by Avery Flynn
However, he’d seen her today talking with people at the park, giving old friends hugs. Surely all of those people couldn’t have been complete assholes.
She seemed to think about it for a second, taking another drink. “You’re right. Really it was just Constance and her friends that were total jerks”
“Did you wear a lot of expensive stuff to school?” he asked, thinking back to the conversation he’d had with Lucy’s archnemesis.
“Oh, you mean the mommy guilt gifts?” She chuckled, the rough-edged sound not even hinting at amusement. “Yeah, my mom left us for a rich tycoon when I was a kid. But she’d visit whenever they were on the outs and she’d feel guilty, remembering the daughter she’d left. So she bought all these ridiculous clothes. They weren’t really me, but she’d convinced my dad that if I just dressed in a certain way—basically the way she did—that I’d have more friends.”
“It didn’t work out that way.”
She shook her head and sighed. “Not even close.”
“Constance mentioned the clothes.” He had no clue why he was getting involved in all of this. It would be easier just to chalk up Constance as a class-A bitch and move on, but he couldn’t let it go. It was a sore spot for Lucy, one he could tell she couldn’t stop poking at—and she wouldn’t until she worked it all out, and that was as bad for her as it was for Constance to hold on to a stupid high school grudge. “She said you thought you were better than everyone else in high school.”
“She couldn’t have been more wrong. I thought everyone—and I mean everyone—was better than me. My insecurity was legendary.”
“You don’t seem like that now.” If anything, she was the kind of tell-it-like-it-is, stand-up-to-anyone woman who could kick someone’s ass without chipping a red-tipped nail. God knew, she loved giving him shit all the time.
She raised her bottle and clinked it against his. “It’s amazing what a thick, defensive layer of fuck-you can hide.” Taking a short pause, she eyeballed him. “Now are you just avoiding talking about last night, or are you really into years-old gossip?”
That was his Lucy, getting straight to it. Really, she’d held out longer than he’d expected, considering how direct she usually was. Of course, that didn’t mean he was ready to lay all of his cards out on the table.
“You want to talk about last night?” he asked, taking a drink of the super hoppy local IPA.
“I know I said we shouldn’t, but it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.” She took a deep breath, a V of worry creasing the space in the middle of her forehead. “I don’t want to be the person to make you break your word to yourself.”
“About being on the sex bench?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“It’s okay, I’m back in the game.” Oh, was he ever.
That little break had shown him one very important thing. It wasn’t what he was doing that was the problem, it was who he was doing it with. The time he’d spent with Lucy was different than with other women because of his need to compartmentalize coming back to bite him on the ass. He’d put Lucy in the friend zone, but she wouldn’t stay there. Their whatever-it-should-be-called was about more than just physical satisfaction. Hell, up to this point it had been all about physical denial. She made him laugh. She made him think. She made him wonder how in the hell he hadn’t figured all of that out before their little what-is-sex conversation last night.
The truth of the matter was, she was right. Sex was different when you cared about the other person in more than just the general humanitarian sense.
“Don’t make a joke of this,” she said. “Consent is important, and I don’t want to put you in a position where you don’t think you can say no because you’re a nice guy, or because you’re just really horny and I’m willing.”
Fucking A. Lucy had no clue what she did to him. He dropped his hand to her knee, skimming it upward. Thanks to their booth’s location, no one could see what he was doing—which was basically nothing because she’d switched from a skirt to yoga pants. However, it was enough to remind her of exactly what had happened last time he’d had his palm on her thigh.
“You’re not pushing me.” He slid his hand higher until his fingertips brushed her center, making her eyes flutter. “I’m fucking desperate to be between your thighs again—not anyone’s thighs but yours. And I will be, if you’ll have me.” He withdrew his hand, picked up his beer bottle, and hoped like hell she didn’t notice how badly he was white-knuckling his control right at the moment. “But not until tonight.”
Lucy laid the back of her head against the booth and closed her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Yeah, that was the desperation raging through his body, too. But he had to stick to the plan he’d cooked up last night. Build it up. Draw it out. Make her want him as much as he wanted her.
In other words, hope like hell he could convince her that he just might be more than a good lay.
“How many times do I have to tell you that patience makes it hotter?”
Going slow, as he was learning, was all about savoring, building anticipation, making the want a need. Fuck. Their entire trip so far had been foreplay, and he wasn’t about to blow it in the home stretch.
And whatever happened with Lucy, it wasn’t just a let’s-fuck-in-the-bar-bathroom kind of thing. It was more. It could be more. He didn’t know. All he knew was that this was different, and he couldn’t wait for tonight.
…
Lucy shut her bedroom door and put her thumbs to work.
Lucy: SOS
Gina: That sounds promising.
Lucy: In what world does SOS sound promising?
Gina: The one where you’re off gallivanting around with Frankie Hartigan.
