15. Emmy
CHAPTER 15
EMMY
My pulse races. We’re no longer on the path. Dawson is pushing through the corn, mowing down the stalks to get us out. I duck my head and hang on to his hand as we tear through the maze.
“I was right,” he says, breathing heavily as we reach the far corner.
“Are we out of here?”
“Not exactly,” he says. “The festival is over there.” He points toward the distant lights. We are at the farthest possible point away, but at least we’re out of the maze—and away from that creature.
“What was that thing?” I ask.
“I’m not sure, but I wasn’t going to stay and find out.”
I laugh. “I’ve never seen you run so fast.”
“My athletic skills come in handy every once in a while.” He quickly scrambles over the fence that separates the maze from another field, and I follow. Then he points us toward the woods. “There’s a path that will take us back to the main road—and the festival.”
He’s still holding my hand, even though I no longer need it. What happened a few minutes ago is circling in my mind. What would Dawson say if we had kissed? Is this just a little fun distraction for him?
No matter what happens over the next few weeks, I can’t let myself imagine there’s anything more. I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts, and when it’s over, I’ll go back to my old life, and Dawson will move to Seattle to play in the NHL, just like he planned.
We reach a wide stream, and the moonlight catches the water, making the large rocks shimmer. Two otters scramble away when they see us.
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” he says. “But we might as well enjoy it.”
He lets go of my hand and takes off his shoes and socks.
“Are you crazy?” I ask. “That water’s probably freezing.”
“I’m not planning on getting wet,” he says. “Are you?”
I shake my head.
“Then take off your shoes. Do something crazy, for once.” He gives me a smirk that’s so cute, I can’t turn him down.
I slide off my shoes and watch as Dawson jumps from rock to rock.
“Are you planning on getting across here sometime this year?” Dawson asks over his shoulder.
I follow him but move slower, careful not to fall into the water. “You’re lucky I’m not closer, or I would push you in.”
He laughs. “I’d like to see you try.”
It’s a flirty challenge, and I can’t resist the bait. When I finally catch up to him, I snatch his hand, pulling him off-balance.
“That’s a bad idea, Emmy,” he says, his eyes flashing in the dark.
“Why?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Because if I fall, you fall,” he says. “We go down together.”
There’s something in his eyes I can’t read, something wild and inviting. With him this close, the fluttering starts again.
“I remember you have this ticklish spot, right here.” I poke him in the side.
“Careful,” he says with a warning. “Or you’ll pay for this.”
“I know you wouldn’t let me get wet, Dawson,” I remind him sweetly.
“How do you know?”
“For the same reason you wanted to make sure we got out of the maze. My brother would be mad at you.”
“Unless I’m provoked. And tickling definitely counts as being provoked.”
“Oh, really?” I say, reaching for his waist and digging my fingers into his side. It’s like I can’t keep my hands off him.
He jerks away and seizes my arms, so I’m handcuffed by his grip.
“No fair!” I yell, trying to wiggle away, but the rocks are slippery, and I can’t get a foothold.
“Fair? You’re the one tickling me!” he says with a laugh, releasing his grip just enough for me to pull away.
I make a final attempt to go for his waist, but he's too fast. He scoops me into his arms, lifting me off the ground and dangling me over the water. It doesn’t matter that the water is only a few inches deep, my pride is at stake.
“Don’t you dare, Dawson Hayes!” I warn.
“Promise me you won’t try that again,” he says with a laugh.
I kick my legs, trying to get free. “Okay, fine! I promise. But it’s not like I can win!”
“Depends on your definition of winning.” Dawson sets me down, and I suddenly miss his hands on me. He leans in, eyes intent. “There are a thousand ways to win against me. Everybody has a weak spot, Emmy. You happen to be mine.”
I put my hands on his chest and attempt to shove him. He just laughs. Another infuriating trait that makes me want him more.
I prop a hand on my hip. “I’d like to dangle you over the water and see how you feel.”
Even though I promised not to tickle him, I didn’t promise I wouldn’t get Dawson wet.
I throw myself toward him, catching him off guard and forcing him to step back. When he does, his foot slips off the edge of the rock, and he loses his balance.
We tumble into the water together. He cradles me into his chest so I land on him in the stream. Water splashes, and we’re suddenly both half-soaked.
“Dawson Hayes!” I cry. “Did you just pull me into the water?”
He laughs. “You look good when you’re wet.” He gives me that infuriating smile.
I cup some water and throw it at him, and then it’s an all-out war. Water flies everywhere, drenching our hair and soaking our clothes.
