No. 22 Sixty-nine #2
“You may have a point.” He digs his arms behind me to lift me with him as he stands, and I manage to contain my delighted squeal this time, wrapping around him as he walks us to the bathroom.
There isn’t a hope in hell that we’d both fit in my little shower, so he puts me down and turns on the water, ducking back out to let me wash off first. He cleans his teeth with the toothbrush he’d brought over earlier and watches me as I lather up and wash away his spend, gliding my hands all over my body to rub at the sore muscles left from our swim.
Despite having just come and his dick staying soft, the heat in his gaze feels warmer than the water pelting at my skin and steaming up the room.
When I’m done and step out, August is ready with my towel, wrapping me up and taking his turn to get cleaned up while I clean my teeth.
I watch him too—obviously. Who wouldn’t?
—and then we take turns doing private matters without an audience before we both climb into my bed, joined only a moment later by two furballs who seemed to be waiting patiently for grown up time to be over.
August grumbles at Darcy to get off the bed but I pout at him. “You can’t treat them differently, Heathcliff is aways allowed to sleep on the bed.”
“They’re animals, not children,” he tells me with a huff of annoyance I don’t buy at all. I just pout harder. “Fine,” he groans, turning off the light.
I peck his cheek over Darcy who tries to get in on the action, immediately licking August’s face where my lips had just been. August bats him away and I giggle, snuggling down and falling asleep almost instantly.
The village fete starts on Saturday and apparently, it’s a huge deal.
Tourists flock to the village and all the local businesses hold a stall, which includes The Reading Nook Café, as officially named this week.
Connor and I are sat at one of the mismatched tables planning what we’re going to be baking all day on Friday to sell at the fete, each with a mug in front of us.
Connor drinks tea with too many sugars while I sip at my flat white.
“Ooh,” he says with a snap of his fingers. “You should make those shortbread with the candied orange peel in them that you did the other day, they were fucking legit.”
I smirk up at him from where my head is dipped over my notepad and pen. “Tell me, how can a shortbread be illegitimate?”
“What?” He scrunches his face up like I’m speaking gibberish, and I shake my head as I add his suggestion to the list. I find myself feeling nervous about the fete.
Probably because so far, nothing has really gone right for the café, what with the coffee machine breaking down and the whole break in thing and all my plans for a big opening have sort of flitted out the window where I’ve been too scared to put them into action.
The café is already open, really. I just haven’t shouted out about it, wanting to ease into it in the hopes that if everyone tiptoes around it and just acts like it was always here, we won’t scare fate into dealing out another round of disasters.
But the village fete with its hype and splendour seems like screaming at the top of my lungs I’m here and inviting all sorts of misfortune to come my way.
I have that uncomfortable bubbling in my stomach, nothing like the wings of butterflies that take flight every time August is in my orbit, but a stinging rumble like acid burning me from the inside out.
I should take my meds for the next few days.
I’ll repeat my affirmations into the mirror, tell myself the fete will be fun, that I’ll meet new people and bring in more customers, the weather’s going to be lovely, and Connor will be working the stall with me.
He’s clearly excited about it, mostly because he’s also helping me with all the baking, and I’ve discovered he loves to brag about the things he makes.
I’ll allow it because the cocky thing is actually really good.
“Oh,” he says even more excitedly, pulling his heavily pinned backpack up from the floor and unzipping it. “I had another idea I wrote in my maths book, hold on.” He rummages in his bag while I give him a flat stare.
“Is that what your maths book should be used for?”
He makes a non-committal sound and then curses when he can’t find what he’s looking for, his head near on disappearing inside the bag.
I wait patiently, taking in the details of all the pins on the front, they’re all dark and have similar themes like fire and skulls, guns and knives.
Not my cup of tea. My eyes stick when I find the one August had used to prove Connor had been the one to break into the café and ruin my books, and I feel a twinge of butthurt.
Connor has been wonderful, I actually love having him around, finding his completely inappropriate language and overly cocky attitude endearing in a way I never would have thought.
It stings to think that he did something so heinous for no apparent reason.
Except, there’s an identical pin right next to that one.
He has two the same? I guess that’s not unheard of.
It’s entirely possible he’s forgotten he already had one and so bought another, or maybe someone gifted it to him not realising he already had it.
But then he appears from his bag with a triumphant smile, all goofy and excited and I know in my heart of hearts.
“You didn’t break in here, did you?” I say sadly.
His smile drops and his forehead wrinkles, like he doesn’t understand what I said, like he’s forgotten why he’s here, just like I keep doing. “What?”
“I’ll ask you just once, and I want the absolute truth from you Con,” I say seriously.
“Okay,” he says slowly, cautiously.
“Did you come in here that night and ruin all my books?”
I wait as he stares back at me kind of blankly between fleeting emotions, his throat works on a swallow, and he looks down to the table with a frown. “Everyone knows I did it,” he says quietly.
“I don’t,” I tell him.
He puts his book on the table and fiddles with the already frayed corners. “It’s what everyone believes so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“It matters to me, Connor,” I say sincerely.
He huffs out a long sigh and brings his eyes back up to meet mine with resignation. “I didn’t do it.”
I nod because I’d already decided that was true before he admitted as much. “Why didn’t you tell August when he marched you in here?”
He shrugs. “He’d made up his mind; I wouldn’t have changed it.”
I want to hug this boy but I'm not sure he wants that right no, so I plant my hands palm to palm between my knees to stop from reaching out. “Your uncle loves you a lot, you know?” I say. “As soon as you left that day, he told me you were a good kid, he was singing your praises despite what he thought you’d done. If you just told him—”
“It wouldn’t make any difference,” he says a little more firmly. “I fuck up all the time, it’s exactly the kind of shit I’d do, so he wouldn’t believe me if I said it wasn’t me.”
“Is it?” I ask with a frown. “Do you do that all the time? Criminal damage? Trespassing?”
He shrugs again, not committing to a response. “Don’t tell him.”
“What? Why?”
“Because they’ll all think I’m just trying to weasel out of helping you or something, and they won’t believe you.
They’ll say I’m just trying it on because you don’t know me that well.
” His face is trying so hard to seem not bothered, but I see the hurt rising with each of his words, like he truly believes his family think so little of him.
But I don’t think they do. I know August adores him; he talks about him a lot.
I know Joanie loves him from the way she beams every times she’s come into the café and sees him working behind the counter.
Eli is the fun uncle who seems to bring Connor treats and gifts every time they meet.
His grandparents tease about his behaviour but their affection is clear.
“Connor—”
“Please, BB,” he says softly, his large, light brown eyes begging and innocent, I can’t possibly betray him.
“Well, what are we going to do, Con? I can’t have you working for me for free when you haven’t done anything wrong. It feels too child-laboury.”
Panic flares in his pupils. “We-we could call it an unpaid internship, o-or I’ll actually break in and damage your shit. Don’t fire me, please.”
I try to contain my amusement. “Or, you know, I could just pay you.”
He jerks a little in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, Connor, I think I can manage that.” I smile at him, and he grins back.
“And you won’t tell my mum?”
“No,” I say carefully. “But I'm not a liar. So, if anyone outright asks me if I’m paying you, I will say as much.”
“Okay,” he says with a nod.
I reach across the table and extend my hand; he takes it with a firm shake. “Welcome onboard, kid.”