The Duets

by Quinn, Meghan

  When I turn to Stryder to find out his favorite Beatles song, I find his gaze intent on mine, a softness to his features, an appreciative understanding. It’s so intense, I have to look away. “What about you, Stryder?”

  Without skipping a beat, I can feel his eyes on me when he answers, “’I Want to Hold Your Hand.’”

  A side glance in his direction causes my stomach to flip mercilessly. Seeing those blue eyes cutting through me, there’s a sense of seriousness in his answer, almost as if he’s trying to tell me . . . that he wants to hold my hand.

  I shake it off, though. I’m seeing things. Stryder is my friend, that’s all. He’s a very close friend, one of my best friends actually, if I think about it. He’s one of the first people I think about telling something to, and one of the first people I want to hang out with, so when he told me about tonight, I jumped right on it. And it wasn’t simply because of the music, but because I see glimpses of the old Stryder. I want to soak him up as much as possible, keep him present as much as possible. But also in that moment, I think back to my mom’s words, which have often been on repeat most days. She’s checked in with me each day, and every time I mention Stryder, she seems to quiet. But not in anger. It’s almost in awe or appreciation.

  He cares for you, sweetie . . . he doesn’t have a lot of people in his life . . . you are one of few he actually cares about . . . he has a beautiful heart, a heart that you hold a piece of.

  “I love that song too,” Ryan says, interrupting the minor stare down between Stryder and me. “What did you guys bring?” Ryan surveys the cooler we brought, as if she’s trying to see through it.

  I smooth out the blanket on the grass next to them, Stryder taking one side and straightening it. “Just some sandwiches, chips, and drinks.”

  “And s’mores fixings,” Stryder adds, surprising me.

  “S’mores fixings?”

  Smirking, he nods and takes a seat on the blanket, casually leaning back on his hands.

  “How do you plan on making s’mores without a fire?” Ryan asks.

  “I have my ways.”

  * * *

  “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” Ryan says, watching Stryder melt marshmallows on a fork with a long-reach lighter. “But genius.”

  Stryder carefully takes the roasted marshmallow and puts it on a graham cracker with chocolate, smashes it with another graham cracker, and then hands it to me. Ryan is chowing down on hers. Brad passed, something about not liking s’mores, and now it’s my turn. Watching me intently, he sets up another marshmallow for himself.

  “Go ahead. I promise it’s good.”

  Knowing I can trust him, I take a big bite. Of course, crumbs fall past my mouth, melted marshmallow sticks to my upper lip, and chocolate oozes to the side. I never claimed to have class.

  Smiling brightly, those eyes crinkled in the corners, he says, “Good, right?”

  Through a mouthful of s’more, I say, “So good.”

  The Philharmonic started playing songs half an hour ago, lighting up the area with tunes from the past. There are couples dancing up front, people swaying back and forth in their lawn chairs, and a rowdy bunch over near the beer tent, singing and enjoying their time in the park.

  On stage, artists trade off singing with the orchestra, bringing the songs to life with unique vocals, some that match The Beatles so well, it’s uncanny.

  The weather is perfect, not too cold, but I can feel a nip in the air as the sun sets behind us to the west, behind the front range of the Rocky Mountains.

  This was what I needed, to get out of my apartment, hang out with friends, and enjoy the fresh mountain air while listening to great music.

  I take another bite of my s’more, enjoying the campfire treat brought to life at the concert with a fork and a long-reach lighter. Such a cute surprise.

  “Want to get a beer?” Brad asks Ryan, who is licking her fingers, popping them from her lips.

  “Would love one.” She turns to us. “Want to get a beer?”

  Stryder shakes his head. “I’m good, thanks though.”

  “Rory?”

  “I probably shouldn’t drink given the medication I’ve been taking since the surgery.”

  “Yeah, probably not a good idea.” She eyes the beer tent. “Okay, we’re off to be quarantined with the rest of the drunks. Have fun, you two.”

