She looks perfect in nothing butmysweatshirt. Her brown eyes are wide and her hand is still on my bare calf. It shifts slightly higher, just enough for my breath to catch.
I forget about the basket and turn to take her in, until I’m kneeling before her.
“Jamie…” she whispers.
My name on her lips when she looks like this is more than I can handle.
“Yeah…” I husk, unsure if I can form a coherent sentence at this point.
“Truth?” she asks.
I swallow thickly and watch the pulse jump in her neck before I answer, “Always.”
“Have you… Have you ever…” She turns her head away and I reach for her chin. I want to see every part of the question in her eyes. “Are you a virgin?” The heat in her cheeks rises, her ears and the skin on her neck, just below where my hand rests, warming as well.
I hold her gaze. Nervousness, excitement, and maybe a little embarrassment all warring with each other for the top spot.
I swallow again so my voice won’t crack. “I am.” Her eyes widen a little, but she doesn’t look away. “Are… Are you?”
Her eyes close, lashes fluttering against her skin just above her freckles, and she attempts to dip her chin, but I still have it in my hand.
“Yes.” Those lashes finally open and her brown eyes hold my green ones. “I-I—” she stammers, her voice shaking a little. But it’s not from the cold this time. “I think I want it to be you. No, IknowI want it to be you, Jamie.”
My breath whooshes from my lungs and everything in my body goes tight. Hard. Holy hell. Did she… Did she just say…
“Truth?” I ask, that one word coming out rougher than ever before.
“Always, Jamie,” she whispers.
I slide my hand from her chin to her neck and feel her pulse race under it. “Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes, but do you want…”
Before she can finish her question, I’m slanting my mouth over hers, showing her the answer. Of course I do—want her, need her, wantthiswith her. She was my first kiss. It only makes sense for her to be my first for this too.
I lay her down on the bed, and as the rain on the roof of the van gets heavier, it wraps us in a cocoon of white noise that drowns out everything outside.
Inside, it’s just us.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jamie – Now
The hot spray of the shower beats against my skin, washing away both the dirt and the lingering ache from hanging the tire swing this morning. I’d planned to finish it yesterday but was too distracted by Avi’s arrival with Lennox—plus they asked Gran, Grandad, and me to join them for dinner, so I had to stop and clean up anyway.
Though, Avi didn’t look like she minded the state I was in. I saw the way her eyes trailed over my body. I shouldn’t have taken so much pleasure in that fact, but I sure as hell did. She hasn’t looked at me that way in a long time and, after everything, I never thought I’d see that kind of desire in her eyes again.
Of course, then she’d cried when she realized I was building a tire swing for Lennox and that sobered me up a bit. It was the reminder I needed that it wasn’t just me and Avi having a moment… She’s a mum. One who’s built a whole life I’m only beginning to glimpse. And our lives are only overlapping for a short time—again. Feeling anything more than friendly toward her is a bad idea.
When I joined them all for dinner last night, I settled into the idea of being her friend again. Which means no more kissing on the swing or looking for desire in her eyes. We need to find some semblance of normal—me, her, my grandparents, even Lennox—because we’re all going to be here sharing this place for a while. At least I hope we will be.
Grandad’s condition is pretty stable, though some days I hardly see him—days when he’s too tired to be in the hustle and bustle of the inn or kitchen. I make a concerted effort to seek him out in the cottage on those days, unwilling to let even one day pass without sharing tea or a meal or laughter with him. The doctors say his prognosis is the same. He could still have a year… or he could have only months. We just don’t know, so we have to cherish every moment we can.
I step out of the shower to the reverberation of a knock at my door. “Hang on,” I call out, and quickly run the towel through my hair and over my body, pulling on jeans and a dark green long-sleeve T-shirt.
Behind the door is Grandad, leaning on his cane, a wide smile on his face.
“Great work on the swing, son,” he says, clapping me on the back and stepping into the room without preamble.
