Chapter 10 The Quiet Side
The Quiet Side
Bristol Weaver was waiting at Rosewater's service dock with an overnight bag at her feet and a kiss that made everything I'd packed feel like the backup plan.
I hadn't even tied off yet.
She stood at the end of the dock in a deep-blue wrap dress that followed her trim waist and the full curve of her hips, with the black ties of a bikini visible beneath the low neckline.
Her dark hair was loose instead of polished into place, soft waves lifting in the breeze.
A camera hung from one shoulder. No Kappa sisters or lake crowd waited nearby to interpret her expression.
Her gaze moved over the clean deck, the covered dinner basket secured near the stern, the folded blankets, the lanterns wrapped in towels so they wouldn't break. The look she gave me afterward was warmer than the sunset at her back.
"You planned."
"I was warned you require a table."
"I do." She picked up her bag. "I also brought a list of corrections in case you got ambitious."
"That feels fair."
I caught the cleat and reached for the line. Bristol stepped aboard before I could offer my hand. The boat rocked once beneath her, then she set down the bag, crossed the narrow deck, and put both hands on my chest.
Her mouth hit mine hard enough to erase the greeting I'd been about to give her.
I caught her waist. She opened for my tongue immediately, kissing me with a hunger that didn't belong to the composed woman people watched across crowded docks.
Her fingers curled into my shirt. Mine tightened on the soft fabric over her hips.
The kiss lasted long enough that the boat nudged the dock behind me and reminded me we were still floating.
Bristol eased back and studied my face.
"You're nervous, Brewster."
"I'm on a boat I haven't tied off yet."
"That isn't what your pulse says."
Her thumb pressed to the side of my neck. She could feel exactly what she'd done to it.
"I've been thinking about this since yesterday," I said. "I want to get it right."
"Then start by tying up your boat before Rosewater sends us into open water without dinner."
I laughed and finished securing the line. Bristol stayed close enough that her dress brushed my bare calf every time she moved.
"The bag isn't a promise," she said. "Neither is the camera. I meant the date when I asked for it. Every minute."
I turned from the cleat and found her waiting inches away. "I know. I want the date too."
Her dry little smile returned. "You'll do fine. If you don't, I'll tell you what to fix."
"Please do."
"Careful. I might take that as a standing invitation."
She ignored the empty seats across from me and at the stern. She sat beside the wheel, her thigh flush against mine, and crossed her legs. The dress slipped higher, revealing a strip of black bikini bottom at her hip.
My eyes went there before I could stop them.
"Don't look at my legs like you're trying not to look at my legs," she said.
"I'm supposed to operate a boat."
"You're very talented. I believe you can do both."
I released the line, eased us away from the dock, and turned north. Rosewater's white railings and expensive landscaping slid behind us. Bristol set her camera safely between her feet and rested one hand on my thigh.
The pressure was light.
The effect wasn't.
"Better?" she asked.
"My hands are steadier."
"Good. Keep those on the wheel."
Her fingers moved once against my shorts, close enough to my hardening cock that the order became deeply unfair.
I looked ahead at the open lake.
Bristol leaned into my side, satisfied with herself, and we left the loud part of Sapphire Lake behind.
The north shore narrowed into trees and long bands of shade. Boats still moved in the distance, but the music from Party Cove faded until all I heard was our engine, water breaking beneath the hull, and Bristol's occasional shutter click.
She photographed the sun on the water. A blue heron lifting from the reeds. An empty dock with two weathered chairs turned toward the lake.
Never herself.
Her hand returned to my thigh between pictures. Sometimes it rested there. Sometimes her thumb moved over the fabric. Once, when I steered around a half-submerged branch, her arm slid behind my waist and stayed.
"Do you ever get tired of being useful?" she asked.
I glanced at her, then back to the water. "That's a dangerous question to ask a Brewster."
"I didn't ask if you liked helping."
That was Bristol. Most people gave you room to dodge because they wanted credit for asking. She closed the exit and waited for the real answer.
"Sometimes," I said. "I love my family. I love the resort. I want the girls to know I'm there when they need me. But every once in a while, I'd like to get something wrong without somebody's vacation collapsing."
"Or somebody's heart?"
"Especially that."
Her fingers tightened once on my thigh.
"People look at you and see the man who can fix it," she said. "They look at me and see a picture they can explain."