He stops and his eyes catch mine. His shirt is clinging to his chest, his hair dripping, but he still looks incredible. His eyes skate over my face, then he reaches for me and wipes a wet strand of hair off my cheek, making shivers run down my arms. I can’t tell him what he’s doing to me, that my heart is a tangle of knots when he touches me this way.
Even if there’s no way it could ever work between us, or this is just for one season, I want him to kiss me.
Maybe my eyes are saying it too, finally giving him the yes I’m not brave enough to speak. He takes my face in his palms, then waits a beat—one final chance for me to tell him.
Then he brushes another strand behind my ear and whispers, “If I’d been in high school with you, I would’ve wanted to kiss you in that maze.”
“How?” It’s not that I need to know how to kiss. I know how . I want to hear his answer, to imagine it in my head.
“I would’ve pulled you close, so I could see the blue in your eyes.”
His arms gently tug me forward so we’re pressed together.
“Then I would’ve touched you like this.” His hands slide to my jaw, and one thumb gently strokes my cheek.
My breath hitches, but I don’t move. “And then what?”
“I would’ve kissed you. So slowly,” he whispers in a ragged voice. “Just. Like. This.”
He leans forward with each phrase, leaving a trail of kisses across my jaw. When he reaches the end, he pauses, his eyes dropping to my lips.
“You can kiss me, I don’t break,” I whisper, like an invitation.
His lips touch mine, first softly, then more urgently. My hair drips across his face, but he doesn’t move. His hands work their way into my tangled strands as he pulls me closer, his lips caressing me gently like I’m a delicate object.
I slide my hands to the back of his neck and pull him closer. Maybe it’s because we’re wet, or this kiss is causing my body to tremble, but he notices me shivering and glances down at the goose bumps across my arm.
“Are you cold?”
I shake my head. “I’m good. Very good, actually.”
His lips quirk into a half-smile. “I’m glad to hear that. But you are most definitely cold. We need to get you home.”
I don’t move. This moment is too sweet. I keep my arms around Dawson’s neck, locked down.
“Are you ever going to let me get up?” he asks with a smile.
“Not until you tell me I won.”
“Oh, you won, all right,” he says in a low voice.
A flash of movement catches my eye, and Dawson’s face turns quickly to a dense patch of bushes.
Another quick movement, then a bright flash of light that blinds us both. We see a face in the dark, but the person runs off before I can catch anything else.
When I move away from Dawson, my foot turns on a stone in the water. I stumble, twisting my ankle in the process.
“You okay?” Dawson asks, grabbing my elbow to steady me.
“Not really,” I say, wincing. “Who was that?”
“Probably one of the photographers here for the games.” He looks at my ankle. “I’m more worried about you right now.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. Why did they take our picture?” I ask, testing my footstep as we put on our shoes. My ankle still hurts.
He stares at me for a few seconds. “That’s my life. People have no respect for privacy.”
I frown. I can’t believe Dawson’s been putting up with people invading his private life like this. “That’s awful. Let’s get out of here before another photographer shows up.” I try to put weight on my foot, but my ankle throbs even more.
Dawson looks me over. “You shouldn’t walk on it.”
“I’ll be fine once I ice it,” I say, trying to take a step and wincing in pain.
“You’re definitely not fine,” Dawson says. “Let me help.”
“I don’t need help.” I hobble out of the water on one foot. “Do you think he got a picture of us?” If my family saw a picture of me kissing Dawson, I could never live it down. How would I show my face in Maple Falls after this?
“It’s not as important as your ankle,” Dawson says.
“It is important, Dawson,” I say, stopping. “Because even though you can escape any fallout from this picture, I can’t. Maple Falls is where I live. I have to face these people every day. It’s mortifying to think what could happen if this picture gets shared on social media.”
He studies me a beat. “Listen, we’ll deal with it when it comes out. Right now, you’re obviously in pain. Let me carry you.”
“I can get back myself,” I say, hobbling in the dark.
“If you’re going to be stubborn about it, then I only have one choice.” His arms sweep under my legs as he picks me up and carries me toward the festival.
I scoff. “Is this really necessary?” If I’m honest, being carried by Dawson Hayes is causing those butterflies to return in full force.
“Yes,” Dawson says firmly. I can tell by the line of his mouth that my comfort is his objective and that he won’t let me down, no matter how much I insist.
As soon as we reach the main road of the festival, my stomach churns. I look like a drowned rat, and everyone turns to stare as Dawson parades us through the middle of the crowd. When we pass the apple-bobbing booth, Mary-Ellen gasps. Come tomorrow morning, we’ll be the main topic at the beauty salon.
“Dawson,” I whisper. “Don’t you care what people think?”
Dawson doesn’t even pause. “Honey, I’ve never cared what people think.”