I get out of the car. “Follow me,” I say before leading the way to the bleachers.
As I walk under them, the rock star says, “There are only two reasons people go under the bleachers. Which one are we here for?” He grins wickedly.
Maybe I’m not the only one feeling something brewing between us. Heat burns through me so fast I’m thankful for the darkness of the night. I hope it camouflages the blush I feel crawling over my skin, as unbidden images pop into my brain. “Neither,” I tell him.
He snaps his fingers. “Darn.” My insides roll over in that wonderful way that happens when you’re rushing down the road and hit an unexpected dip that sends a tickle straight to your lower extremities. I’m definitely feeling a flutter south of the border.
I lead him to the center beam and then walk toward the front of the bleachers until our shoulders are stooped as the stairs descend upon us. Once I get to the spot I’m looking for, I crouch down on my knees and look up. I run my fingers across an engraving that I made over fifteen years ago. Then I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight app and point it at the underside of the bench.
He reads out loud:
I’m not you and you’re not me.
We’re more different than any can see.
Even though we breathe the same air,
I have fear; you don’t have a care.
“Did you put this here?” he asks.
“I did,” I tell him. And before he can ask, I explain, “I always felt like I was on the outside. It doesn’t matter that I was in the popular group at school and was a cheerleader junior and senior years, I never felt I was like the other kids.”
“What made you write this?” he asks.
His gaze causes tingles to erupt all over the surface of my skin. “Toward the end of my last quarter, my anxiety really started to build. One night, a bunch of us were going to go out after the game. The guys started to joke that there were so many of us that we’d have to use the trunk to fit us all. I got so worked up I pretended I had to use the restroom just so I could get away from everyone. I hid under here until the game was over and they'd all left.”
“Why did you want to show me this?” His voice is no louder than a whisper.
“I guess I thought you’d understand.” Then I explain, “Your music makes me feel things that I could never put into words. It’s like a time machine, taking me back to a period when uncertainty and confusion filled most of my waking moments. It offers the younger version of me something to hang on to. I wanted you to know that whatever pain caused you to write your music, it gives people hope and comfort.”
Huck is quiet for very long time. When he finally breaks his silence, it’s to say, “It doesn’t feel like we just met today.”
“No, sir, it doesn’t.”
Then he takes my hand and leads me out from under the bleachers. With our fingers entwined, I fancy I can feel his pulse beating through his palm, keeping rhythm with my own. He squeezes gently as though to ensure I know he’s feeling something, too.
Huck guides me to the steps and begins to climb. He leads the way to the very top bench before he sits down, pulling me with him. It’s so cold up here, I scoot close to his side, not only to deflect the wind but to absorb his warmth.
With our hands still connected, the rock star points to the stars dancing above us in the black sky and says, “While you were hiding under the bleachers, I was up here, pretending I could fly.”
“That must have been wonderful,” I tell him, but he shakes his head.
“It was lonely, but it was an escape. I was looking for a way out just like you were. I just found a different one.” I feel as though my soul becomes mist and starts to float out of my body so it can drift into his.
His words sink in and I wonder how in the world two people who appear so different can be so much alike.
Chapter 13
True intimacy is not something I’ve experienced a lot of in my life, because in order to have it, you have to let your guard down. I haven’t done that since I was nine, and for the life of me, I have no idea why I’m doing that with Huck. Ever since laying eyes on him earlier today, I’ve been incapable of pretending to be a normal person.
On the drive to Lexi’s, he asks, “So you were a cheerleader, huh?”
“I think all the yelling and jumping was therapeutic,” I tell him. I feel strangely close to this man like my secrets aren’t too weird to share, like I want him to know the real me, even if it causes him to run. I hurry and tease, “I bet you were captain of the football team.”
“Not even close. I was one of the social outcasts with long hair smoking weed behind the school.”
“What did your mama and daddy say about that?” I ask.
“They pretty much let my nannies deal with it.”
“You had a nanny in high school?”
“She was more of a housekeeper by then. One who was tasked with keeping track of me.”
“Where were your folks?”
“They traveled a lot. But when they were around and things got particularly rough at school, my dad would give me a stern talking to. He never followed through, so it didn’t do any good.” He looks disappointed as he tells me this and sadness sweeps into his eyes. “Then he died.”
After a long pause, he adds, “My mom called me her little Huckleberry Finn, like that somehow justified my behavior.” He snorts scornfully before explaining, “You know, a wandering loner making his way through life on his own terms. The thing is, I didn’t want to be a loner.”
I’m not sure he even meant to share the last bit, and I don’t want him regretting being honest with me, so I don’t comment. Instead, I ask, “Your real name is Huckleberry?”
“What did you think Huck was short for?”
“I guess I always thought it was just Huck, not short for anything. Huckleberry …” I consider this for a moment. “How in the world did they settle on that?”
“They didn’t. It was the name my birth mother gave to me and my parents thought it was fitting, so they kept it.”
“Your birth mama must have been a real Mark Twain fan,” I say for lack of anything else coming to mind.
“I guess.”