  Brad helps Ryan to her feet, drapes his arm over her shoulder, and they walk toward the area where you’re allowed to drink alcohol in the park.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a beer?” I ask Stryder, who is just about done with his s’more. One bite left. “I don’t mind if you want to go over there with them.”

  “Rather be here,” he answers, putting the rest of the s’more in his mouth. Chewing, he cleans up the area, putting our food in the cooler. “Want a water?”

  I hold up my half-full bottle. “Still working on this one. Thank you, though.”

  He snags a bottle for himself, and then takes a seat next to me, his shoulder bumping into mine. “What’s been your favorite song so far?”

  I think about it. They have yet to play “Let It Be,” so I’m still waiting on that one, but if I had to choose . . .

  “’Can’t Buy Me Love’ was really well done.” I shiver as the sun drops lower behind the mountains. The lights around the park start to turn on.

  “You cold?”

  “Just a little.”

  He sets his bottle down next to him and says, “Come here.”

  I eye him up and down. Wearing khaki cargo shorts and a dark blue T-shirt, his short black hair styled to the side with gel, and his cheeky grin, he really is a handsome man. Add in his delicious-smelling cologne, he’s almost dangerous.

  But when I look him in the eyes, I can’t stop myself from feeling completely comfortable when I scoot between his legs and allow myself to lean back into his strong chest. Legs spread, knees bent, he leans forward and grabs a spare blanket to drape over my lap, his chest pressing against my back. When I think he’s going to lie back, he moves his head over my shoulder and rests his arms on his knees. I’m within the circle of his arms. God, it feels good.

  My eyes close, my body takes in his, the feel of his heart beating against my back, the way his warmth encases me, and somehow he’s like a lullaby for my erratically beating heart.

  I shouldn’t be feeling this way about Stryder. I shouldn’t be sitting with him like this.

  Mentally, I say we’re just close friends, and this is how close friends act. I’m cold, he’s warming me up; that’s it.

  “Is that better?” he asks, his voice a whisper, deep and rumbling over my skin, spreading goose bumps up and down my body.

  My breath catches in my chest, my body hums, begging for him to say something else. “Yes.” I swallow hard. “Better. Thank you.”

  “If you’re uncomfortable, let me know.”

  How could I ever be uncomfortable? I don’t think I’ve ever been more comfortable in my life. Stryder’s chest is brawny and large, providing the perfect form to lean against. His knees propped up next to my shoulders provide warmth, and his deep voice is the perfect soundtrack for this night.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  I wonder if Ryan can see us, and what she would think if she saw Stryder and me in this position? Would she wonder if there’s something going on? Or would she think little of it?

  If I saw her and Stryder in this position, I would think a lot about it, and for some reason, the thought of them in this position makes me feel . . . awful.

  Bringing myself back to the present, trying not to read too much into what’s happening, I answer him. “I am. Thank you for bringing me. This was such a good idea. Have you seen any of your friends from work?”

  He chuckles, and his chest vibrates against my back. “I wouldn’t necessary call them friends, but yes, I saw a few in the beer tent.”

  Hmm, I wonder if that’s why he didn’t want to go over there.r />
  The sound of a familiar piano tune plays out of the speakers, followed by some of my favorite song lyrics.

  “Let It Be.”

  “Oh, I was hoping they’d play this song.” Leaning deeper into Stryder, I rest my head against him and relax, letting the song speak to me. The lyrics are too powerful for this moment, when Stryder is wrapped around me, his presence and close proximity doing something unexpected to my body, causing my stomach to flip, my heart to sputter, my mind to wander.

  What would it be like if I was his?

  Would this be what weekends would be like? Lounging together in a park, listening to music?

  Would it be this easy? To be with him?

  God, what am I even thinking?

  Instead of focusing on all the raging emotions flowing through me, I close my eyes and listen to the song like I used to so many years ago.

  Let It Be.

  Just let it be, Rory. Don’t overthink it, just let it happen.

