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His breathy laughter tickles the baby hairs that have sprung free from my damp mop. “I’m reasonably sure you brought it up first. I am merely—”
“Milking it for all it’s worth?” I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow like we’re long-life friends before finishing the sentence we started together. “You can see the stairs that lead to Bronte’s Peak.” I highlight the dancing lights in the middle of what should be an endless sea of blackness if it weren’t the locals’ favorite hookup spot. “Seeing it during the day is mesmerizing, but there is something even more spectacular about witnessing its beauty at night.” I crank my neck back to peer up at Laken, startling when I notice the only view he’s drinking in is me. “Have you ever been to Bronte’s Peak?”
“A handful of times.” He smirks at my miffed expression before shifting his eyes to the dazzling skyline. “But it was nothing but a swampy wasteland the times I visited.”
His reply hints that he’s a local who hasn’t been home for some time. Before Holt Enterprises put Ravenshoe on the map, Bronte’s Peak was a swampy, hill-less location filled with alligators and sea creatures.
With the vision of an Italian coastal community like the one Isaac’s grandmother was raised in, a construction crew commenced building a manmade marvel they hoped would attract millions of visitors each year.
My father and many other residents of the area rallied against Isaac’s proposal for months.
They ate their vicious words only a year later. House prices skyrocketed soon after the development was finalized, and businesses on the verge of foreclosure blossomed into mighty empires.
A lot of money was poured into this town, but with the wealth came responsibilities youths at the time couldn’t grasp. They were living the high life, unaware of how quickly it could crumble beneath their feet.
Before my past can sour my mood, Laken says, “From your response, I assume you’ve been to Bronte’s Peak before?” When I nod, his brows dip low on his handsome face. “To visit the caves?”
My insides tap dance, loving that the jealousy I experienced earlier is no longer one-sided.
“I’ve explored the caves and had barbecues along the shoreline…” I pause to build the suspense. “And made out a handful of times in the back seat of my boyfriend’s Pontiac.” When he groans, I laugh. “What? It’s a Ravenshoe right. If you haven’t made out in that unlit lot by age thirty, there’s no hope for you.”
I feel he’s closer to thirty than I am when his second groan rolls through my chest before clustering between my legs.
After spinning to face him, the move no easy feat with how close he is standing, I let him off the hook. “There are a handful of exceptions, but you’d have to undergo a rigorous interrogation to be granted one.”
“Hit me.” His following words are whispers almost too soft for me to hear. “Doubt it could be worse than any I’ve faced previously.”
Most guys balk when you ask them how old they are, so I’m a little stumped about where to start since he’s given me free rein.
After a beat, I ask, “Has the timeline lapsed, or do we still have a shot?”
My brow shoots as high as Laken’s when he clarifies, “We?”
“You.I meant to sayyou.”
Will someone please find me a hose? It may be the only way to cool the heat on my cheeks when his breathy laugh adds to the mess between my legs.
“We…”—he takes a moment to relish my pink face—“have a couple of years atourdisposal.” I’m unable to speak, much less calculate anything above two plus two, so Laken finalizes the calculations on my behalf. “I’m twenty-seven.” He checks his watch. “Almost twenty-eight.”
“Is it your birthday tomorrow?” I ask, assuming he’s counting down the hours until midnight.
His husky chuckles are back and more vital than ever. “No.”
He shows me a watch that displays it is barely ten. Even though it's as outdated as his fashion sense, it still appears pricey. It’s one of those old-school watches that doesn’t just announce the time. It shows the date, month, and year as well.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a watch like that. Most people just use their phones these days.”
My sassy attitude dips below my belt when he murmurs, “It was my father’s.” He shifts nervously from foot to foot. “He wasn’t around much, and when I found it in the back of a bathroom drawer, my mother said it was probably the only thing I’d ever get from him of any value, so I may as well have it.” My heart breaks for him when he whispers, “She left not long after that.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, hating that our conversation has veered to the negative. My parents have been together since high school, so I often forget over fifty percent of marriages end in divorce.
“For?” Laken asks after stuffing his hand into his pocket, his tone not the slightest bit sarcastic.
After twisting my lips, I shrug. “For bringing up a sore point so soon into our…”
When I can’t find the right words to explain our immediate kinship, Laken brings humor back into our exchange. “Date?” he suggests, his brows waggling.
I pop my elbow into his ribs for the second time. It switches the unease on his face to joy in under a second and has me confident if I don’t place distance between us soon, I’ll forget we’re strangers.
