by Serena Bell
Since Zoë got pregnant, the only truly hotheaded thing I’ve done was throw a punch at Len, and I had plenty of good reasons to do that.
But Gabe doesn’t know that.
So it makes sense that he’d still have a few doubts.
And for once, I feel like it’s my job to close the gap.
“For real, Gabe. You can trust me.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said anything like that to my brother. Usually it would be, What the fuck? You don’t trust me?
I’m not sure how he’s going to react.
My heart’s beating like it does when Zoë calls. Or when Rachel gets anywhere in a hundred-foot radius.
Maybe that’s a bad example, only because it’s the least of my reactions to Rachel being near.
But you get the gist.
Gabe’s stern gaze assesses me for so long, I want to take back what I said about trusting me. And then he blows out a breath and says:
“Okay.”
Okay. And that’s it. That’s the end of the conversation.
After all that—after all these years—he’s willing to do it. To trust me.
Maybe it’s Lucy’s influence on him.
Or maybe things are changing for me.
I’ve worked really hard these last few weeks, and I haven’t minded or resented it.
Even before Rachel said those words—the man you really are—I wanted to be that man for her.
So maybe it’s that. Gabe’s softer, and I’m—invested.
But it’s also possible that I missed the truth, which is that at any point, if I’d asked Gabe nicely to trust me…?
He would have been willing to do it.
I open my mouth to ask, but there’s a strange—choking—noise from behind me, on the boat.
Gabe moves so fast he’s almost a blur, grabbing Buck and practically tossing him out of the boat, depositing him on the ground below. And not a moment too soon, because Buck proceeds to lose the contents of his stomach in the grass.
Gabe groans, then leans over. “Why is Buck’s vomit purple and glittery?”
It takes me a minute, but I figure it out. “We did a small party in this boat, and I guess one of Rachel’s toys got left behind. Buck must have found it and chewed it up.”
“God damn,” Gabe says. “I’m going to have to call the vet and make sure silicone isn’t toxic to dogs.”
“That one’s latex,” I tell him.
Gabe shoots me a long, hard look.
“What? I have nothing to do but listen to her spiel.”
And watch her handle the merch.
My cock gets heavy, thinking about it.
Gabe’s eyes narrow. Then narrow more.
“What?!” I’m already defending myself.
“You tell me!”
I’m about to lie by omission, or at least quibble by omission, but then Gabe says, “If you’re not sleeping with her yet, you’re going to.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
I frown at him, but only so I don’t smile. And is that a smile I see on my brother’s face?
No fucking way.
“You know how I know that?” Gabe asks.
I shake my head.
“Buck has put his stamp of approval on it.”
My brother is talking straight up nonsense. “You’re joking, right?”
“No. I’m dead serious.” And then Gabe tells me a story. About the boat ride I took Lucy on earlier this summer, her unfortunate seasickness incident, and the fate of one of his sweatshirts.
“So,” Gabe concludes. “Buck is putting his stamp of approval on you and Rachel.”
I open my mouth to tell Gabe that he’s not making any sense, but then I stop. Because I realize what Gabe is saying, in his own, roundabout way.
Gabe approves.
And that’s twice in one day, so there’s no fucking way I’m going to argue with him.
26
Rachel
“Rachel,” my mom says. “Brody Wilder is on a motorcycle outside. You’re not going on his bike, are you?”
Concern laces her voice. Her eyebrows bend together in a V.
I look out the window.
My mom’s right. Brody’s shiny, beautiful black motorcycle sits in the driveway, but that’s not where my eyes are. They are on Brody, pulling his helmet off and shaking out his rumpled hair. On his thighs, braced around the steel and fiberglass frame. On his leather boots and torn jeans, and his big hands, the leather cuffs on his wrists, the ink on his arms.
I look at my mother, and think about all the times I sat up with her at night while she waited for Connor to come home, and how I vowed never to be the kid who caused her worry.
She will worry about me the whole time I’m gone, if I get on that bike with Brody.
In general, making people worry is one of the many things I pride myself on not doing.
She’s totally justified, too, because motorcycles are dangerous. Getting on that bike has not ever been and will never be part of any sane, well-thought through plan.
And you know what?
I’m going to do it anyway.
Being her good girl, being anyone’s good girl, doing it right, getting it perfect?
They’re all old habits I can give up now.
“I don’t want to stress you out,” I tell her. “But I think if I don’t do this? I might regret it for the rest of my life.”
Something like a smile smooths out the wrinkles in my mother’s forehead.
“Oh,” she says. “It’s like that, is it?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s like that.”
She nods. “Well. Yes. I’ll worry about you the whole time you’re gone. But all of parenthood is about trying to figure out the balance between tying your children to your waist and letting them run around in the world. All right. I’ll try to find a new show to watch on Netflix so I won’t think about it too much. But he better have a second helmet.”
I can see him out there, holding it. “He does.”
I give her a big hug, and I promise her we’ll go slow and stay on familiar roads, even though I have no idea if that’s true.
“You might…” I take a deep breath. “Not want to mention this to Connor. If you feel like you can omit it without, I don’t know, lying.”
