Chapter Seventeen #2
Ten minutes after, Linc casually kisses me hello and takes my bags.
It should be no big deal. He’s a gentleman who hasn’t lost the ideals of chivalry.
To him, it’s old hat. Easy. Comfortable.
But as he stows our stuff on the backseat and pulls away from the curb, I get the same déjà vu, as if we’ve done this a million times over a million lifetimes.
We’re just being together like there’s always been an us.
I guess the best way to explain this feeling is like it’s a favorite movie. Except our story’s been paused for ten years, and now we’ve pressed play again.
He’s got nineties hip-hop bumping, our coffees nestled in the cupholders like adorable his-and-hers caffeine receptacles, cool air blowing through the vents, his clean, warm scent whirring through the car, and we’ve not exchanged a single word.
It’s off-putting. Everything with Linc just feels so normal. Easy. It’s the most I’ve felt myself since the divorce. In maybe a decade.
Naturally, I freeze up, eager to get back to the flirty, sexy version of us that doesn’t involve my heart scratching a broken record.
Daring to find love again…
I glance over my shoulder at the backseat where our bags are, since the chandelier’s in the trunk.
“So, what’d you pack?” I put a little extra cheer in my voice although, mentally, I’m kicking myself for carelessly opening myself up to a conversation that could easily, prematurely slide into condoms and the godforsaken four Ls.
Thankfully, the man is a saint.
“Let’s see, the crystals and chandelier, of course. My laptop, boots, trunks, towels, blankets.” He glances down at the center console, where his phone and keys are tucked under a thin paper packet. “A printed map—”
A laugh spills out of me. “Oh my goodness. You and Priscilla. She’s all about safety first. What if there’s a dead spot? ” I fake a look of fear.
“Exactly.” He grins, eyes softening as he reaches over and intertwines our fingers, then brings our joined hands to his lips in a gentle kiss. “Can’t be too careful. I’ve got precious cargo to protect.”
See?
The divas would quickly twist his words into some sappy romantic breadcrumb.
Not me. My heart holds up a tiny APPLAUSE NOW cue card.
Instantly, I feel vindicated. Who wouldn’t want to unleash all kinds of lust on a man who calls you precious cargo ?
That’s basically code for, Let’s pull over now and rip open that box in your tote .
I reach for my coffee and take a long, satisfying sip. “Anything else?”
He twists his lips to the side, his eyes trained on the highway.
“Oh, yeah, I brought some cards, too.” Casually, he reaches forward, tapping around his dashboard to change the music to a Smooth Grooves playlist, and suddenly, Maxwell’s “Ascension” is seducing me as Linc adds, “Figured while we wait for the glazier to work on the crystals we go on a short hike, maybe rest for lunch, and work in a few hands of Spades. If you’re up for it. ”
If I’m up to it?
I swallow, squeezing my thighs together.
Now, roadside quickie, sexy waterfall fellatio, that’s lust. But casually turning on classic foreplay jams and adding in Spades…
You don’t just play Spades with any old body.
That’s strategic teamwork, whether four players or two.
It requires trust and reading each other’s rhythm and intentions.
It’s flirty foreplay with repetitious mini battles and outsmarting each other with a smile.
Hell, I might as well give him the key to my heart now.
What’s the use? Shit, apparently, he knows where I hide the spare anyway.
Oh, I’m onto you, Lincoln Bridges.
He shoots me a hungry stare, easing off the gas like he wants to milk every minute we’re together, simultaneously tugging at my heartstrings and libido, and it’s way, way too much to handle.
“ Pfft …” I nod, poking my tongue in my cheek, taking a deep breath.
“Mm-hmm. Should be fun.” Inside, though, I’m scrambling for a way to change the subject.
With a snap, I untangle my hand from his, whip out my iPad from my purse, and say, “Since we’ve got the time, I brought my checklist for Madison Manor. ”
And that’s how we spend the first hour of the drive—caffeine-fueled, with the suburban Ellswood skyline fading as we head north on through stop-and-go traffic, all while going over restoration progress updates to mask how utterly turned on I am.
Once the chandelier repairs are done, the grand ballroom will only need a few final touches.
The reception hall and alcoves are finished with stunning white marble.
All six suites? Pretty much done—duh, because Vincent, while theatrical, is efficient as hell with his design process.
The terrace lawn, courtyard, and hearth room have been finished for weeks.
