by Sara Ney
“Yeah, no big deal. It’s only thirteen miles.”
Jesus. No wonder he’s in such great shape.
“Good night, Sterling,” I say on an exhalation.
His lips curve. “Night, Scarlett. See you Friday.”
We hang up.
It’s impossible to sleep.
A text message comes through as I’m rolling back over, and I grab my cell one last time before silencing it.
Rowdy: Hey Scarlett?
Me: Yeah?
Rowdy: If this distance didn’t exist, we’d be fucking right now.
NINTH FRIDAY
“The Friday of Sun and Sand and Tits and Bikinis.”
Rowdy
“Can you do me a favor and not embarrass me in front of my friend?” I flex the fingers of my left hand nervously, a habit I picked up from standing long hours in the infield during baseball games.
“You mean your girlfriend?”
“Mom, please don’t call her that when she’s here.”
“So she’s not your girlfriend?” She feigns ignorance to torture me.
“Yes, she is. Just hearing it…” makes me so damn stupid, I don’t know what’s going to come flying out of my mouth. I’m giddy, and having Scarlett here, in my fucking house, is making me want to run circles around the neighborhood to burn off this nervous energy.
I’m pumped. So fucking stoked.
“It’s all good, kiddo. Mom is hip.”
“Just—oh my god. This is going to be my worst nightmare.”
My mom sets down the knife she’s using to cut up a pineapple, resting it on a butcher-block cutting board.
“Why are you so dramatic?” She sighs, popping a chunk of fruit in her mouth. Chews. “So high strung, just like your father.”
I press my lips together and take a deep, steadying breath. “Mom, just…be cool, all right? Don’t start planning our wedding. Don’t mention babies. Don’t ask what books she reads, don’t—”
Wrong thing to say.
My mother cuts me off with a palm in the air. “Does she not read?”
“Yes, she likes to read, just don’t grill her about your novels, okay?”
My mother writes historical romance novels and is a total nerd when it comes to reading.
“What does she like to read, then?” she presses.
“Mom. If you embarrass me, I’m never bringing her back here again.”
She straightens against the counter, uncurling her spine indignantly. As if I’ve offended her somehow.
“You’re hurting my heart.” She places a hand to her chest, affronted that I’d even suggest to her that they’re an embarrassment. “I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“I’m serious. Don’t do that thing you always do when there are girls around…”
“What thing?” She glances around the kitchen as if expecting someone to pop out from one of the cabinets. “What girls?”
“That thing!” My arms are waving around as if independent from my body. “That thing, that thing—babies and weddings and shit.”
“Sterling Aaron, I don’t even know this girl. I certainly wouldn’t talk about babies in front of her.” There’s a brief pause. “Why? Does she like babies.”
I’m so screwed.
“I just don’t need you scaring her.”
“Why?” She leans forward, elbow on the counter, eyes bright, alive with interest. “Do you actually like her? Is this one going to stick?” Mom makes the sign of the cross against her chest. “I’ll be on my best behavior, promise.”
Shit. That’s not a good sign, either.
See, the thing about my parents—especially my mother—is that they’ve always been overinvolved where I’m concerned. As their only son—and one who was athletically inclined—no matter how busy they were or how often they traveled for work, they were always at my games.
Overinvolved. Overenthusiastic. Overactive imaginations.
My mother is a romance novelist, so it’s always come with the territory—she romanticizes everything I’ve done. Every girl I’ve gone out with, every relationship I’ve never committed to—all fodder for her writing.
She simply cannot help herself.
It’s her job.
But, that’s never made it any less annoying.
I sigh, grabbing my car keys off the counter. “I’m running to the airport to grab Scarlett and when I get back, can you just behave? We aren’t characters in one of your novels.”
A terse nod. A mischievous tip of the lips. “Of course you’re not.”
She’s not looking me in the eye.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Another cube of pineapple gets popped into her mouth. “Drive safe, and wear your seatbelt.”
