We ended up successfully hooking up the TV to a retired projector we’d snagged from the bio department storeroom that weekend—and it was awesome.
In fact, the bulk of my memories from college were things I did with Will.
Silence engulfed the group, bringing to the forefront the realization—to all of us, I assume—that we didn’t have anything in common anymore.
Cam tapped his knuckles on the table. “Anyone here a Mets fan?”
We all shook our heads, mumbling some version of “No” and “Not really,” and he tilted his beer to his lips, looking up at a television mounted above the bar where, presumably, a Mets game was on.
Ziggy met my eyes and I could see the exasperation there.
The night, which had previously been the kind of fun that would drive me to stay up late, drinking to keep it all going, was losing steam. I missed Pippa’s laugh. I missed the rush I felt when she looked at me and I wasn’t entirely sure what she would do next.
Turning to her, I put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into me.
“I believe I owe you a song,” I said.
She perked up, grinning at me. “Yeah? Brilliant!”
“Your pick.” I lowered my voice. “I just want to get away from the table.” My gaze flickered back and forth between her eyes, and I wondered if she saw the way they said, I don’t want to be with her.
I saw more than heard her quiet “Right, then.”
And then she took my hand, pulled me toward the corner where the microphone lay on the solitary stool under a single spotlight, and turned the mic on. Feedback squawked through the bar, and everyone winced before Pippa brought it to her lips.
“Hallo, Connecticut,” she sang, doing a cute little shimmy. “Jensen here promised he would sing with me, and so I thought it would be nice to sing something really romantic.”
Will laughed at the table, and my sister watched us with wine-sleepy eyes. Ruby was half in Niall’s lap, either sucking his neck or sleeping there, and the only person watching us with full attention was Becky.
I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
Pippa’s hand came to my jaw, turning me to face her. “This one is for you.”
The opening riff to Violent Femmes’ “Kiss Off” began to play through the bar and Pippa bounced next to me, leaning in to sing.
Will put two fingers into his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Even Ruby sat up, letting out a prolonged “Whooooo!”
“I need someone, a person to talk to / Someone who’d care to love,” Pippa sang, and after looking at her wide grin, her playful eyes, I couldn’t possibly resist. So I joined her: “Could it be you? Could it be you?”
It was ridiculous and embarrassing, and we sounded terrible, but it was the single most cathartic moment since my divorce. How was that even possible? I was yell-singing an angry song with a woman I’d met only days before, whom I initially thought I’d hate but I’d grown to somewhat adore, and Becky sat watching—Becky, of all people—with a mixture of relief and misery on her face.
But then even she disappeared, because the woman in front of me commanded every bit of my attention. Pippa’s hair was down and fell over her shoulders. Beneath her jersey dress, her body was easy to imagine, and I reached forward, sliding a hand around her waist to pull her just a little closer.
I wanted to kiss her.
I knew that in part it was the wine, and the beer, and the heady sense of freedom in a small town where I knew no one, but I also knew that in no part was that feeling about Becky.
Pippa bounced against me, singing terribly into the mic—perfect for the song, really. Her earrings cascaded down from her ears, nearly touching her shoulders. Her bracelets clanged on her wrist. Her lipstick stained her lips a seductive fire-red, and it made her happy smile seem boundless.
The song ended with a dissonant strum of the guitar and Pippa stared up at me, breathless. I rarely did things without thought, but leaning forward to kiss her wasn’t for show or because anyone was watching—it was because, in that moment, I couldn’t think of anything else.
We returned to the table and were met with Will’s slow clap, Hanna’s goofy grin, Ruby and Niall’s wide eyes, and Becky’s watery smile. Cam was playing on his phone.
“You guys are really cute together,” Becky said.
“You really are,” Ziggy agreed, and for some reason, her opinion meant something here.
I felt faintly restless, like I did sometimes in a pointless meeting that went long or at the end of a never-ending conference call. Pippa slid her hand into mine and watched as Becky and Cam replaced us by the karaoke machine, selecting an old Anne Murray tune. One of her slow country songs.