In fact, ever since Manny and the crew kicked me out of the library to start renovations, they’re some of my go-to spots for “working.” Now that the guys have started the billiard and drawing rooms, and the indoor garden leading into the conservatory, Linc and I have been “running into each other” a lot.
Soon, the tree-lined roads weave into a blur of the densely forested landscape as we approach the foothills.
“Do you think the conservatory is missing something?” I twist in my seat to face Linc, studying the shadows and lines of his beautifully familiar face, his long eyelashes and the fullness of his mouth.
The striking gray eyes against rich bronze skin.
The light dusting of silver sparkling over his jaw, catching the sunlight.
Ugh, I’ve got it bad.
He tosses me a warm smile as he lowers the music and sips from his travel mug. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, but it feels like there’s too much empty space. No texture.” I shrug. “Not enough sensory cues, I guess.”
Linc nods thoughtfully, as if he’s considering what I’ve said. “Let me think on it. I’ll talk with Manny and Vincent and see what options they present.”
The conversation lulls, and I scramble for something else to say, but soon we fall into that easy rhythm, snacking on popcorn and Sour Patch Kids.
We talk about sports, books, documentaries, eighties Black sitcoms, swimming, beaches and waterfalls—you name it.
But we carefully steer clear of anything wedding or Ellswood related.
It’s just the two of us, comfortably lost in each other’s company, the road stretching out before us, my house of cards quietly restacking.
And then a sea of red taillights flares in front of us.
“Accident reported ahead,” the GPS chimes, piercing through the calm. “Rerouting due to traffic. Follow the new path—”
“Nope.” I jolt upright, eyes wide, as Linc slows to a stop. I glance out the window at the thick, dark woods around us. “Absolutely not. This is how it happens.”
Linc drops his head back against the seat with a heavy sigh. The car goes still for a beat, the only sound the hum of the engine.
Then he bursts out laughing—genuinely, uncontrollably loud and hysterical. Most likely, because he’s been tossing back Sour Patch Kids for the past hour, and now it’s like the sugar rush just hit him. “How what happens?”
“You seriously don’t see this?” My voice wavers slightly, and my heart thuds in my chest. “We’re stuck out here, in the middle of nowhere, for who knows how long, with nothing but trees for miles, and now your British GPS is trying to send us down some random dirt road?
This is exactly how every horror movie starts. ”
“Oh, God, you’re killing me.” He laughs even harder, gasping for air. “But I’m definitely not driving down some random road.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You think I’m overreacting, but I’m telling you, this is exactly how it goes.” I throw my hands up. “A fun little road trip gets detoured, then we’re hacked to pieces by some creepy guy with a chainsaw.”
Linc’s laugh reaches a whole new decibel level. “But you’re the final girl, the scream queen! You make it out alive.”
I turn away, folding my arms, adrenaline pumping through me. My eyes are on the trees, though. Just in case.
Linc leans closer, his voice softening as he pries my hand free, intertwining our fingers, gently lifting them to his lips.
“Ebony,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my skin, “you really think I’ve waited this long to be with you, and I’m going to let some creepy woods or a serial killer stop me from… this?”
I glance at him, my lips twitching despite myself. The absurdity of the moment—the sincerity in his eyes and the vulnerability in his voice—hits me all at once, and my heart aches. The world outside the car disappears for a second, and it’s just us.
The air between us crackles.
“All jokes aside—and hopefully, whatever’s going on up ahead, everyone’s okay—I’m glad that we’re stuck here,” he says softly, almost too quiet. “That I get more time with you. It feels like…”
“Like what?” I ask, suddenly desperate to know this rush of longing isn’t one-sided.
My heart thunders in my chest. No detail is too small or insignificant.
I need this to be real.
He takes a breath, tightening his fingers around mine, and presses our clasped hands to his chest like he’s grounding himself in the moment.
“Okay, I think it’s safe to assume we both love movies, right?
But what if this isn’t one of those final-girl stories?
What if this is the other version of us, the one where we made different choices, and now we’re seeing what might happen if we choose each other? ”
I stare at him, heart in my throat, trying to wrap my mind around dual timelines and parallel universes. Two divergent paths but one moment—one choice—changes everything.
What if we were supposed to be here all along? What if this is the version of our lives that was meant to be?
“You’re saying…we’re like the alternate timeline of our lives?” I ask.