Scarlett
Rowdy looks just like his mother.
It’s the first thing I notice when she greets us at the door when we return from the airport…having made out in the car for fifteen minutes before coming inside the house from the garage.
Mrs. Wade is tall, the familiar smile on her pretty face spreading. She does a good enough job trying to disguise it behind a coffee mug, but I catch it.
And there is no hiding her twinkling green eyes.
They’re just like her son’s.
“So I’m just going to throw this out there then let the two of you go on your way—and feel free to shoot the idea down,” she starts, leaning over the counter and steepling her fingers. “Don and I were talking to our friend Ken, who works at the cruise line, and he managed to get an extra cabin this weekend.”
Cabin?
Heat climbs my neck. Is she implying what I think she’s implying?
“Don’t look so horrified, they’re not adjoining rooms.” She laughs. “We thought it would be so fun for the four of us to go, kind of like a really long double date!”
Go with them? Go with them where?
She prattles on, taking another sip from her white ceramic mug. “What do you think? Leave tomorrow, back on Monday? Two nights, bim bam boom?”
Rowdy’s fingers find the belt loops of my jeans and give them a little tug so I know he’s come up behind me.
“Go with you on your cruise?” Rowdy asks into the crown of my head, above me.
My heart thumps harder.
Mrs. Wade—Hannah—waves a hand airily. “Just a quick jaunt to the islands down south.”
The islands down south means the Caribbean. Fish and coral reefs and buckets of seashells.
“I understand if you planned on just lying around, so go discuss it. Dad is jonesing for some tacos so we’re running down to grab a few from the cart down the block before they close up shop, but we’ll be back in twenty minutes. I should let Ken know within the hour if he can release the cabin for booking or if we’re taking it.”
She is so casual about it—having me in the house, taking me on a vacation.
As if any of this is normal.
“Think about it, kids—we’d have the whole weekend to get to know each other!”
Rowdy groans, but his fingers tickle the waistband of my pants. “Wanna talk about it? Bring your bags upstairs?” His tall frame reaches for my suitcase, still sitting on the floor next to the mudroom door, and when I go to remove it from his hands, he shoos me away. “I got it.”
He insists I climb the stairs first—they’re conveniently located off the kitchen, his bedroom the first door at the top. Dumping everything as we enter, he leads me inside, closing the door behind him.
We’re alone.
In his childhood bedroom.
My eyes are drawn back to him as he plops down on the bed unceremoniously, bouncing on the mattress, excited. “What do you think? Wanna go?”
Yes, yes, yes!
I want to go so bad it’s a damn miracle I didn’t burst into song and dance in the middle of his parents’ kitchen—but I do the moment I shut his bedroom door behind us. Blood courses through my entire body, the liquid oxygen ma
king me lightheaded and dazed, flushing with anticipation.
I hop in place, a high-pitched squeak causing him to quirk an eyebrow.
“Sooo that’s a yes?”
Week after week of getting to know me on the front porch of the baseball house, I know I’ll never be able to fake him out. Never be able to be coyly demure.
Even if I wasn’t dancing in his bedroom, he’d be able to read me better than most of my friends can.
I calm myself, inhaling a few quick breaths. “I want to go so bad.”
“I knew you’d say yes.”
I push him down onto the mattress and crawl over him, staring down into his eyes. “Did you plan this?”
Shrug. “I may have already known my parents could get a second room so we could go along, but I didn’t know if you would say yes.”
My blue eyes narrow, lips hovering inches from his. “Was this an ambush?”
Rowdy licks his lips. “My mom is a hopeless romantic—she’ll do anything to get me into a committed relationship.” He cranes his neck, pressing a kiss to my mouth. “I haven’t brought a girl home since I was in high school, and it was probably for some stupid dance.”
“So I’m special?” I tease him, wanting to hear the words. Dying for them.
“So special I want to parade you all over the place when we get back to school—I’m going to force all my pissant friends to spend time with you.”
