Chapter 7
Seven
R ain pelts comfortingly against the roof of the cottage, louder up here in the loft. It’s poured all day, and Mick and I have cocooned inside making love, snacking, and lounging.
It’s my last weekend before I hole up for finals, and it’s unlikely I’ll see Mick for a couple of weeks.
Once the semester ends, I’m starting my internship, working part time as a receptionist for a hair salon, and still hostessing at Original Joe’s.
Between the three, I should be able to cover my expenses.
My father made it perfectly clear months ago that he would not pay my rent or bills while I “lounge around” all summer. His ultimatum: move home or support myself. When I explained my internship was a mandatory class, he met me in the middle, providing half and leaving me to earn the rest.
There’s no way in hell I’m ever moving back to my parents’ house again.
Living free of restrictive parental controls is even better than I’d imagined, and I’m no longer in a front row seat witnessing my mother’s deepening slide into depression and Valium therapy.
Plus, I love my roommates. It’s unacceptable to abandon them or leave them in a lurch.
I’d take on four jobs if it meant keeping my status quo intact.
Until my schedule is settled, it’s impossible to know how it affects my time with Mick. He’s awesome about making it work, though. The former Mr. Cryptic and Unavailable is now Mr. Easygoing.
My mind is far from at ease, however. Thoughts about Remy getting discharged from rehab and returning to Oakland turn my insides into roiling lava.
His return will supposedly occur around the same time as finals.
If I think too much about it, I spiral. Too many unanswered questions skitter through my brain.
It’s impossible not to predict a total doomsday situation for us if Remy remains under his parents’ control.
What if. What if. What fucking if.
Mick and I shower together. He washes my hair, massaging my scalp and gently filtering through the long strands—one of the most decadent experiences of my life.
A slow groan escapes. “You spoil me,” I say.
“It’s my pleasure, believe me.” He kisses my shoulder so tenderly, I melt even more.
He finishes, and I repay the favor, soaping him head to foot. My hands glide over every square inch of his chiseled planes and valleys, paying homage to his beautiful physique.
Afterward, we reheat leftover Chinese food and bring it all into the living room to eat while watching Magnum, P.I. reruns.
“Don’t even think of eating all the Moo Shu Pork. You know it’s my favorite,” I say.
He feigns outrage. “If you really loved me, you’d let me have it.”
I grin, unable to fight Mr. Fucking Gorgeous. “You can have everything of mine.”
That brings a sterling smile to his face, that dimple taunting me like a siren call. He plants a plum-sauce-infused kiss on my mouth and hands over the container. “Fuck me.”
My victorious laugh echoes in the space. I wasn’t lying, but I happily polish off the rest of the carton all the same.
Sunday dawns clear with no rain, clouds, or fog. Mick dials the weather line and confirms we’ve got a beautiful day at our disposal. We’re both itching to get out after being cooped up yesterday…not that it didn’t have its advantages.
“We should hike Mount Tam,” he says, arms crossed over his naked chest, his lower half clad in Levi’s. With his tousled hair and bulging biceps, all six feet of him are distracting.
I blink, de-Micknotizing myself. “I’ve never been, even though it’s so close.” I duck into the fridge and grab ingredients for a scramble. “How high is it?”
“About twenty-five hundred feet to the peak. If it’s clear, you get a hell of a payout—a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of Marin, SF, the East Bay, Mount Diablo, and our lady the Pacific. This could be one of those days. It’ll be fun.”
The vegetables sizzle when they hit the hot pan, and I stir, coating them in olive oil. “Fun like learning-to-surf fun, or fun as in this-is-going-to-kill-me fun?”
Mick presses against me in answer, snaking one arm around my waist. “Don’t you trust me to show you a good time?” His deep voice shoots straight to command central.
I hum out a chuckle.
“Have I steered you wrong yet?” His breath tickles…and so much more.
“No,” I breathe, trying and failing to concentrate on cooking.
He kisses my cheek.
God, this man .
I finish our scramble as Mick butters thick slices of fresh sourdough toast, and we sit down to eat, trading smiles.
We dress in shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers, and I corral my hair into a ponytail. Mick grabs a backpack, stuffing in snacks, a canteen (of course he has one), and a first aid kit. Fucking Boy Scout.
And all mine.
The Mustang engine rumbles its familiar cadence as we drive north up the highway to San Francisco before crossing the majestic Golden Gate Bridge. Barges and boats large and small speckle the deep blue water surrounding us.
My excitement mounts as we enter Mt. Tamalpais State Park, with signs for Muir Woods, Muir Beach, and Stinson Beach. Mick parks in the campground lot and leads the way to the trailhead. It’s a gorgeous day, a breezy sixty-eight degrees and climbing.
As I follow in Mick’s footsteps, I’m hit with a sudden pang.
Does he regret staying? His dream was moving to Florida, getting away from the Bay Area.
Yet he’s still here. Because of me . I question whether I’m worth it.
He is living his dream of working on the water—and he’s made it clear I’m wanted and cherished.
Maybe I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop because of our early days, our back and forth, him so easily…
leaving. Now he’s worried about Remy, another tether. Are we holding him back?
Mick jars me from my thoughts, glancing back as we make our way up the trail. “Do you know why Mount Tam is called the sleeping lady?”
“Nope.”
“It’s the shape, the contour of the mountain.” He illustrates with his hand. “It looks like the profile of woman lying down. It’s based on an old legend, one where a heartbroken Native American woman was abandoned by her lover, laid down, and died. ”
“That’s sad.” Let’s hope it’s not foreshadowing.
Why am I on this negative wave? As if the universe is trying to intervene, my shoe snags on a tree root and I lurch ungracefully.
As we climb, Mick points out medicinal plants, helps me avoid poison oak, and describes places he wants to take me camping. I’m happy to let him do most of the talking as I labor behind him, wondering how much smoking has impacted my lungs.
We near the summit and the trail broadens, revealing a breathtaking vista of the Pacific. Grasses flank our dirt path, big rocks jut from the ground, and it only gets better as we continue.
Pausing when we reach a good viewing spot, we crawl out onto a rock cluster. My entire body sighs contentedly when I sit and stretch my legs, especially my feet.
Mick opens the backpack. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
He pulls out the snacks and offers me the canteen. I slug down a few gulps.
“This is incredible,” I marvel.
“Mm-hmm,” he answers, biting into an apple.
We’re silent as the stunning panorama washes over us. It’s peaceful up here, basking in the sunlight while cooled by the breeze swirling on the mountaintop.
I gasp and nudge Mick, whispering, “Bald eagle.” I so rarely see one, and never the condors anymore.
“Those are the bad motherfuckers of the bird world.”
It flies by, a badass indeed, scrutinizing us.
After resting a spell, we continue exploring the various sides of the summit—every perspective worth the effort.
Experiencing this with Mick—more of his reverence for the great outdoors—it’s clear I love it too.
It’s easy to visualize a lifetime of hiking, camping, canoeing, surfing, sailing…
together. And when we pause to gaze to ward San Francisco, his arms wrapped around me, the thought cements itself deep: I want to marry this man.
I don’t know whether he feels the same. And I can’t answer the other thought attempting to wiggle its way in: What. About. Remy?