“An odd choice to follow, maybe?” Pippa asked, her head on my shoulder. “Though I suppose ours was an odd choice to begin.”
I turned a little closer so she could hear me over the volume of their song. “Her dad died when she was a teenager. He loved Anne Murray. It’s sort of a thing for her.”
She tilted her head to me. “Ah.”
This is how it begins, I thought. Not in a huge rush of information, but tiny tidbits. Cam could know all these little things about Becky now—and more.
I could learn that Pippa didn’t need to look at the video prompt to sing the Violent Femmes. I could learn that she dances like a muppet, has two mums, and likes to scream in the rain.
My mouth came over hers again, and when I pulled away, I could see a question in her eyes.
“What?” I asked, brushing a strand of her hair out of her face.
“Are you drunk?” she asked me.
Laughing, I said, “Well . . . yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Yeah, of course. But that felt like a real kiss.”
I opened my mouth to answer but felt the shifting of bodies beside us at the table and looked up.
“This place is pretty dead,” Will said, standing and pulling on his jacket. “Let’s hit the wine bar at the hotel.”
Glancing at my watch, I realized it was only ten.
I stood, helping Pippa with her coat, and we silently paid our tab and left Duke’s.
Only once we were stepping into the B&B did I realize we’d left in the middle of Becky’s song, and we hadn’t even said goodbye.
The moment of truth was upon us.
Well, almost.
I could feel the call of the room upstairs even as we filed into the small wine bar at the B&B. Were we putting off the inevitable—an awkward dance around a tiny bed—or were we searching to find the fun in our night again?
“I feel like we need to have a team summit,” my sister said, plopping down in one of the plush chairs. “We need to seriously discuss whether we stay on this tour or just head up to the next stop.”
“I thought this Becky thing would be no big deal,” Will said, nodding. “I thought your fake marriage would be funny, and we’d all get a kick out of it, but as the buzz wears off and the night goes on, it’s a little weird the way Becky can’t stop watching you.”
“It’s true,” Pippa said, looking at me. “Do you notice it?”
I shrugged, pulling my sweater off in the heat from the fireplace. “This is probably weird for her, too.”
“Cam seems like a good-looking lug nut,” Ruby said.
I closed my eyes, leaning back against the couch. Reality time: seeing Becky again had been more exhausting because of my constant anticipation of weirdness rather than any actual weirdness that had occurred.
“I’m honestly okay either way,” I said. “I’m fine staying, I’m fine leaving.”
“The person who seems to be handling it the best is Jensen,” Ziggy said. “I sort of want to go off on her whenever I see her.”
“Well, it’s been one hell of a day and I have had far, far too much to drink,” Will said. “Who was responsible for me? Was it you?” He leaned into Ziggy with a goofy smile. “Hi.”
“Okay, I think someone is ready for bed,” she said, smiling when he pressed h
is face against her chest. “Maybe we should talk about it in the morning? I’d have to rearrange some things for us to check in to the cabin early. Maybe we should sleep on it and see if we still want to murder Beck—” Hanna stopped and smiled mischievously. “Oops, my bad. I mean see how we feel tomorrow.”
“Excellent plan,” Niall said, and stood from the table. Ruby hugged everyone, and after a round of good nights and see you in the mornings, they headed in the direction of the elevator.
I looked at Pippa and found her watching me. Had the realization that we had one room and a single bed to share between us resurfaced for her, too?
She stood, reaching out her hand. “Ready?” She smiled down at me.
“I guess it’s that time,” I said, and inwardly cringed. Get it together, Jensen.
My heart took off beneath my breastbone as I stood and took her hand. It felt small in mine, warm and soft, but solid somehow, too. It was her reassuring me, just like this morning, and my feet almost came to a stop when my brain made the connection that to anyone watching, this was supposed to be our honeymoon.
