A Timeless Romance Anthology: Spring Vacation Collection (A Timeless Romance Anthology)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Oh, Rosie. Please.”

  “What?”

  “Why can’t you admit that you made it up?”

  “Because I didn’t.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  Nothing makes a good liar angrier than getting caught. “Go on then, make your case. You can’t just accuse me of lying without the proof to back it up.”

  “You’re proving it for me. Look how flustered you are.”

  I put my hands in my pockets and willed them to stop shaking. Act casual. “The symptoms of frustration can be remarkably similar to deception. Try again.”

  “Everything is science with you, isn’t it? Cause and effect, deduction and analysis.”

  “I like science. I can conduct the same experiment a hundred times and always get the same result. People aren’t dependable like that.”

  Kevin was smiling, but there was no joy in it. He shook his head. “Okay, how did you hurt your shoulder?”

  “How did I hurt my shoulder?”

  “I may not be dependable, but if you’re injured, I’m concerned. How did it happen?”

  “I strained my rotator cuff climbing a tree.”

  Kevin laughed.

  I glared at him. “What? You don’t think I could climb a tree?”

  “Obviously not very well, since you’re wounded. So why were you climbing a tree in the first place?”

  “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “You have to admit it’s a little bizarre. I’m wondering why you did it.”

  By now I had come to terms with the certainty that there was no way I was going to come out on top of this story, so I said the first thing that came into my head. “To pick apples.”

  He paused for a minute and looked straight into my eyes. It was hard not to squirm, but I forced myself to meet his gaze.

  “Red or green?”

  I was focusing all my attention on winning our staring contest and the question threw me. “What?”

  “Were the apples red or green?”

  I threw my arms in the air. “What difference does it make?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Green. The apples were green, okay? Satisfied?” I could feel the pulse hammering in my neck, and I wondered how long it would take for an ambulance to reach the cabin if my blood pressure continued to spike and I had a stroke.

  Kevin walked over until he was directly in front of me, so close that I could see the flecks of green in his brown eyes. I was having a hard time reconciling my conflicting emotions. I was so angry at him for backing me into this corner, but heaven help me, at the same time, I wanted him to grab me and kiss me with those magic lips of his until I couldn’t breathe. He leaned in and for one terrible, blissful moment I thought he had read my mind.

  “Now I know you’re lying,” he whispered into my ear.

  I pulled back. That arrogant… I couldn’t believe I’d been so close to surrendering only a second ago. “And what scientific finding has led you to that conclusion?”

  “You hate green apples.”

  I made a noise that was a cross between a scream and a growl. “Not as much as I hate you right now!” I picked up my purse and pushed past him, putting one foot in front of the other on autopilot until I got to my bedroom, where I slammed the door so hard I thought the hinges might break.

  Chapter Five

  Alone in my room after our argument, I pulled out my sketch book and pencils and began to draw—a sort of frenzied marathon of pages at the beginning when I was still angry that eased into careful, sure strokes once I’d had a chance to calm down. I heard the front door open and close as Kevin went off in search of his fish and felt myself relax even further, my shoulders deflating as the tension drained away.

  Drawing always was therapy for me. Pencils were one of the few constants in my life, something I could control. I’d never be a great artist, but I knew I had some talent, and it pleased me to start with a clean, blank page and create something. Back in school, when I’d first fallen under the spell of a box of newly sharpened colored pencils, I had notebooks full of sketches, mostly nature—leaves, flowers, fish, birds and other animals. In college I had books crammed with clippings and drawings, bits of plants and feathers pressed in. Parts were beginning to crumble now, but I still thumb through them occasionally to remember my rambling walks and my battered copy of Walden, from the days I thought anything was possible.

  I was a middle school science teacher. Well, science and art. I loved the research with the why’s and eventual explanations, the detailed notes of the successes and failures. But for someone who prides herself on being a rational scientist, I was certainly behaving foolishly. It had to be because of Kevin. He always brought out the petulant six-year-old in me.

  I sketched pages of apples—green and red—whole and sliced open with all the secrets spilling out. I drew seeds and stems and leaves, but I found that it was impossible to capture the fruit inside. No matter how I tried, the texture of the creamy middle was somehow lost on the page. Still, to any average observer, it would appear a perfectly serviceable apple. Only I could see the flaws.

  My stomach grumbled, reminding me how long it had been since I’d actually eaten anything, but I wasn’t desperate enough to track down the flattened protein bar yet. As I stubbornly continued in my relentless pursuit to create an apple that would leap off the page, I let my mind wander to the day that I met Kevin and the kiss that would irrevocably change my life.

  The school I taught at had an annual neighborhood Fall Carnival as a fundraiser, and I had been recruited to work one of the booths. In the planning meeting, one of the younger men on staff requested a kissing booth, but the principal tactfully explained that a kissing booth was no longer politically correct. This was followed by a rebuttal from the teacher, who suggested that anyone who wanted to purchase a kiss could sign a waiver, thus relieving the school of any liability. We all laughed until, slowly, everyone realized he wasn’t joking. The subject was dismissed, and we quickly moved on to other assignments before he could propose anything else.