“Have you ever looked for her?” I ask. Talk about none of my business, but the question pops out before I can stop it.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve looked.”
I don’t press him further, but I get the sense from what he said that we’ll never know why she named him that. When we get to Lexi’s I pull up in front of the curb and announce, “Time to fish for the key.”
“What does that mean?” he wants to know.
I explain where Lexi keeps her spare key and he jokes, “I’m starting to think you’re all a little bit off kilter here in Creek Water.”
“It makes us charming,” I tell him. “Aside from me though, most folks are pretty normal.”
“Normal is overrated.”
His comment triggers a series of shocks under my skin, like I’ve spent ten minutes shuffling through the carpet in my wool socks before touching the refrigerator door handle.
Huck follows me across the front lawn around toward the backyard. “This is a beautiful property,” he says.
“My family built this house back in the eighteen hundreds. They sold it sometime in the nineteen forties.”
“Do you wish they still lived here?” he asks.
“No. While I love it, I prefer to live in a place with clean lines. You know, less fussy and more symmetrical.”
“Is that what your house is like?”
“I don’t have a house. I live above my shop.” Then I explain, “The building is old, but the rooms are well proportioned. Also, it’s small, so it never overwhelms me with caretaking responsibilities.”
“I bet it’s nice,” he says. “How many bedrooms and bathrooms do you have?”
“Two bedrooms and one bath, but I turned the second bedroom into my office.”
“Because two
is an even number?” he correctly guesses.
“Wise apple,” I chastise before confessing, “yes.”
When we get to the fountain, I turn on the flashlight app on my phone and point it into the water. It’s full of dead leaves and other assorted debris, so I have no idea where to begin to look.
“It’s in there somewhere?” Huck asks.
“I guess. You want to fish around for it?”
“Not even a little bit. I think I’ll just sit on the front porch and wait for Lexi to get home. Want to join me?” I swear there’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes me think he has more on his mind than just sitting.
“Sure,” I say. Not only would it be the neighborly thing to do, but OMG, this is Huck Wiley! After walking around to the front of the house, we climb the stairs to the porch and head over to the swing. I sit on one side careful to leave a lot of space between us.
Huck sits down right in the middle and orders, “Scoot over, it’s cold out here.” My nerve endings ignite as our legs accidentally touch. If I were any closer, I’d be on his lap. That thought momentarily addles my senses and causes a delicious wave of longing to flow through me.
“Where did you grow up?” I ask trying to cover up the loud beating of my infatuated heart.
“Pacific Palisades.” He explains, “It’s northwest of Los Angeles.”
“Is that where your sister lives?”
“No, she lives in Pasadena. It’s a way more normal town.”
“How so?” I wonder. I don’t know anything about California.
“While there’s money in Pasadena, it’s not as show-offy as the Palisades. It’s more down to earth.”
“Is that where Maggie goes to school?”
“Yeah, she’s at a private school there.”
“Then you must live in the same area when you’re home.” I’m openly prying, but I want to know more about this man. I want to know everything about him, like what soap he uses—I subconsciously lean in to sniff him—what he watches on television, what brand of toothpaste he prefers and what it tastes like …
“I live a few blocks from my sister,” he says halting my thoughts from going further down the rabbit hole. “It makes it easier for Maggie when I leave. If she ever forgets something at home or she just wants to spend some time there, Claire can take her over. It helps keep continuity in her life.”
“Does Claire have a family of her own?” I ask.
“She does, but her kids are both in college, so she has lots of time to dote on Maggie. She’s the only mother figure my daughter has ever known.”
I hold my tongue for approximately twenty-three seconds before saying, “You know I’m dying to ask about Maggie’s mom.”
“I guessed as much,” he replies.
“Do you want to talk about her?”
“No.” And that’s that. The rock star and I sit quietly taking turns keeping the swing in motion. Eventually, the silence is a companionable one as both of us are lost in thought.
Huck reaches out to take my hand like he did at the football field. This time he also leans in and lets his head rest against my mine. The sexual tension is so thick, it’s like a third person sitting with us. If Lexi and Beau hadn’t chosen this moment to pull up the drive, I’m pretty sure I would have thrown caution to the wind and hopped onto the rock star’s lap, making my interest clear.
When we hear the car doors slam, I inhale deeply and stand up. I try to collect myself before saying, “Thanks for tonight.”
“Thanks for the ride home,” he answers back, but instead of letting go of my hand, he gets up too. Then he pulls me even closer.
For the first time all night there’s an awkward moment between us. This isn’t a date so I’m not expecting a kiss or anything, but Huck’s looking into my eyes like there’s something else he wants to say.
When he doesn’t speak, I wiggle my hand free, feeling a real loss as the cool air connects with my skin. “I guess I’ll see you when Maggie comes to town.” Then I turn and hurry down the stairs to my car.
I don’t look back.
Chapter 14
I sleep like someone slipped me a mickey. I’m not conscious of dreams or sounds or anything. One second, I’m flipping my pillow over to the cold side, and the next I’m waking up with sunlight streaming through my window. Sunlight means I overslept. I turn to look at the clock and see that it’s already eight forty-five. My shop opens in fifteen minutes.
