“Tell me you’re okay,” he whispers in my ear.
“I’m fine.”
He pulls back and skepticism rules his expression. “Who the hell was that guy?”
“No one. Nothing.” I look into his gray eyes. “Thank you for waiting out here. You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, I did. I wanted to make sure he didn’t come back. I also wanted to make sure you were okay.”
His arms feel like a life preserver.
“I know we don’t know each other that well, but I’m a good listener. And I know a piece of shit when I see one. That guy,” he says, “is a grade-A piece of shit. When you’re ready to talk about him, I’m ready to listen. No judgments. Trust me, I’ve made my share of mistakes.”
“I just feel so stupid. I gave him…” I swallow, “everything.”
“No,” he says, cupping my chin in his hands. His thumbs wipe away my tears. “That’s bullshit. You didn’t give him everything. Sure, he may have taken something from you but you’re not finite, Summer. You’re here.” He taps my chest, my heart, with his finger. “Your heart is here. Your mind. Your body. You’re not tethered to your past.”
I’m not sure I believe him. Not yet, but for the first time I want to. “How did you get so smart?”
He tilts his head and gives me a cocky grin. “I got a sixteen-hundred on my SAT.”
“You didn’t?”
He holds up his hand. “I did. Swear.”
“Smart, talented…sexy. I didn’t realize you were the whole package.”
His nimble fingers run down my back, playing the chords of my spine. He smiles at me again, more serious, and he pulls me to his chest. “I’ve got a few other skills, too,” he says.
“Show me.”
“You sure?” He wipes a tear off my cheek.
I nod and he doesn’t hesitate, nipping at my bottom lip, teasing my tongue. He’s sweet. Slow and hell yes, a good kisser. When he finishes warming me up, he kisses me thoroughly, the kind that I feel deep in my toes.
The warm summer air feels heavy and our skin is sticky, but it doesn’t stop his hands from wandering down my arms. Or from me pushing him toward the bench. His heel hits the guitar and he catches it with one hand, while his other is woven in my hair, keeping my face close to his. He rests it gently aside and sits, pulling me into his lap.
Jesus, he’s hard; his length presses against my shorts. I push down, wanting more. Wanting something to replace the bad feelings with good.
His fingers skim my thighs and warm heat stirs in the hollow of my legs.
Hot kisses blaze over my neck, my shoulders, and face. I tug at his shirt, laying my own trail of fire over his collarbones. There’s no doubt about his desire, his want, but after a few furious moments his fingers smooth down my shirt.
“What?” I whisper. “Is something wrong?”
His eyes twinkle like twin stars. “No, god no.” he pushes my hair back. He glances over my shoulder. “I just don’t want us to be on the front page of the Family Campground News tomorrow.”
I think of the little newsletter Mr. Copeland puts out each day and slide off his lap. “Uh, yeah, no.”
He adjusts his shorts and leans over and kisses me. “Can we pick this up again later? In a more private location?”
“Yes, please.”
He grins and throws his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close.
“Play for me?” I ask.
For hours we sit next to one another under the stars and I listen to Pete play his music and know that there can be a better life than what I left behind. A man, or men, better than Mason. And for the first time in a long while, I have hope.