Shaking her head, she crossed the room to her closet so she could find a sundress that would help her stay cool at the carnival tonight. These weekend long events were the social event of the year in Antioch and other small towns across the state. Families timed their family get-togethers around them so the out-of-towners wouldn’t complain there was nothing to do. Locals looked forward to them as a well-earned way to let off steam and check out potential dating partners. The county carnival was such a big deal that the reunion schedule for the night was left totally open so everyone could go—including her and Frankie, which, much to her chagrin, was why she was spending more time looking at her dress options and texting the reinforcements.
Lucy: Gallivanting? With Frankie? You are a hopeless romantic.
Gina: Hello? Wedding planner here. Of course I am. So what’s up? Did you kiss him?
She hesitated, her thumbs hovering just over the keys, her heart beating fast as she remembered that kiss and what came after.
Lucy: Yes.
Gina: And?
Lucy: More.
Gina: Hell, I was just looking to see if it was good. U had sex with Frankie Hartigan???
Lucy: Not yet.
But really that’s exactly where they were heading—a prospect that was both terrifying and electric.
Gina: Get you some!
Lucy: This is a bad idea.
Gina: Why? You have a thing against orgasms?
She flopped down onto the bed and let out an exasperated huff. Not that she was annoyed with Gina. Nope, the target of her ire was herself.
Lucy: No, because it’s Frankie.
Gina: Exactly. If the Waterbury chick whisper network is to be believed, you will have many, many orgasms.
Lucy: That’s the problem.
Gina: ???
Lucy: Because, despite what some people may think, I have options and I don’t need a pity fuck from Frankie, who has probably banged every other woman in town.
Gina: 1. Hell yes you have options. 2. Who said anything about a pity fuck? 3. No slut shaming.
Lucy: He just came on this trip as a weird favor for unknown reasons. And no shaming meant. He can fuck as many women as he wants, I just don’t want to be just another faceless number.
Gina: So you like him?
Lucy: Of course I do. He’s very likable.
She let out a groan and closed her eyes. It wasn’t fair. She snapped her eyes open at the ping alert of a new text.
Gina: No, you really like him.
Lucy: Liking him would be a very bad idea.
And a moot point because it was too late.
Gina: Stop being so cautious and live a little. There’s nothing wrong with liking someone.
There was when the likelihood of ending up hurt was less than a sliver away from 100 percent.
Gina: You’re awesome. You know it. Stop focusing so much on maintaining that tough-chick facade and let yourself have fun without worrying about what it all means.
Lucy: Are you saying I’m overanalyzing things?
Gina: Only since probably birth.
Her bestie wasn’t wrong. It took work to always be on alert for a nasty look or a snide comment so she could be prepared to strike back. It was a survival skill that had translated into the job she loved. The skills she’d learned walking the halls of Antioch High School made it so she was always ready with the perfect answer for whatever crisis one of her clients found themselves in. Of course, it was really hard to turn that off—especially when it came to protecting her own vulnerable soft spots.
Lucy: Thanks for the chat. Gotta run.
Gina: No worries. Gotta go, too! It’s cannoli time. xoxo
Sitting back up, Lucy let all of it roll through her head, then stopped herself. Gina was right. She did overanalyze. But not tonight. She seized on the thought with both hands. Tonight she’d just roll with it.
Chapter Thirteen
The sun was setting, and downtown Antioch was packed with people for the annual summer carnival, but Lucy just kept searching the crowd for one man in particular. They’d gotten here fifteen minutes ago, and he’d disappeared almost immediately.
She scanned Main Street, looking down toward the big public parking lot that had been transformed into ride central with a neon Ferris wheel looming over the Tilt-A-Whirl and teacups. The street from the park to the parking lot was shut down to traffic and lined with booths offering everything from predictions of the future to games of skill. Sure, there were a lot of people, but finding a giant redhead shouldn’t be that hard.
“Looking for me?”
A surprised gasp escaped, and she whirled around. “Where have you been?”
Frankie held his hand above his head to show off a long row of tickets that dangled almost all the way to the ground.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” She was here for local beer and people-watching. That was it.
Frankie just grinned at her like a kid on Christmas morning. “Who comes to a carnival and doesn’t try to knock over the milk jugs with a baseball or ride the Ferris wheel?”
“This woman,” she said.
There was nothing fun for a woman like her in going to the guess your weight booth or having the carnival worker give that little oh-boy-here-we-go huff before shoving the safety bar into her stomach and fastening the latch.
“Okay, I won’t make you actually have fun at the carnival,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him in a way that sent her pulse into overdrive. “You can watch me win you an oversized stuffed llama. You know you’re desperate to have one to put in your office back home, so it can stare disapprovingly at your clients when they come to you for help after fucking up.”
“I don’t need any backup in that department. I scare my clients enough as it is.” It was true. She’d had football players who could bench press a car go apologetic after she’d read them the riot act.
“Then Luke the Llama can lighten things up.” He stuffed the tickets into the pocket of his jeans and jerked his chin toward the line of skill game booths lining Main Street. “Come on.”
She hesitated, looking around at everyone, knowing that there would be stares, maybe a comment or two from concern-trolls about whether having those deep-fried Oreos was a good idea for someone like her. Her skin crawled with the ugly anticipation of it.