I jump out of bed and hurry to put the kettle on for tea, before rummaging through my closet and throwing on a red swing dress and some orange tights.
A few minutes after nine I hurry downstairs and find Mrs. P with her face pressed against the front window. After opening the door, I explain, “I overslept.”
She pushes her way in and announces, “You should make me a key. Then you can sleep late every morning.”
“Are you planning on coming every morning?” I ask. She hasn’t mentioned how often I should expect her.
“Every morning that I don’t have a doctor’s appointment or something like that, but I’ll make sure to give you notice when I do.”
“Mrs. P, I feel really funny about this. I should be giving you something for your time.”
“You are,” she tells me. “You’re giving me companionship and you’re not complaining about your bunions. That’s an invaluable gift at my age.”
I smile in response. “I’m going upstairs to make a cup of tea. Can I bring you one?”
“That sounds lovely,” she says before walking in the back to hang up her coat and purse.
I forgot all about giving Lexi the bag of cookies I bought for her yesterday, so I put five of them on a plate and then load up a tray with the teacups, lemon wedges, and honey before going back downstairs.
Mrs. P is walking around the shop looking at strands of multi-colored beads. “I like these,” she says. “What are they?”
“Jasper,” I tell her. “They’re supposed to have a calming energy and are thought to be very beneficial in bringing spiritual and physical healing. Fun fact: jasper is mentioned frequently in the Bible.” Then an idea hits me. “Mrs. P, while I can’t pay you in actual money, I’d like for you to make yourself whatever jewelry you’d like. You’re welcome to use any supplies I have in the shop.”
“I can’t imagine that I’d want much,” she tells me, “but I would like a necklace with this jasper. Can you teach me how to make one?”
“Happily,” I assure her. “Let’s have our tea while I show you some pictures of different designs. You can pick out something that catches your fancy.”
After our morning refreshment, I show Mrs. P how to string together a simple necklace of stone beads interspersed with sterling silver filigree ones. We choose a garnet jasper cabochon pendant for the center. The design is quite simple, but the overall effect really packs a punch. Once we’re finished, my new helper declares, “Honey, this is worth a month of Sundays of my time. I love it.”
As we’re tidying up our workstation, the bell above the door jingles signaling an incoming shopper. But it’s not a customer, it’s a flower delivery. A vase of brightly colored tulips leads the way. An attractive woman whom I’ve never seen before is holding them. “I have a delivery for Amelia Frothingham,” she announces.
“That’s me,” I reply somewhat taken aback. Who in the world is sending me flowers? I take the bouquet. “Thank you very much.”
Mrs. P hurries over and demands, “Who are they from?”
“I don’t know.” I look for the card and when I find it, I rip it open. In swirling curvy letters, I read, I’m sorry for last night. I was a real stinker. Love, Mama
“They’re from my mama,” I say.
“How disappointing,” Mrs. P responds. I couldn’t agree more. If I were being honest, I’d confess to hoping they were from Huck.
I put the vase on the counter and admire how the stems bend in different directions, wild and carefree, like they’re still growing in somebody’s garde
n. I count twenty-three blooms. Mama really is sorry if she made sure there were an odd number of flowers. She does not approve of my love of odd numbers and had spent copious time during my childhood trying to assure me that even numbers wouldn’t hurt me.
She’d point out, “You have ten fingers. That works out pretty well, doesn’t it?”
“But I only have five on each hand,” I’d retaliate.
“You have two hands.”
“But only one on each side.” On and on we’d go. I’ve finally accepted that she doesn’t understand my particular brand of crazy, which makes the fact that she sent me twenty-three blooms instead of an even two dozen even more meaningful. Crap.
I pick up the phone and speed dial her number. When she answers, I demand, “Did Aiden really asks Daddy’s permission to marry me?”
“Yes, honey, he did. But I’m sorry I told you that. I just felt like you were giving up on finding someone and I don’t want you to do that.”
“Why does it matter if I find someone or not?”
“Because it’s nice to share your life. You kids and your daddy are the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I want y’all to have that same experience for yourselves.” She hurries to add, “I know you didn’t think Aiden was the one, and I respect that, but I don’t want you to lose hope.”
“The flowers are beautiful,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
“Do you forgive me?” she asks.
“I do, with a stipulation.”
“What’s that?”
“That you back off my personal life and let me make my own choices. After all, Mama, it’s my life. I need to be the one who decides how I’m going to live it.”
A pregnant pause follows the likes of which makes me nervous. Mama cryptically answers, “The final decision is yours. I’ll respect that.” Then she hurries to change the subject. “You and Lexi need to plan the bridal shower. You’d best hurry up and set the date. Gracie and Zach’s mama are picking out the invitations today so they can go out six weeks in advance. The shower should be three or four weeks before the wedding, so any time after Valentine’s Day.”
The Plan: A Sweet and Sexy Rock Star Romantic Comedy (The Creek Water Series Book 3) Page 6
