by Jordyn White
“You need more,” I say, putting one of the last two mini sandwiches on her plate and taking the other for myself.
I don’t know if she realizes I’m changing the subject, but she rolls with it. “My mom used to make something like this.” She holds up one of the sandwiches. “Chicken and goat cheese. But instead of pesto she’d use a balsamic reduction.”
She takes a bite and I grab my own sandwich. “I’ve never tried it with a balsamic reduction.”
“Urmm?” she asks, still chewing.
“Nope. So, does it measure up?”
She nods, taking another bite. “Mm-hmm.” She puts two fingers to her lips as she chews and swallows her bite. “Damn good pesto, too. Mom would’ve loved that.”
Her mention of her mother gets me wondering how she’s doing with the loss of her parents. Their sudden deaths shook a lot of people in the community, myself included, but I was too absorbed with my own dramas to linger there long. Aside from the occasional things I’d hear about the Rivers heirs reveling in their new-found fortunes and living loose—if the papers and grapevines are to be believed—I didn’t give it much thought.
But Elizabeth Rivers is not the person I’d expected. She hasn’t been all along. I’m starting to see if I really want to know something about her, I have to ask her myself.
I hesitate for just a moment. “Do you miss them?” This may be too personal for a first date, not to mention too depressing, but this already doesn’t feel like any other first date I’ve ever been on.
She offers me a soft smile and nods. “Yeah. Every day.”
“It’s gotta be hard.” My mom’s a pain sometimes, but I love her and she’s always been there for me. It’d be terrible to lose her so suddenly like that. I honestly can’t imagine not having her around.
“It is, but it’s getting easier. I can’t believe it’s almost been a year.”
“When was it again?”
“October 7.”
“Wow. That’s next month.”
“Yeah. But I’m hoping the holidays are better this year. We’re going to try to do all the traditions. Last year all we did was the employee Christmas party, the Christmas Tree Angels, and that’s it. We flew to my grandfather’s house down in Hollywood and spent a couple days with him for Christmas. I don’t even remember Thanksgiving, honestly.”
She frowns, then picks up a skewer. It’s layered with grape tomatoes, stacked and folded slices of Provolone cheese and Genoa salami, large black olives, and mini mozzarella balls, among other things. She shrugs and slides off the black olive on the end. “It was just too hard to try to do everything. We felt guilty about not holding the Bash but... the thought of someone else doing the toast...” She pops the olive into her mouth and gracefully licks her fingers.
There was plenty of buzz last year about the fact that there was no New Year’s Eve Bash at the resort. Most people figured, correctly it turns out, that it was too soon after the accident and the family was still grieving. Others thought the new Rivers heirs just didn’t want to open their pocketbooks the way their parents had, and that the almost twenty-year tradition was gone for good. It was always such a lavish affair, open to the community and free of charge. I went a few times, and was always impressed by Sharon River’s traditional toast to the community. She had a way with words, and was famous for her touching, funny, inspiring little speeches.
“Who’s doing it this year?”
“Rayce.” She shrugs again. “He’ll do a good job.” She doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.
“But it’s not your mom?”
She nods and slides off a tomato.
I consider asking about the Christmas Tree Angels—since I think I know something about that, and that’s the primary source of the grudge my mom holds against the Rivers heirs—but Lizzy goes on and I don’t want to interrupt her.
She sighs. “But it’ll be okay. I’m glad we’re doing it. I actually think it’ll be nice to... kind of celebrate after surviving the last year, you know? Does that sound terrible?”
“Why would that sound terrible?”
“Just...” she pinches the salami between her fingers and starts to slide if off the skewer. “...because we’re celebrating without them? But...”
She glances around as if aware, for the first time, that there are other people here. People who might be listening, though no one really seems to be. She looks back to me, drops her hand from the half-removed salami, and leans in a little closer. I lean in closer too.
She lowers her voice. “I’m just so glad we didn’t screw up their business, you know? It was insane, there at the beginning. It felt like we were scrambling all the time, those first few months. We all knew a lot about how things were run. Connor too, even though he’d been mostly gone for a while. But there was soooo much we didn’t know. We were just terrified the whole damn thing was going to go under.”
“Did it come close to that?”
She finishes pulling off the salami and takes a bite. She chews thoughtfully. “Looking back, no. Not as close as we’d feared. It just felt like it. Things are going along fine now, but...”
She frowns and sits back slightly, her wrists resting on her knees and her half-eaten skewer hanging loosely from one hand. The sky behind her is slowly darkening, the colors of the sunset bleeding away. She cocks her head at me, eyes thoughtful. She leans back in. “So, the Cottages. Sometimes I’m really excited about them...”
I nod. “They’re going to be great.”
“Do you think so?” she asks, with a vulnerability that surprises me.
“Absolutely. Don’t you?”
“Well... I think they’ll be nice. But, I keep asking myself, is this how Mom and Dad would do it? Is it good enough?”
This is the last thing I expected her to say, because everything I’ve seen from her suggests she knows exactly what she wants. She’s been nothing but the picture of perfect confidence, and with good reason. She’s got a good eye and great business sense, from what I can tell.