My mother smiles. “Poor Connor. No one wants to tell him anything.”
“If he weren’t so dang opinionated, maybe we’d tell him more stuff.”
“I might be able to fail to mention it. But you might want to think about telling him that you and Brody—” She looks outside. “—are?” she finishes. A question.
I shake my head. “Does it make any sense to tell him when I’ll be gone in a week, two at most?”
She tilts her head to the side. “You’re sure about that?”
I don’t answer her, because I don’t know the answer.
“I’ve always liked Brody Wilder,” she says. “He has good manners and a big heart. I figured he’d get the rest of it out of his system.”
I don’t want Brody Wilder to get anything out of his system. I like him exactly the way he is.
I don’t say that out loud, but maybe my mom can see it on my face, because she says, “Oh, Rachel.”
I give her one more hug. Then I step outside and wave at the beautiful man on the beautiful bike in my parents’ driveway.
He waves back, and a smile breaks over his face, lighting up the world.
Okay, Brody Wilder, you got me, I think.
He hands me the helmet, shows me how to fasten the chinstrap, and tests it to make sure it fits.
“You’ll mount behind me, here,” he says. “There’s no backrest, so you have to hang on to me tight.”
“Mount behind you. Hold on tight. Sounds pretty good to me.”
Brody’s eyes get big.
I grin. “What? Did you think good girls didn’t talk dirty?”
“Pleasantly surprised,” he murmurs. “If you need to tell me something wh
ile we’re riding, you can tap my shoulder once for ‘stop when it’s convenient,’ twice for ‘it’s urgent,’ and three times for ‘right the fuck now.’” His gaze flicks to mine and I raise my eyebrows.
“Are there signals for slower and faster, too?” I ask.
He closes his eyes. “Rachel.”
“Just curious.”
“Pat my right thigh for slower,” he says. “And if you want to go faster? Squeeze me tight with your thighs.”
He delivers that instruction with full-on Brody smolder and my knees go liquid. Pretty sure he’s messing with me on that one, but I’m okay with it.
He gives me a few more instructions—what not to touch, because it’s hot, what to do when we’re turning, how not to throw him off balance, and how I’ll get off the bike at the end.
I throw a leg over, the way he showed me, settle my feet in the footrests, according to his instructions, grab him tight with my thighs, and wrap my arms around his waist.
Which, oh, my God is so hard. Brody Wilder is all muscle. How does my body know that the feel of his abs under my hands is a signal to start melting?
I hope I don’t lose all control and start groping him midway through the ride.
And then we’re upright and he kicks the bike into motion and holy wowser.
I wasn’t expecting it to be so noisy or so—
Buzzy between my thighs.
And even with the helmet on and no way for the wind to slip fingers through my hair, the speed and the rushing of air is a total thrill.
Not to mention the man between my thighs and in my arms.
My whole body burns at the contact.
He takes us on a long, slow cruise around Rush Creek. I notice, though, that he avoids the area near Connor’s apartment and town itself.
It’s impossible to ignore the roar of the engine or the vibrations that surge through the powerful machine. But it’s also impossible for me to ignore what those vibrations, in combination with Brody’s hard body, do to me.
I’m vibrating, too, by the time he takes the bike down a long, dirt road that emerges into a grassy meadow.
“Brody,” I say, when it’s quiet enough for me to be heard. My arms are still around his waist. “Nobody told me a motorcycle was a sex toy.”
His chuckle is burnt vanilla, rough like his stubble on my thighs that day at the lake.
I am all heat and liquid and craving.
He half turns, carefully avoiding the hot pipe, and lifts me onto his lap. He removes my helmet, and his, and leans down to drop them into the grass. Then he kisses me. No preliminaries, just hot, open mouth and searching tongue, leaving tingles everywhere it sweeps. When he pulls away, I’m panting.
“You all revved up?” he murmurs.
“God. Yes.”
“Hold on tight.”
I lock my arms around his neck, and in a feat of athleticism that takes my breath away, he stands, swings his leg off the bike, and—without putting me down—works open the strap of his motorcycle satchel to remove a blanket. He sets me down to lay it out, then swoops me up again. A moment later, we’re on the ground, his body covering mine.
Brody Wilder is better than my teenaged fantasies, which is—
Well, off the charts.
Actually, this scene bears a striking resemblance to my teenaged fantasies. The way he’s kissing me, like he can’t get enough. The weight of his hips exactly where I want it. And Brody Wilder knows how to move. A hitch, a swivel, the perfect amount of friction through his jeans and mine.
I pant and writhe under him, lifting my hips to try to get more contact. He kisses me deeper, slides a hand between us and into the V of my thighs. Working me with his palm, getting the pressure in exactly the right place. He breaks the kiss long enough to ask, “Like this?” and I nod. He wedges his thigh where his hand was, working the thick, denim-clad muscle over the damp seam of my jeans. I am already on the edge, and he somehow knows exactly how much pressure I need and want. The pleasure is both amplified and muted by the layers between us.
He finds my nipple through my t-shirt and bra, brushing his thumb back and forth over it.