That was not helping.
Hand in hand, we walked down the hall and up the stairs. We were going to our room, and I had no idea what came next.
Nine
Pippa
Jensen opened the door to our room, wordlessly gesturing for me to lead us inside. The door closed behind him with a heavy click.
Whoa, the moment was loaded.
The entire walk up the stairs, neither of us had said a word. Down the hall—still silent. With nearly every step, I wanted to turn to him and do a tiny dance and say, This doesn’t have to happen. We could just tell scary stories and clean out the minibar snacks and pretend it’s a slumber party.
But sometimes, I felt with Jensen, saying it out loud nearly made it more awkward.
We’d hardly spent any time in here since we’d brought our bags up earlier, and at that time, the rush of the marriage game and the knowledge that we had the entire evening before we had to face this moment had made the bed somehow seem so much bigger.
But no. It was minuscule.
Was there a size in the US between a twin and a full?
He was the first to break the silence as we both stared at it. “I can absolutely sleep on the floor.”
I didn’t want that, though. In truth, I wanted his long frame around me, arms holding me tight with my back to his front. I wanted to hear his sleeping breaths and feel the heat of him all night long.
It wasn’t just that I liked sex—which I did—or enjoyed cuddling—absolutely. It was that I felt safe with him. I felt important, especially today, when I’d been able to do something to help him and it seemed that tiny favor opened up so much of him to me.
But here we were, with his shutters back in place.
“Don’t be silly.” I turned to my suitcase, pulling out my pajamas. “I’m just going to go change . . .”
He coughed down at his own suitcase, open on a chair in the corner of the room. “Of course.”
I changed, washed my face, put my hair up, pulled my hair back down, put it up again. Moisturized. I brushed my teeth, used the loo, washed my hands, moisturized again. Brushed my teeth again. I stalled. And then, stepping out, I let him past me to do the same routine, realizing as he walked into the loo that he had only a pair of shorts in his hand.
He slept shirtless.
Fuck me sideways.
However, when he finally came out of the restroom, Jensen was still wearing his T-shirt, to my enormous dismay.
“I thought you slept shirtless.”
What.
What did I just say?
He looked up at me in surprise. “I mean, I usually do, but . . .”
I swear my heart was beating so hard I could barely take in a steady breath. “I think I was hoping you would.” I licked my lips, begging him not to move his eyes away from mine. “I’m sorry. My filter seems to have broken.”
A tiny smile pulled at his lips. “You say that like it’s happened only now.”
Somehow this joke—and the forgiveness embedded in his voice—let the rest of my thoughts tumble free: “I realize that we were just playing a game today. But the past few days, I’ve been open to something happening between us. It’s loaded now, and there’s absolutely no way to change that, but I didn’t want you to think that I would dislike sharing a bed.” I paused and then opened my mouth to continue, but stopped myself, giving him a chance to reply.
He didn’t seem to expect my silence after such a short ramble, apparently, because he stood there, staring at me expectantly for a few breaths.
“Go ahead,” I whispered, sitting down on the bed and scooting toward the headboard. “I’m done. For now.”
Jensen came toward me slowly, sitting down at the corner of the mattress, just at the edge. “I was thinking about this before Becky showed up, too.”
“You were?”
He nodded. “Of course I was. You’re beautiful, and only half as irritating as I initially thought.”
A laugh burst out of me. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I think you’re stunning.”
I chewed my lip, watching him.
A slow grin took over his face and he finally asked, “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Reaching behind me, I pulled a pillow free and lobbed it at him. “I think you’re stunning,” I echoed, and the rest of it tumbled out of me: “I like you.”
He laughed, eyes shining. “I like you, too.”