“I think you’re doing a spectacular job.” Her big green eyes watch me with earnestness. I’m surprised to see she needs this reassurance, but now that I do, I want to give it to her. I take her hand in mine. “I’ve been impressed with how it’s all coming together. I think your plans for those cottages are wonderful. And one day, when people think about the resort, it’s going to seem weird that there was a time when they weren’t part of it.”
She smiles. “I hope so. I really love them.”
“Me too. And so will everyone else. I think your parents would’ve been proud.”
Her eyes start to glisten with sudden tears, and she blinks them back rapidly offering me a grateful smile. “I told you, Mr. Carmichael, flattery will get you nowhere.”
I squeeze her hand and want to kiss her right here, but I don’t want to make a public spectacle of her, or me.
I’ve been keeping the Christmas Tree Angels in the back of my mind, waiting for an opportunity to circle back to it, but decide to let it go. It’s inside information I shouldn’t have had to start with, and after listening to her it’s probably not what we assumed anyway. In fact, as we continue to eat in easy silence, I feel a little shamed for my past opinions of her.
“You know,” I say slowly, pulling the last olive off my own skewer and setting the slender stick on my plate. “I think I owe you an apology.”
“Another one?” She winks.
I smile. “I’m actually not sorry for that anymore.”
She comes in closer, leaning her chin on her hand and tilting her face at me seductively. “Me either.”
My heart starts pumping thickly. It’s stimulating enough sitting right here next to her, but once she turns things on like that. Damn.
“So what are you sorry for?”
I’d love to stay playful, but I don’t think this will come across right if I do. I rub my thumb along the back of her hand, and say in a more serious tone, “I don’t know what it’s like to be some
one who’s so visible in the community. But, I know what it’s like to be on the outside looking in.”
I hesitate, not sure how I want to say this.
She’s slowly dropped her hand and is watching me with a somber expression, waiting.
“I think people think they know you and your family better than they do. I think people make a lot of assumptions. Good and bad. Some right, some wrong.”
Her eyes fall to our entwined hands, her brows drawn down in thought. After a moment, she takes a deep breath, then looks me in the eye. “So, you’re apologizing about assumptions you’ve made? Bad ones?”
“Something like that. Just stupid stuff I shouldn’t have been listening to in the first place.”
“You mean like our animal sacrifices on Midsummer’s Eve?”
Her face is dead serious, but I crack a smile, pleased and relieved she’s handling this with grace. “No. I’m all behind those.”
She smiles briefly, but then is serious again, still holding my eyes. “Well, I made some assumptions about you, too.”
“Based on what?” My company and I have garnered passing mention in a few articles about my more high-profile projects, but I haven’t been in the media in any sort of personal way. I’ve sure never been the subject of the local gossip column, like the Rivers family has been.
She shrugs and gives a guilty grin. “You know. Marcia Carmichael’s son.”
“Oh right.” I laugh. “Well, who can fault you for that?”
“Oh hush. I’m sure she’s perfectly... nice.”
I laugh harder.
“Cut it out.” She grins and takes a sip of her wine.
“She actually is nice. Don’t get me wrong. She can be a real pill sometimes, but she has her good qualities. You just got in her crosshairs.”
“I don’t know why.”
I do, but I won’t say it. It’s not important, anyway. “Because she’s not paying close enough attention, or she’d probably love you.”
She gives me a skeptical look, but I see the heat rising in her cheeks as our gaze settles into something different. Something burning hot. Would she care if I kissed her in public? Maybe a tame kiss would be alright, but I’m not sure I could keep from getting more carried away than I should.
I haven’t been able to yet.
Because I don’t just want to kiss her. I want to taste her. I want to devour her. I want to pull her into my arms and claim her right here on this blanket. God, this woman. No one’s ever managed to capture my attention quite like her.
Chapter 12
Lizzy
It’s a good thing we’re in a public place, because I want to climb all over this man. Even when we’re only talking, it seems like there’s this heat simmering just under the surface all the time. It doesn’t take much to get it boiling either. A touch. A look.
We finally have our dessert, which he raves over, and clean up our dinner. He pours me another glass of wine and we settle into those weird chairs of his. He was right. They’re strangely comfortable. I’m glad he moved them closer together, too, because our shoulders and arms are touching and I like it. I sink lower a bit and rest my head on the high seatback, watching him as we continue to talk.
I learn he’s a huge soccer fan, and played all the way through college. He follows the international scene even more than the American one, has two teams he never misses even if he has to record their games—Brazil and Argentina—and considers the World Cup “better than fucking Christmas.” His two favorite things to do with his son are kick a soccer ball back and forth and watch games together.
“He doesn’t understand all the rules yet, but he gets into it and yells at the TV with me like a good boy.”
I laugh. I have to admit, I find the idea of him having a kid a little intimidating. I’ve never gone on a date with anyone with children, which seems strange now that I think about it. There are certainly other single people my age with kids. It just hasn’t happened before, I guess.
I don’t want to make assumptions, but... I realize things with Brett and I could progress to the point that I get to meet his son. I don’t have a lot of experience with kids. What if I don’t know how to act, or his son doesn’t like me?