“God, please don’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because they…don’t like me.” They think I’m annoying.
“Tough shit. They’ll get used to it.”
“Are you keeping me?”
“Can I?” His hands slide from my ribs to my back, caressing my spine, big and warm and secure.
Mmm. “I’ll think about it.”
“In the meantime, I should probably pack, too—throw some shit into an overnight bag.” He shoots me a grin, slaps me on the ass.
“I’m surprised you haven’t done that already, you shady bastard.”
He gives those broad shoulders another shrug. “Sue me for wanting to see you in a swimsuit.”
“You would have seen me in one eventually.”
“Did you bring a one-piece or a bikini?” he demands, gaze skimming down the front of my shirt to where my breasts are plumped up from being squeezed against his chest.
His perusal gives me goose bumps.
“Both,” I whisper. “I brought both, just in case.”
Rowdy sits up, hauling me along with him, spreading his legs. Resting me on thick thighs, giant hands skimming to my hips. Caressing.
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case I got brave.”
“Baby, it wouldn’t matter if you wore a brown paper bag.” His voice dips low as his hands massage my waist, through my shirt. “I’d still think you were sexy.”
I’m his baby now?
“Brown paper bag?” I’m skeptical.
“I mean, good luck finding one, but, yeah—I’d take you in a paper bag.” His fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, tugging gently. Leans in close to whisper, “Then, I’d push you in the ocean and you’d get soaking wet, and the bag would disintegrate. Boom, naked.”
“So we’re doing it.”
“My balls want you to define the term doing it.”
I swallow. “Don’t be such a pervert. I meant going on vacation together.” I pause, thinking. Then, “Wait, if we’re sharing a cabin, does that mean we’re going to end up sharing a bed?”
Rowdy laughs, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
“Oh we’re definitely sharing a bed.” His fingers brush the skin under my shirt.
“But some of those rooms have bunk beds, right?”
Rowdy laughs, tipping his head back, and for a brief moment I’m able to admire his strong, thick neck. “Who says we’ll be in an interior cabin?”
“I mean—we’re kids.” No way would my parents ever put me in a room with balconies, let alone a window, on a cruise ship. It costs way too much money.
“Kids, huh?” He stretches his legs in front of him, long torso and form large and imposing and definitely in no way childlike. “Do I look like a little boy to you?”
No. He does not.
He looks like a big, strapping hottie with a five o’clock shadow and firm pecs and thick thighs. He looks like he wants to show me all the un-childlike activities we can do in this room, tracking my movements when I back away from him, stepping out from between his long, outstretched legs.
A photograph on his dresser catches my eye so I stroll to it, limbs a bit wobbly, glancing over my shoulder, smiling to myself when I catch him watching me intently.
Bending at the waist, I inspect the picture of him in high school with a medal around his neck and a baseball glove on his hand. His face is flushed, sunburnt, and he’s squinting from the glare of the sun.
He’s happy and beaming. Sweaty, too, like he just played a hard game and won.
“That was the day I made All-American,” his deep voice tells me from behind.
I nod, moving on to the next one, then the next. Then on to his medals and trophies, of which there are many. A royal blue varsity letter is pinned to a bulletin board above his desk, and on it are newspaper clippings, the gold tassel from his high school graduation cap.
“I don’t know why I still have all that shit hanging up.” He sounds sheepish. Apologetic. “I’m hardly ever here anymore.”
I shoot him a glance. “Because you’ve achieved so much.”
On his bookshelf are bobble heads of legendary baseball figures, that I—as little as I know about the game—recognize: Babe Ruth. Hank Aaron. Barry Bonds.
Nolan Ryan.
Some baseball cards in plastic. Books, obviously, and lots of them. A surprising number, actually, ranging from popular fiction to historical non-fiction. On the top shelf is a purple geode, which makes me smile as I pluck it up and hold it in my palm, studying the sparkles under the light before gingerly placing it back in its spot next to a conch shell.