And the famous Pippa Cox mouth was off and running: “Before this trip, I’d never been to a proper winery. My friend Lucy had a party a few years back. It was meant to be a classy evening—wine, cheese—but what’s the saying? ‘You can’t put lipstick on a pig’ . . . ? We just aren’t those people. The night is still a bit of a blur: wine stains on the carpet and people snogging in corners—it wasn’t a big enough party for covert snogging, so it was rather awkward, really. Johnny Tripton ended up on the patio naked, waving the Brazilian flag. Lucy passed out on the kitchen floor and people sort of just . . . stepped around her to refill their glasses. I woke up with blue hair—I often dye my hair red, sometimes even pink, but never blue—and I swore off wine for eternity. Or at least until the next weekend.” I smiled up at him. “My point is, this trip is a bit classier than my last wine tour, and today has been about a million times more fun than I could have ever expected.”
The cartoon version of Jensen in this moment would be a man stepping out of a convertible, his hair askew and eyes widely stunned. “You are honestly unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
He laughed. “Good, I think.”
“You think?”
“I think.”
I swallowed down a flutter of nerves before asking, “Are you going to sleep in the bed with me?”
Jensen shrugged. “I hadn’t really gotten that far. If we share a bed . . .”
His meaning was clear. “You think if we share a bed, we might have sex.”
He nodded, studying me. “We might.”
I could barely move, I was shaking so intensely.
“Do you want sex?” I laughed at myself immediately. “I mean, not that we—it’s just, tonight when you kissed me, it felt like you weren’t just playing.”
“I fucking love sex,” he said in a quiet growl. “Of course I want it. But tonight was complicated, and I don’t just have sex with someone on impulse.”
“God.” I let my head fall back against the headboard. “That’s incredibly hot, and I don’t even know why.”
“Pippa.”
I grinned up at him. “Jensen.”
My heart beat a savage rhythm in my chest as he reached forward, lifting a hand and touching my bottom lip with the tip of his index finger. “Do you like sex?” he whispered.
Oh, fuck me.
“Yes.”
Jensen waved a casual hand. “Well, that’s good to know.�
� He sat up, blinking away as if we were done, and I caught the devious smile as he began to stand.
“You wanker,” I said, laughing and leaning forward to smack his shoulder. He caught my hand with his, pressing it just over where his heart hammered beneath his breastbone.
His expression shifted away from that playful smile; he suddenly seemed so unguarded. “Take it easy on me,” he said quietly.
“I will.”
He continued to stare, his meaning growing clearer the longer our eyes held.
“Do you want to put on a movie?” I asked. “I’m suddenly sympathetic to any prostitute ever who isn’t sure how to get the ball rolling.”
He stared at me, bewildered, before shaking his head and laughing. “I doubt I’d ever be able to predict what comes out of that mouth next.”
“I mean, I don’t care what we do. I want you to come over here and relax.” I really just wanted him beside me, warm and strong, curled up nearby. We had a week and a half left together on the trip. I could work up to sex.
And with Jensen, it was about more than that, as terrifying as that truth felt.
He leaned for the remote, turned on the TV, and began scrolling through the channels.
Our frank conversation had eased the tension somewhat, but it was still there, especially when Jensen selected Goodfellas and turned back to survey where I was sitting cross-legged on the bed.
“Okay?” he asked.
“There wasn’t much else on,” I said, nodding. “And I love this movie.”
With a small nod, he put the remote down on his bedside table, seemed to hesitate for a few breaths, and then reached behind his neck, pulling his shirt off.
“Bloody hell,” I whispered. In only a tiny flash, I’d memorized the entire shape of his upper body, and believe me—there was plenty to take in.
He held the shirt to his chest. “Is this okay? I get really hot and there’s not a fan in here. I’m used to sleeping with a fan.”
“It’s fine,” I said, waving at him without looking. His chest was a map of muscle, with the perfect amount of hair to make me feel the presence of a motherfucking man in the room with me.
He pulled back the covers and we both scooted under them, arranging our limbs carefully so as to not touch. It was an exercise in insanity for me: Jensen, in nothing but a pair of shorts, beside me in bed.
Beautiful Page 13