  Stryder’s grip on me grows tighter, the corded muscle of his arms tightening, flexing as I shift against him. Our bodies entwined together, the intimate position not unnoticed by people around us. Other women look over, jealousy in their eyes when they take in six-foot-two, black-haired, blue-eyed Stryder Sheppard.

  Feeling territorial—as a friend, of course—I nuzzle my head against him, taking his arm and protectively draping it across me as a hug to keep me warm.

  He hums into my ear, the noise vibrating down my spine, warming me inside.

  And then the most unexpected thing happens.

  Stryder’s voice filters through the air, his alto tone soothing and beautiful. When I lift my head to face him, he just smiles at me and continues to sing softly so only I can hear him. A private concert for me.

  His voice grips my heart, seizing it in my chest. What’s happening here?

  It’s sweet, a moment I never dreamed of having with this man, this tough, rugged, and damaged man. But here he is, singing in my ear, arms wrapped around me, heart beating in sync with mine.

  It’s almost perfect.

  And when the song changes, the tempo picking up, the familiar guitar chords for “I Want to Hold Your Hand” coming through the speakers, I can’t help but smile.

  Turning toward him, I say, “It’s your song.”

  His smile is so damn big, so happy, that I have to look away . . . because I very well might cry.

  This is him. This is the Stryder I met at the party.

  Fun and brilliantly charming. The Stryder I’ve wanted so desperately to come back, the Stryder who won me over as a man I wanted to know when I first met him. And he’s directing that gorgeous smile at me.

  Gripping me tighter, his lips move close to my ear as he sings the lyrics, a pep in his voice, the memorized words falling easily. He has a beautiful voice, and I doubt he’s shared this with anyone else since he’s so careful about who he lets in on his real character. I feel privileged to have him so focused on making sure I’m having a good time and to be exposed to a little piece of him I’ve never experienced before.

  I’m . . . happy.

  I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in a very long time. It’s innocent fun and exciting and electrifying all at the same time.

  I’m unsure of what’s going to happen next, what move he might make, and I wait on bated breath to find out. As much as I’d like to believe we’re really only close friends, a part of me can’t help but wonder, what if we were more?

  Stryder’s large hand moves down my arm, soft with a few rough spots grazing over my skin. Close to my ear, he sings the words made popular by The Beatles. The words hold your hand, sticking in my mind as, his hand floats farther down my arm. His fingers entwine with mine, so warm and protective. His cheek is pressed against my face, his heart hammering into my back. His lips are a whisper from my cheek, erupting goosebumps all over my body.

  Losing all train of thought, my mind is a whirl, my pulse erratic with the feel of Stryder holding me.

  Holding my hand.

  Entwining every piece of me with a piece of himself.

  Shouldn’t this be wrong? Feel wrong?

  But . . . it feels right.

  And more importantly, when I turn to the side to take a look at Stryder, he’s happy.

  That smile, so bright.

  Those eyes, so joyful.

  His soul, so present.

  His heart . . . so open.

  And that makes my breath hitch. This man is dangerous. But there is absolutely no chance I’m pulling away.

  * * *

  Silently, I brush my teeth, casually looking in the mirror at Stryder every few seconds. His gaze is trained on mine as we sneak glances at each other. We left the park right after Ryan and Brad got back from the beer tent. It was getting cold, and I was tired, so we packed up and took off, but not before Ryan gave me a curious glance. I ignored it—because to hell if I can explain what is going on—gave her a hug, and made my way to the car, Stryder once again carrying everything.

  Now back at my place, getting ready for bed, I can’t seem to look away from him. Not just because I’m starting to see him in a different light, but because I have so many questions: starting with, what the hell was that back there?

  Was that okay?

  Is that what friends do?

  Why do you make my stomach flip every time I look at you?

  And most importantly . . . is it weird if I ask if we can do it again?

  I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth, stepping to the side and giving him space to finish up as well. He does the same and wipes his mouth. I turn off the light and head toward my bed, but turn around before I climb in. “Thank you for tonight. I had so much fun.” I had more than fun. It was wonderful. I loved every moment, especially the ones I was held in his arms.