  So as the art teacher, I agreed to work in a stand that sold sketches for a dollar, which was sort of like a kissing booth minus the sexual harassment-suit potential. The sign over my head even said “kissing booth,” but kissing had been crossed out and replaced with my more respectable offering. Either the sign maker had a sense of humor, or the same teacher was still trying to get what he wanted.

  The weather that night was perfect—not too cold, but with just enough chill in the air to send people flocking to the hot chocolate and cider. Inhaling the occasional whiff of buttery popcorn, I couldn’t help feeling festive in my fingerless gloves, which kept my hands warm but still enabled me to draw. Between customers, I sketched items I saw around me: pumpkins for sale, the big harvest moon, fall leaves. I was frustrated that my pencils couldn’t do the vibrant leaves justice. That year they were particularly lovely, in shocking shades of red and orange and yellow hovering between reality and fantasy.

  As I concentrated on trying to make the leaves on my page equal to their living counterparts, I realized I had a patron. I raised my head and was greeted by a pair of smiling brown eyes so open and inviting that it was impossible not to return the smile.

  “How can I help you?” I asked.

  “I’d like to purchase a kiss.” He put a dollar bill on the table in front of me.

  “Uh, this is a sketching booth,” I said, pointing to the sign. “Sorry. But I can draw you a picture of whatever you’d like.”

  “I see you have some nice ones,” he said, his eyes scanning the hastily drawn pictures in front of me.

  Now I was self-conscious. “They’re not my best, but what do you like for a dollar?”

  I was rewarded with another smile, which seemed to make my mind go blank. “I was being serious. They’re great…”

  “But?” I said, completing his unfinished sentence.

  “I’m afraid I don’t see what I’m lookin
g for.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. I can sketch anything. What exactly are you looking for?”

  “You.”

  I wondered if he noticed how red my face suddenly had to be. It was dark out, but there was a light in my little booth. Even if he couldn’t see it, I imagined he could probably feel the heat from my blush. I was in unfamiliar territory, but hadn’t yet decided whether I enjoyed being pursued by this handsome stranger. I needed to maintain at least the illusion of being in control of the situation.

  “I’m not in the habit of drawing self-portraits, Mr. …”

  “Kevin.”

  “Mr. Kevin.”

  He smiled again. “It’s just Kevin. And you are?”

  Sometimes when I meet new people, I have a hard time maintaining eye contact, but this was exactly the opposite. I couldn’t stop looking. It was like being introduced to a particularly addictive drug. I’d only met this guy two minutes ago, and already I knew I’d have to have more of that smile, or I’d be subject to withdrawal symptoms. I pointed to my sticky name tag. “Miss Marsh.”

  “I told you my name.”

  “I know, but first I have to decide if you’re a serial kissing-booth stalker.”

  He laughed. The smile was good, but the laugh was even better. “What can I do to prove my innocence?”

  I pushed my sketchbook across the table to him. “Choose a pencil and write a sentence in cursive.”

  “I never write in cursive anymore.”

  “Just do it.”

  His face was puzzled. “What should I write?”

  “Anything,” I said. “I only need one sentence.”

  He grabbed a blue pencil and quickly scribbled something then passed it back to me. I read it.

  Miss Marsh is very beautiful. I wish she would tell me her first name.

  “That’s actually two sentences,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I’m an overachiever.”

  “You might be, actually. The large loops on your H, B, and L mean you have big ambitions. See here, the way you crossed your T’s near the top? That tells me you have good self-esteem. Same with your large capital letters.”

  “Really?”

  I was pleased he seemed genuinely interested. “Really. Did you notice that your handwriting slants upward a little? That means you’re optimistic. You also chose to write in blue, which means you’re friendly and outgoing.”

  “Fascinating. So, Miss Marsh, you’re a teacher, an artist, and a fortune teller?”

  “I’m a scientist,” I corrected. “Graphology is very scientific.”

  “Graphology?”

  “Handwriting analysis.”

  “Right. So, I’m not a stalker?”

  I smiled. “Well, it’s not foolproof, but I think you’re relatively safe.”

  “So now you can tell me your name.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  His expression fell.

  “But I will give you a clue.” I took a red pencil from the box and started to draw. I kept my eyes on the page, concentrating on shaping velvety petals. I could feel him watching me. When the picture was finished, I handed it to him, suddenly feeling shy for some reason. As he took the paper, his warm fingers brushed against mine. Despite the gloves, my hands were cold. I told myself that the only reason I was possessed with the sudden desire to hold his hand was for the warmth.

  “Your name is Rose!” It was a semi-ridiculous statement, given that the clue was completely obvious. But at the same time, his words kind of melted my heart. His voice was utterly triumphant, like a child who had finally gotten the hang of riding a bicycle without training wheels.

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t usually have to try this hard to get a girl’s name.”

  “And there’s the big ego I mentioned earlier.”

  “You didn’t say big ego—you said high self-esteem.”

  I grinned. “Like I said, it isn’t an exact science.”