These concerns are mostly in the back of my mind though, because it’s too soon to worry about that, first of all. Second, I really enjoy listening to him talk about his son. His eyes get all lit up and he smiles even more. He seems like a good dad, and that’s as sexy as anything else about him.
In fact, his sexiness is pretty overwhelming, being as close together as we are. We’ve been holding hands, but nothing more. Even though I’d love to just rub my hands all over him, climb onto his lap and straddle his hips, wrap my arms around him and press my breasts against his chest...
It’s a good thing the concert is finally beginning, because I need a distraction. We listen politely to the emcee’s various concert announcements and obligatory acknowledgment of sponsorships. When he gets to the Rivers Paradise Resort, I learn just how many people have been aware of my presence here when several heads spin in our direction. Brett is clapping with the rest of the audience, but I give a modest smile as our mother taught us to do.
The spotlight is mercifully brief and soon on the musicians on stage, where it belongs. As the concert begins, the lights in the amphitheater go down. The sun set a good half hour ago, so the sky above us is a deep, Prussian blue with just a few dark strips of cloud streaking across an otherwise starry view. The light from the stage reaches into the amphitheater just enough that someone could exit without tripping over anything, but for the most part, our place in the audience is dark and cozy.
Halfway through the first piece, I glance over at Brett. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, so even though his profile is shadowy, I’m still able to make out the details of his handsome face and strong jawline.
He looks at me too, squeezes my hand, and gives me a smile. “Are you cold?”
I should be, but I’m plenty warm being as close to him as I am. I nod anyway. He grabs the extra blanket that’s been folded up next to him. I sit up slightly and together we spread it over our laps and tuck back in.
I try paying more attention to the concert after that, but it’s distracting the way his hand is now playing with mine. He’s rubbing his fingers gently over the back of my hand, down the length of my fingers on the inside, and over the sensitive skin on my palm before starting over again.
My hand is light and loose, following the movement of his and tingling at his touch. I lean my head on his warm shoulder and keep my eyes on stage, but I’m not seeing it much. The music flows over us, but it’s not enough to disrupt my attention.
My fingertips are brushing over his hand and fingers too, caressing gently. I angle my legs slightly under the blanket so my knee is now resting against his. The way I’m sitting is putting a bit more pressure than is comfortable on my left hipbone, which is still a bit bruised from the ladder incident, but I ignore the discomfort.
It’s not hard to do. With every stroke of his fingertips, he stokes the fire in me higher. My heart is beating thickly and my core is starting to ache. It really is a good thing we’re in public, because I have a rule about how far I’ll go on first dates and I have a feeling Brett Carmichael could just caress that rule right out of my head if he had a mind to.
His thumb traces over the outer flesh of my palm, then up to the tender skin inside my wrist. My lips part slightly and my breath shallows. My racing pulse flutters against his fingertips, and he dips back down to my palm, circling it before caressing the inside of my wrist again.
I tilt my face toward him. His eyes meet mine, glittering darkly with desire. I glance at his lips, then hold his eyes, inviting him to come to me. He leans in slowly and puts his lips on mine. My heartbeat accelerates and our hands tighten around one another. Our lips part slightly and our tongues touch, then explore a little deeper.
I fall into his kiss, not wanting it to end.
Applau
se from the audience pulls us back into the world and we break apart regretfully, letting go of one another long enough to clap too. When the next song begins, I tug the blanket up so it’s draped over our shoulders, leaving our hands hidden underneath.
We exchange brief, hot glances, then I keep my eyes on the stage like a good girl. Our hands have started their little dance again, and soon I trace my fingertips up the inside of his arm before sliding back down to his palm. He lets out a tight, short breath. I do it again, and this time he responds by caressing the inside of my arm from the crook of my elbow to my wrist and back again.
I face him again and this time his mouth comes to mine quickly. As his tongue slides inside me, he releases my wrist and his broad hand runs up the outside of my thigh. I let out a tiny, low moan. Not meaning to. I put my hand on his thigh too, and open to him wider, no longer caring if the way we’re angled together is subtle enough anymore. It’s dark, and even if it weren’t, I don’t care who sees. Let them talk. Let them cream their panties with jealousy, because this man is making me so damned hot I’m practically envious of myself.
This time when the audience bursts into applause, we don’t stop right away. Even when we do stop, we don’t clap. We keep our eyes on one another, breathing hard, staying close.
“I will never make it through this concert,” he says heatedly, “if we don’t knock it off.”
I smile with satisfaction. Even though I’m burning myself, I rest my head on his shoulder and entwine my arms around his. He rests his head on mine, one hand interlaced with mine and the other resting on my knee.
We kind of watch the concert after that, but more than once he kisses me so well it’s all I can do not to squirm in my seat and give myself away. In between, I do my best to firmly remind myself about my first date rule, and why I have it.
But, oh God, do I wish this were our second date.
The drive home is tame compared to the concert. From the time we started packing up the chairs to the moment he’s pulling into my driveway, our conversation has flowed easily from one topic to the next: his college career in soccer, favorite vacations, movies, and the Cottages.