  “So did I.”

  For the second night in a row, he’s not wearing a shirt, just shorts, showing off the deep V of his hips and his impressive chest, cut and carved in all the right spots. It’s impossible not to stare, not to get my fill when he’s standing in front of me like that, proud and unabashedly confident.

  I should give him a hug. I always do, every night before bed. Just walk toward him and put your arms around him. Simple. And yet, I feel so freaking shy about it. After the intimacy we shared tonight and him standing there with no shirt on, looking so damn sexy . . . I can feel a blush creep up my cheeks.

  I’m nervous.

  So freaking nervous, but if I don’t give him a hug, he’ll think something weird is going on.

  This entire night has been a little eye-opening for me, a little scary actually. I’m feeling things I know I shouldn’t toward a man who not only is my ex-boyfriend’s best friend, but who has also become an important part of my life.

  Stryder is no longer simply a person staying at my place temporarily. He’s become a staple in my life, a friend I deeply care for, and I can’t imagine what would happen if he left. This week particularly has been incredible. Seeing him every night. Eating with him every night. Hanging with him every night. Laughing, playing games . . . hugging.

  I don’t want him to leave and go back to Ryan’s.

  And now, as he looks at me with his expectant eyes, anxious and yet craving, I can’t stop myself from wanting more. I yearn to hold him, to bury myself in his arms and never let go.

  I’m coming close to crossing a line, and I have a feeling if I give him a hug tonight, I’m going to have a hell of a time not crossing it.

  “Well, have a good night,” I say, and instead of walking over to him to give him a hug, I awkwardly give him a quick wave. From the knowing smirk on his face and the way he’s sauntering toward me—all ripped and . . . and . . . God . . . and fine as hell—I feel like my wave isn’t going to do the trick.

  And yes, I admit he’s fine.

  Jet-black hair, chiseled jaw, a body to die for, and biceps that make you want to hang on to for a ride. He’s the entire package, and I tell myself there is
nothing wrong with admitting it.

  He steps toward me, and his masculine scent hits me first.

  I gulp.

  No.

  Not going to act on this attraction.

  Not even a little.

  This is just a crush, that’s all.

  Harmless.

  “What happened to my good-night hug?” he asks, his voice so deep, almost rough to the ears.

  Acting dumb, I say, “Oh yeah, duh. Forgot about that.”

  I didn’t. Because I look forward to this moment every single night. Crave it.

  Knowing there is no way of getting around this, I try to harden my heart as I step up to him. I will my body to act normally.

  He wraps his arms around me, pulling me in close, his skin soft against my cheek, his arms protective. It’s as if when I’m around him, nothing could ever harm me. In an instant I’m brought back to the park, the memory of our intimate position hitting me in the chest, his voice filtering through my brain on replay. Soft and so sweet.

  Instead of stiffening, I release a long breath and melt into his hold, eyes shut, arms firmly clasped around him. I hold on to him for longer than I should, getting lost in his warmth, in the feel of his velvety-soft skin against mine. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to the top of my head and says, “Sweet dreams, Rory.”

  Letting go, he gives me a gentle smile and retreats to his twin air mattress.

  My heart spasms in short palpitations, watching him get comfortable, the covers only going up to his waist as he stretches his hands behind his neck, his biceps like boulders, flexing with his movements. Slowly, I get into my bed, forcing myself to turn away, to look anywhere besides the golden bronze of Stryder’s perfectly chiseled chest.

  Turning to my side, I stare at my nightstand, and note the soft hum of my fridge filling the silence. Usually I don’t notice the sound as much, but some reason, tonight I’m hyperaware of the silence between Stryder and me.

  There is so much going unsaid, so many things I want to talk about, that I want to ask him. When he sang to me—saying he wants to hold my hand, and then gripping it for the rest of the night—I wanted to know how long. How long has he wanted to hold my hand? Since my operation? Since he moved in?