  “So, Rose.” The way he said my name was as if he was turning it over on his tongue, sampling it like the rare vintage of some fine wine. “Rosie.”

  “Just Rose,” I corrected.

  “Rose, I would very much like to kiss you now.”

  “I told you, this isn’t a kissing booth.” I was baffled. I wasn’t the kind of girl who kissed on the first date, and I was certainly not the kind who kissed random guys I’d just met, no matter how charming. Yet I found myself considering what those lips would feel like, if they were as warm as his hands.

  “If I analyzed your handwriting,” he said. “I bet it would tell me that you are a very literal person. This has nothing to do with the booth. Forget the booth. I just want to kiss you.”

  “But—I barely know you,” I stammered.

  “Of course you do. You just outlined my whole personality.”

  “That doesn’t count. I don’t even know your last name.”

  He held up one finger, indicating that I should wait. He took my pencils and drew a crude picture of a barn with the letters ES next to it.

  I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out. “Barnes? Kevin Barnes?”

  “See? You’re not the only Monet around here.”

  I put my hand over my mouth to hide the giggle, but it was too late. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “What?” he said.

  “It’s nothing. I was just thinking that obviously one of your big ambitions isn’t art school.”

  He opened his mouth in shock. “Rosie Marsh, you are so mean!”

  “Don’t call me Rosie.”

  He leaned a little closer across the booth; I could smell the faded scent of his aftershave from that morning. Although it was faint, my head swam in it. “But I like Rosie,” he said. “It’s a nice name.”

  “Only my closest friends call me that.”

  He was near enough now that I could see how gorgeous his eyes were. I’m certain other people were standing around, but I couldn’t see anything but this man who’d managed to so completely capture my interest.

  “You mean the friends who get to kiss you?” he said, in a voice so quiet that I wasn’t entirely sure I heard him. He leaned closer, his eyes fixed on my lips. At the last second, I had the sense to close my eyes so he didn’t open his to find me staring at him like a bewildered lemur.

  I felt the lightest brush of lips against mine, and then he paused momentarily. I thought he was being courteous, giving me the chance to bail if I wasn’t interested, but I wondered if he wasn’t more nervous than he let on. Maybe he wasn’t being gentlemanly as much as trying to summon the courage to continue. Either way, he needn’t have worried—I was way past interested at that point. The only thing keeping me from grabbing the front of his jacket and pulling him across the booth was the desire to not appear too desperate.

  Now, stretched out on the bed in the cabin, pencils forgotten, I waited in anticipation. When I hadn’t pushed him away at the booth, he renewed his kiss with increased interest. I replayed this scene over and over again in my head until it was practically choreographed down to each shaky breath. I knew what happened next as if it were yesterday.

  There was a knock on the door. I opened my eyes.

  That was definitely not what usually happened next.

  Chapter Six

  “Rosie?” Kevin’s voice was muffled through the door. I wanted to ignore him and close my eyes again, inserting myself back into that starry, magical fall night. But it was like waking up at the best part of the dream then trying desperately to fall asleep again at precisely the moment where you woke up. It doesn’t work.

  I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, as there was no window in my room, but if Kevin was already back, I must have gotten more involved in sketching than I’d thought. Or maybe reliving the memory in such detail had drifted me into the realm of dreams at some point. The door opened a crack.

  “Are you in there?” he asked.

  “Where else would I be?”

/>   “Can I come in?”

  “I suppose.”

  Kevin came through the door, and his eyes went immediately to the drawings spread across the bed. To his credit, he didn’t laugh at the plethora of apples. “I see you’re still sketching.”

  Since the only reply I could think of was I see you’re still stating the obvious, I didn’t say anything. My mother raised me to bite my tongue when I couldn’t say something nice, but my sarcasm still got the better of me on a regular basis. I found it amazing how I felt irritated with him one minute and the next I was noticing the scruff on his face and wanting to run my fingers over it.

  This was bad. Instead of being in a place where I could at least rationalize to myself that I was over him, I was right back where I started. It was like having a break in a bone that hadn’t healed correctly. The doctor tells you that it has to be re-broken so it can finally be fixed. You know that the doctor is doing what’s best for you. You know he means well, but that doesn’t change the pain of the process. It still hurts like crazy, whether the end result is therapeutic or not, and all you can think about is how unfair it is that you have to suffer twice.

  “You always could work miracles with those pencils. But some day you’re going to have to realize that you can’t find everything you need in that box.”

  I stared at him but couldn’t think of a reply that didn’t involve multiple swear words. Just because we had spent a portion of our lives together, what made him think he knew me? What made him think he was qualified to dispense advice and expect me to follow it?

  “Why don’t you come out here for a while so we can talk?” he said.

  “I don’t know if talking is such a great idea.”

  “Just come out and see my peace offering.”

  My eyes narrowed. “What peace offering?”

  “Dinner.”

  I found myself considering it. Dinner would be fish. There was nothing better than fresh pan-fried fish, coated in herbs and cornmeal and sizzling with butter. Since I hadn’t bothered to pack food, I might have to surrender to some conversation to avoid starvation. “I can never say no to fish,” I admitted.