Fallon
Chapter thirty-nine
The Sweet Spot
Honeysuckle drifts on the breeze as Cyrus leads us down the narrow embankment trail, a fishing pole and tackle box slung over his shoulder.
The ‘honey hole’—a hidden bend in the river—opens ahead like something out of a dream.
A willow leans low over the water, its branches trailing through the slow current.
Even with the hum of insects, the place feels untouched.
Cyrus’s gear gives a soft jingle when he sets it down on a nearby rock. Most people stay along the banks, but today the water is low enough that a cluster of smooth rocks juts out, forming the perfect place to spread out.
The grass is cool beneath my feet as I cross over. I shake out the blanket Lani packed, the wind catching it mid-air before it settles across the mossy stone I’ve claimed.
From where Cyrus wades out to fish, he’ll have a clear view of me.
Heat climbs my cheeks, my stomach tightening with something dangerously close to anticipation. The suit I’m wearing can barely qualify as one—small, minimal, more suggestion than coverage. Jules had insisted it was ‘perfect,’ and I’d made the mistake of believing her.
Cyrus pulls out a small Bluetooth speaker from the basket. The corners of his lips lift,
“Genre?”
My teeth nibble my bottom lip. “New country,” I squeak.
His hooded eyes flick to my lips before making eye contact with me. There’s tension between us. It’s getting thicker every day. I’m walking a live wire about to combust from the urgency I have to squirm under his heated gaze. “Pop punk it is.”
“Why would you ask me if you were going to choose for us? Make it make sense,” I declare.
“I was checking to see if your taste in music has improved over the years. It hasn’t.”
“Cyrus McCoy—”
“You look too good to choose violence today,” he teases, already scrolling for a playlist.
I flush, but I play it off, stretching out on the blanket, like I’m not dying inside from the temptation of this man.