The words came out level, but she shifted closer after saying them.
"A picture of what?"
"Whatever they need that day. The untouchable brunette. The Kappa bitch. A trophy some guy must have won because he stood close and said it loudly enough. A body in a bikini. A face for somebody else's post." She lifted the camera from between her feet. "It's why I like places."
"Because they don't watch back?"
"Because they don't perform for the camera."
She turned the screen toward me while I kept one eye on the water. Her photographs ignored bikini boats and drinks held toward the lens. She'd caught worn wood silvered by weather, light threading through trees, and small empty places that looked relieved to be left alone.
"You're good," I said.
"I know."
I laughed.
Her mouth curved. "I also like hearing you say it."
"You're really good."
"Better."
She set the camera down and pressed a kiss to my jaw. It wasn't hurried or coy. Her lips lingered, then moved once toward my ear before she settled against my shoulder.
"Is that why you wanted tonight private?" I asked.
"Partly. I wanted to know what you were like when no one needed a drink, a tow, a decision, or an explanation." Her hand slid higher on my thigh and found the ridge she'd created beneath my shorts. "I wanted you when you were only mine to bother."
"You're doing an excellent job."
"I know that too."
She kissed the corner of my mouth while I steered, then sat back before she made me irresponsible.
"What about you?" she asked. "Why somewhere private?"
"Because you asked for no crowd."
"That's the whole answer?"
"You say what you mean. I listened."
Something unguarded crossed her face. She hid it by looking toward the shore, but her hand stayed over my cock through my shorts for two slow seconds before returning to my thigh.
"Good answer," she said.
The last visible dock disappeared behind a point thick with pine. I slowed before the hidden turn and let the boat settle lower in the water. The cove opened ahead beneath the shadow of an abandoned boathouse, its old gray roof blending into rock and trees.
Bristol went still.
Her arm left my waist. The softness in her body pulled tight without her moving away.
"Nash."
I cut the engine and let us glide beneath the boathouse overhang.
"Who told you about this place?"
I caught the old cleat and looped the line around it. "Nobody."
"Someone had to."
"I found it when I was fifteen."
She watched me test the knot. "You use it?"
"When I need somewhere no one needs me."
The caution in her expression didn't vanish, but it changed shape.
I handed her the blanket roll. She took it automatically, still staring toward the narrow wooden steps that climbed beside the boathouse. I slung the dinner basket over one arm and took the lanterns in the other. Bristol carried her camera and bag, then followed me onto the first step.
The fourth board creaked beneath my shoe.
"It's solid," I said. "The old one wasn't. I replaced three of them last summer."
Her gaze dropped to the newer wood.
She ran her fingertips over the railing as we climbed. "These bolts are new too."
"Two years ago. Nails kept pulling loose when the wind came off the lake."
Bristol didn't answer.
The steps ended at North Shore Lookout, a covered platform and shallow loft fitted into the rock above the old boathouse.
Pine branches screened three sides. Dark water showed through the sturdy railing on the fourth.
Clean panes held the last gold of sunset, and the restored table stood at the center beneath the patched cedar roof.
Bristol stopped at the top.
Her eyes moved over the floor, railing, windows, roof, and table with the precision she usually saved for people trying to lie to her.
I set down the supplies.
"The north rail used to sway," I said. "The roof leaked over the table. Two legs had rotted where they met the floor, so I rebuilt the bases last winter."
She crossed to the table and traced the sanded edge with one finger.
"You did this."
"Yeah."
"The shelves?"
"No. Those brackets were already here when I came up last spring."
Bristol looked toward the small storage alcove. "I replaced them. The wood brackets kept growing mold."
I stared at her.
She pointed behind the half door. "There's a broom in there because I got tired of pine needles sticking to my legs. I clean the panes twice a summer. I cleared six bags of trash out the first year I found this place, then started checking after holiday weekends."
The empty beer cans that had stopped appearing. The clean floor I'd never swept. The glass that somehow stayed clear despite years of storms.
"That was you."
"The roof stopped dripping after a storm." Her voice had gone quieter. "That was you."
I nodded toward the railing. "I kept finding the floor swept."
"I kept finding the steps safer."
She lifted her camera and scrolled, then came to stand against my side. The first image showed the lookout under winter snow. The next caught spring rain against the windows. Summer light. Fall leaves across the roof. Dates in the corner marked three years of visits.