Really, it was amazing. In her office, she never had a moment of doubt, because when it came to spinning a crisis, no one did it better than she did. But back home in Antioch? That nervous and insecure fifteen-year-old she’d thought she’d ditched all those years ago came rushing to the forefront—and she hated it. Really. Hated. It.
“Okay, let’s do this,” she said.
And they did. There was the game where they had to throw the baseball to knock over the milk jugs (which they both decided were weighed down with anvils), a magnetic fishing game (where she won and declined a goldfish), and a test-your-strength hammer (Frankie’s ego grew three sizes when the metal puck went flying up the pole and slammed into the bell). And the whole time, they laughed and talked about dumb things, like which Bob’s Burgers character was the best (Louise, always Louise).
In a way, hanging out with Frankie was like hanging out with her girls. For the past few years, she, Gina, and Tess had a standing girls’ night at Paint and Sip, where they’d drink wine, catch up on one another’s lives, and paint something ridiculous—nothing could top the woolly mammoth in a hot tub. Those nights involved a lot of wine, a ton of gossip, and relaxed giggles.
Running around the carnival with Frankie while trying to beat the rigged games was like that, with the addition of extreme sexual tension.
Like right now, when she couldn’t help but notice how nice his ass looked in the shorts he was wearing and the way his dark T-shirt showed off just how broad his shoulders were as he stood in front of the Shoot the Duck booth. A shoulders girl? Her? She never had been before, but then again, she’d never spent this much time with someone like Frankie Hartigan before. It was definitely a blessing and a curse. That little talk they’d had over beers at the bar hadn’t been far from her mind since lunch. His whole “patience makes it hotter” philosophy was going to kill her.
He turned away from the lineup of paint splattered ducks, a paintball air rifle in his hand, and shook his head. “I’m from Waterbury, not the sticks of Antioch. When in the hell would I have ever shot off a gun?”
The way he said it with just a hint of teasing and the dip of his gaze to the lowish neckline of her shirt let her know just how full of shit he was. He thought he’d get her to take this game, so he could stand behind her and watch her ass instead of her gameplay like he had at the other booths. Yeah. That wasn’t going to happen.
“It’s easy,” she said, not making a move to take the air rifle from him. “You just point and shoot. Sort of like how a hose would work.”
One side of his mouth kicked up into a sexy grin. “I am familiar with those.”
Of course he took it there. She rolled her eyes at him but managed to keep the giggle his comment elicited under wraps. “A fire hose, not your personal one, you pig.”
“Don’t knock the animal who gives us the glory known as bacon.” He held up the air rifle. “Now, how do I do this? Are you sure you wouldn’t do better at this one?”
“Oh, for the love of Sunday mornings,” she grumbled.
Sure, she sounded frustrated—and she was, but not the way some may have thought. When she grabbed a step stool that raised her up to his height, plunked it down behind Frankie, and then took her place behind him, her entire body was humming. She had to step close to him, so much so that her breasts pressed against his back, so she could reach around him and put her arms in line with his as he held the air rifle.
“See that little thing that sticks up from the barrel?” she asked, her lips practically touching the shell of his ear.
He took in a ragged breath. “Yeah.”
“Line that up with your target.” She waited a few beats. It was about time he was the one suffering with the whole patience-makes-it-hotter thing. “Let out a breath.” She ble
w against his ear, just to demonstrate proper technique, of course. “And pull the trigger.”
Just as he was about to fire, she licked his earlobe. The man jumped. The shot cracked. The paintball pellet exploded out of the barrel and splattered against the giant stuffed llama hanging in the corner of the booth.
Quicker than she could let out a breath, he turned around and curled an arm around her waist so she didn’t fall off the stool. They were face-to-face like this, and she could take in every detail of him up close from the dusting of freckles across his nose to the small, faded scar on his chin to the heady promise in his eyes that he would get her back for that in the most patient way possible.
Her pulse went haywire as anticipation skittered across her skin until her entire body felt like a live wire.
“You did that on purpose,” he said, his voice low and his mouth almost close enough to kiss.
“Yeah.” Okay, that’s what she meant to say, but it came out as more of a sigh. What could she say, getting the full force of Frankie’s attention when you were pressed against him in the most intimate way possible with clothes on was a lot for a woman to process.
She could barely hear the tinny sounds of the carnival music or the crowd filtering past. Everything had been muted as she stood there on that stool, with Frankie’s arm around her, filled with the certain knowledge that a kiss—and not just any kiss, but a brain-wiping, oh-my-God-don’t-ever-let-it-end kiss—was coming.
“I said, here’s your prize,” the older man wearing an Antioch First Baptist T-shirt who was working the booth practically shouted at them from all of two feet away. “There’s no way I can give it away to someone who actually earned it now.”
The rest of the world came screaming back into existence. There were more people in the world than just her and Frankie. Huh. That was a little bit of a surprise until she got her brain back online.
She stepped down from the stool, slipping out of Frankie’s grasp, and picked it up. “Sorry about that.”
The booth man, who like everyone else working the carnival was a local, accepted the stool and handed her the llama in return, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Not to worry, I was young and full of sass at one point in time during my life, too.”