Wandering to the closet, my fingers graze the soft cotton of a few shirts hanging limply inside. I consider stealing one away, for pajamas, but think better of it with his eyes following me so diligently.
“Find anything interesting?”
Not really. Nothing shocking or embarrassing. No skeletons hiding inside, from what I can see.
When I turn, my insatiable eyes skim his torso; my brain wants to straddle him again, but my body cooperates, deciding to exercise a little self-control.
Cool it, Scarlett—his parents are downstairs, for crying out loud.
Quiet but for the sound of our breathing, my feet tread across his plush beige carpet, breaking up the silence. I clasp my hands behind my back.
“It sounds like my parents might be back.” His sexy, relaxed posture kicks up the butterflies in my stomach. “I’ll run down and tell them we’re definitely going.”
My teeth worry my bottom lip, but I can’t suppress the smile. “If you don’t mind, I’m going t0 get ready for bed.”
He nods.
“It’s going to be an early morning—we have a two-hour drive to the cruise port, then we can spend the afternoon exploring the ship before it leaves the dock.”
Nervous and excited, sick to my stomach and elated, all at the same time. Sighing, I retrieve some clean underwear from my suitcase, pajama bottoms and top, following behind him halfway down the hall.
Toward the bathroom I roam, engrossed with Rowdy’s broad shoulders as they flex. Fixated on the back of his sexy, corded neck. I find it impossible to tear my gaze off the bare skin above the collar of his shirt, eyes trailing him until he’s out of view, down the stairs.
To me, it’s the sexist part of a man—the delicious slope at the back of their neck where their shoulders meet.
I love everything about that spot on his body, the straining muscles of his trapezius and deltoids. The freshly trimmed hair at Rowdy’s nape. The tig
ht fit of his dark shirt and the promise that its fabric would be velvety soft beneath my fingers if I had the nerve to caress it. Or hook the tip of one finger inside his collar and trail it along his warm skin.
I want to plow my hands through his neatly shorn mop. Run my palms down his smooth shoulder blades slowly. Daydream about it while the mirrors in his bathroom fog from shower steam and I scrub myself clean under the spray of Sterling Wade’s shower.
Lifting his red bottle of liquid body gel from the shelf, I snap the top open, inhaling the masculine scent. Mmm, I get to curl up with him later and do whatever I want to him.
The thought sends my stomach surging into a dramatic roll, nerves causing me to snap the bottle shut. Concentrate on my task, scrubbing myself clean. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Smooth a bar of Dove soap over my breasts and between the apex of my thighs. I lather up my legs, my calves. Run a blue disposable razor slowly up the length of each one until all the hair is sliced off. Stroke my hands up and down, rinsing away the suds.
Shave between my legs.
Clean.
Smooth.
I dry off with a big, gray towel, patting it along my damp skin, humidity moistening my flesh. Slide on my underwear. Pull on tank top and sleep shorts.
Go through my regular bathroom routine: lotion, moisturizer, body spray.
Pad down the hall when I’ve finished in the bathroom, Rowdy’s room empty when I give a little tap and push the door open.
Bite down on my lip, debating.
Loathe to sit here by myself with only nervous energy for company while he sits downstairs with his parents, I rifle through my suitcase and find the one sweatshirt I packed, yanking it over my wet tresses.
I’m heading down the back stairs when the sound of his mother’s voice gives me pause at the bottom step, foot poised to continue.
“Where is Scarlett, sweetie?” Mrs. Wade asks.
“In the shower. Then I’ll just meet her in bed
“Whose bed?” His mother’s good-natured laugh makes me blush a bright, cherry red.
“Haha, very funny. Mine.” He’s shameless. “We couldn’t find any sheets to fit the bed in the spare bedroom and we looked all over. Are you sure you want us sharing a bed?”
“Dammit.” She hmphs. “Those sheets are probably still folded up in the laundry room—you know how I get when I’m on a deadline. I’m too tired to go check, so no funny business under this roof, okay? We’re trusting you.”
