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Oh God. I couldn’t stop myself from huffing out a laugh. “Wow.”
I hoped I hadn’t offended her, and I was glad when she laughed along with me.
“Oh, I know. Thanks,Momand Dad, right? And to answer the question about my name, the one you wrote in your letter—”
I sucked in a deep breath at the reminder that she had read them at all.
“My parents thought they were super cool, naming their kids after their favorite type of weather”—she laughed and rolled her eyes at her parents’ expense—“and coincidentally, we were both born when it was raining. They said it was good luck or something—I don’t know. Personally, I’ve always thought it was dumb. Butanyway, Stormy lives up in Salem now, so I don’t see her as often as I’d like. She’s three years older than me, and back when she started reading, I was so jealous and made her teach me. I would read everything I could get my hands on; it didn’t matter what it was.
“But then I guess it turned into this fascination with the idea that these people—you know, authors, writers—they could take the same twenty-six letters and turn them into something completely different from what was already out there. Like, at this point, I don’t believe anything is one hundred percent original, but even still, no two books will beexactly the same. That’s just amazing to me. It’s like magic.”
There was a sense of childlike wonder in her tone as she talked. It was adorable and endearing, and I thought I could listen to her talk forever.
“You should write a book,” I suggested, smiling down at her.
“Me?” Her voice was shrill and amused as her hand squeezed affectionately around mine. “Oh God, I can’t. I don’t have that kind of talent or creativity. But I do love to read what others write, and I love to do my part in getting their work into other people’s hands.”
I pressed the hand she wasn’t holding to my chest. “Well, I, for one, am eternally grateful for your service.”
A comfortablequietencircled us as we walked down the narrow road through our little neighborhood of small houses and smaller yards toward our respective homes. The night was pleasant—warm enough to be without heavier clothes, cool enough to enjoy it. It was my second favorite kind of weather—first being the rain—and to be sharing it with Ray made the night that much sweeter.
I don’t want this to end, I caught myself thinking as we neared her house. But of course, it would, but at least I’d have the memories to keep me company through the night. Memories with her were always better than being haunted by the nightmares of my past.
“It’s really hot, you know,” Ray said, breaking the silence with her melodic voice.
My brow pinched with curiosity. “What is?”
“That you read.”
We stopped at the bottom of her porch steps, and I immediately recalled the time she had first kissed me only a few weeks earlier.
“Oh, you think so, huh?” I asked, turning to stand parallel to her. “I always thought it waskindanerdy.”
“Oh, no way.” She looked up at me, her eyes glittering with mirth and unmistakable flirtation. Her hand left mine to trace a line from my wrist to my elbow and back. “Men who read are usually smart and sensitive—”
“Oh, right, absolutely.” I nodded, struggling to bite back a teasing grin. “Like this guy I knew, Wolf. He was a big reader like me. Really liked the classics especially. Super-sensitive dude. Like, this one time, he caught this other guy crying on the phone, and he just”—I flicked my wrist for emphasis—“whipped the dude in the throat with the book he was reading. Told him to shut the fuck up and stop acting like a pussy. I mean, super-super-sensitive guy.”
“Oh my God.”
Ray’s resounding giggles permeated the air around us as she took her hand from my arm to give my chest a playful smack. I didn’t want to go home yet, and this moment felt too much like the end, so in a bold move, I captured that hand once again in mine and held it firmly against my chest, directly above my heart.
Can she feel it?I wondered.Can she tell how hard it’s beating for her?
Her laughter faded into a whispered gasp as her eyes, illuminated by a single streetlamp and the sconce hanging beside her door, lingered on her fingertips resting against my chest. They moved a little, feeling the ungiving muscle and bone, and she swallowed before parting her lips.
Kiss her, my mind demanded.You’ve done it before, so do it now. Fucking kiss her.
But my hesitation was juvenile, and I could only chalk it up to the inexperience of knowing something genuine. Did shewantto be kissed? Did she want me to make a move? Why hadn’t I been granted the gift of clairvoyance so I wouldn’t have to deal with questions like these? And how fucking stupid was it that I didn’t have the answers to them at thirty-one years old?
If only she’d do something else, if only she’d give me a sign …
And then, as if she were the clairvoyant one, her hand slid from mine, moving upward to rest on my shoulder. Fingertips dancing against my neck and into my hairline, applying just a little pressure and urging me down to her waiting lips.
Message received.
I mimicked the movement by placing my hand against her neck, my fingers in her silken hair. I took a step closer to minimize the gap between us, and on the slow descent of my lips to hers, we both smiled simultaneously.
It began like a spring breeze—gentle and warm—but quickly escalated to the strength of a summer storm. Hands wrapped in hair as mouths opened with a gasping invitation. Hot, wet tongues delved and tasted and explored, desperately reaching for places kept south of the border, concealed within my jeans and under her dress. My erection was quickly raging, pressed hard to the center of her belly, aching for more than just the friction of cloth.