“Brody,” I beg, but he just kisses me again.
He’s relentless, the thumb on my nipple, the rhythm and friction of his thigh, and I try to slow him down, to draw it out, but he breaks the kiss, watching me, eyes gone dark at whatever he sees in my face. I’m helpless, and he holds my gaze, eyes green and fierce on my face, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Brody!”
“That’s it, you come, baby. Come for me.”
I’m clutching him, thrusting up desperately to meet him, coming in thick, drowning waves of pleasure.
He cups his hand over my throbbing mound, feeling me through the last surges and aftershocks, his expression… awestruck.
“Holy fucking God, Rachel, you’re so hot. If I had had the slightest idea, high school would have been an entirely different experience for both of us.”
“Probably for the best,” I manage, breathless. “Want me to—?”
He lets me unfasten him, and then I kneel and take him in my fist, ducking my head to lick around the tip of his cock.
“If you don’t want me to come in your mouth, you should probably know that I’m pretty worked up.”
His hands are tangling in my hair. Gently, though. No force, no pressure. It feels good.
“It’s okay,” I say, and take him in my mouth. I love the sensation, the velvet of the taut head, the way each suck I give him echoes in my core. I pop off and say, “I’m not, like, good with the whole, you know, deep thing.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me. You don’t have to take me deep and you don’t have to swallow. It’s only sexy if you like it.”
Brody Wilder has destroyed me for all men, I think, as I resume licking and sucking him, loving it in a way I have never loved a blow job before. Genuinely. Wanting to make him feel good the way I do and not the way some nameless faceless sex goddess might.
And I think I do all right, because a moment later he’s calling my name, pulling my hair (still feels so damn good), and coming (in my mouth).
And I love it the whole time.
“Rachel,” he says, much more quietly, when he’s done. “Ahhh. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. It was good for me.”
He laughs quietly, that rough honey chuckle. “I can’t unlearn my manners.”
“I wouldn’t want you to.”
When he can stand again, he extracts two cans of root beer and a paper sack bearing the Rush Creek Bakery logo from his motorcycle bag.
“Picnic time.” He spreads the blanket and we sit. The sky is blue, the sun is warm, and it’s that magic time of year and day when the whole world holds still except for the hum and buzz of insects among the wildflowers in the field.
The paper sack holds Nan’s cookies.
“Oh, you are my hero.”
“That’s all it takes?”
I nod.
“This is my perfect date,” Brody says. He says it super casually, but I feel like it contains a world of significance.
“Motorcycle ride and picnic?”
He nods.
“It’s pretty dang great.”
He smiles, maybe at my inadequate curse.
“What about fishing? I would have thought that would be your dream date.”
“I mean, that would be pretty amazing, too. But there aren’t a lot of women who want to go fishing as a date.” He thinks about it. “Actually, zero. There are zero women I know who’d want to go fishing as a date.”
“I’d go.”
“Yeah? For real?”
“Sure.”
“Monday?”
He sounds so eager, it makes me laugh. But only kind of. The other part of me feels like some shy wild creature has just eaten out of my hand. “Absolutely.”
27
Brody
I wake up way too early on Monday morn
ing, wishing I hadn’t asked Rachel to go fly fishing.
Because here’s the thing: I really like Rachel. And I love fly fishing.
But some things that are great on their own aren’t meant to be blended. Split pea soup with smoked bacon, and mint chocolate chip ice cream, for example. Separately? Brilliant. Together? Scary.
Most people are too impatient for fly fishing. Too chatty. Too inquisitive. I’m careful who I take on my river charters, because I don’t want to ruin fly fishing for myself.
I pick up Rachel in the truck.
She ambles down the front steps, and she’s fucking adorable—wearing a baseball cap and a fishing vest, carrying waders and a pair of wading boots. Since I know Connor didn’t outfit her, I’m guessing she asked for help from Amanda, Hanna, and Lucy. Between the three of them they probably have all the gear, but if not, they know who to ask.
The vest is huge. It might be her dad’s. She’s swimming in its hugeness.
Under the adorable?
She’s fucking sexy. The fishing vest hangs open, and she’s wearing a thin lavender base layer underneath that clings to her curves. It makes me want to bail out on the whole trip right now and just undress her.
She sees me staring at her and raises her eyebrows. “Did I do okay?”
I nod. “You look great. And you make that shit look hot.”
Her smile lights up the early-morning Perez property.
She climbs into the truck.
“Do you want music?” I ask, pulling out of the driveway.
“Um, do you mind if we don’t? Sometimes I just really like it quiet.”
You can’t always know what you crave until it lands in your lap. I don’t think I could have predicted that Rachel’s simple observation would feel like a gift. But here we are, headed out to the upper Mionet River, the windows cracked, the radio silent, the sun still fighting to clear the morning mist, and it’s so goddamn peaceful.
And she’s part of the peace, like she soaks up some of the ambient noise.
I reach out and take her hand, and she squeezes mine back.
I show her how to cast. How the line floats out first, and the fly follows. I tell her that if you do it right, it’s called bending and stroking the rod.
