved to the top because of his importance, because I was already prepared to tell him yes.
Yes, I’d move in with him. Yes, I want to live with him. Yes, I want to love him.
“Hey, beautiful,” he answers cheerfully.
“Guess where I am?” I state, bypassing any greeting. My jaws clench.
“Is everything okay?” The cheeriness instantly drops, possibly detecting the anger in mine. “How is Wren?”
“I’m standing in front of Rusty’s Wrecks.” I chuckle bitterly, bypassing his questions. “In front of this giant sign that I thought would show me the future Bucky Beaver Body Shop.”
Silence fills the phone.
“But there is no Bucky Beaver Body Shop.”
“Neve,” he says quietly, then mutters to someone else, “Give me a second.”
“You’re tearing it down,” I continue, my voice cracking.
I always knew it was a possibility. Hell, an inevitability.
In order to bring the space up to code, and build something bigger, better, I knew, deep down, that they might demolish the original building.
But I envisioned a garage on this land, not a hotel.
A place for the locals, not something that represents the summer folk.
“A fucking hotel, Tate.” My voice squeaks as I fight to control it.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
I didn’t think my heart could sink any lower. It didn’t only drop to my feet but dug into the soil beneath it. Like it dropped down a magical well and drowned.
“You mean you didn’t want me to find out at all.” I pause, swallowing another crack in my voice, attempting to strengthen it. “You should have told me.”
“I should have told you,” he repeats, sounding vaguely contrite. “I’m so sor—”
“You’ve stolen everything from me,” I snap, the hysteria beginning to rise. Knowing all I’m about to say next isn’t one-hundred percent true, but my anger has reached a new level. One three stories high with a view of the ocean. “You took my business. You want me to sell my home.”
“Neve, I never—”
“And you stole my heart.” I gasp, the air squeezing out of me. “Oh God,” I cry out, clutching a fist against my chest where the pain is actually physical. Like a vise surrounds my ribs. I can’t catch my breath.
“Neve?” I hear the panic in his voice, but I don’t care. “Neve, please.”
“Please?” I choke. I have nothing left to give him. I have nothing else to say other than, “Goodbye, Tate.”
Then I hang up, hunch forward, and sob.