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“I didn’t realize your mom kept your truck,” I say.
“She didn’t have to,” he says, starting the engine. He drives across the property as if he never left. “She even takes her out for monthly drives.”
“I once saw it driving through town. Figured I must have been seeing things.”
He smiles, but it slips away when his eyes spot the lake ahead. Shifting the truck into park, he rests his arms on top of the steering wheel. “Wow, it’s exactly the same.”
The lake doesn’t get the same attention from me since he’s stolen all of mine. He turns to me, catching my eyes on him. Looking content, he says, “Hi.”
Jason’s sweet enough not to embarrass me. “Hi.”
“You were staring.” Okay, maybe he’s not so sweet, calling me out.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like when you look at me.” My cheeks heat because he not only likes me looking at him, but he noticed me staring. I open the door, needing to get out of the close confines of the cab of his truck. Before I can climb out, he calls, “Hey, you’re making me look bad. Stay there.” He hops out and runs around. Offering me a hand to get out, he stands close, not leaving much room between us.
Though I accept the offer, I say, “You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
When my feet land on the ground, we release our hands. He’s quick to shove his in his pockets. “You were always very independent, so I know you can take care of yourself. But no matter how independent you are or how many years have passed between us from then to now, I will always worry about you, Delilah.”
My racing heart calms as if I was tucked under his arms like I used to be. It’s wrong, and my head is swimming in confusion, but it feels good to feel cared for again.
9
Delilah
Staring.
I’m staring at him again. The way his muscles work fluidly together, the veins popping out with the least bit of effort he puts into a task.
His arms . . . they’re better than any porn I can imagine.
Jason Koster was always gorgeous. Tall, dark, and handsome was envious of what that man possessed. His body is hard, the fittest I’ve ever seen him, and he was fit when he played football. But this is different. This peak physical perfection makes me even more curious how he stays in shape, and why to this degree. “Do you still play football?”
He stops and stomps a plank of the dock with his heel. When he glances up, he replies, “No. Billy and I have tossed the ball around a bit, but that’s all really.”
“You got a tattoo.” I eye the design on the underside of his arm. I move closer and reach out, unable to resist the urge to touch him. I’m quick to run my fingertips over the ink but realize I’ve crossed a line I shouldn’t have. When I start to pull back, he covers my hand with his.
My heart rate kicks up, and my breathing quickens. I stare at our hands when he says, “Two years ago . . .” He pauses. Releasing me, he takes a deep breath. “It’s a design I saw graffitied under a bridge in Seattle. I took a pic. I wish I knew the artist so I could show them.”
“Why did you choose that design?”
“It spoke to me. If you look closely, the detailing of the clouds mixed with the darker sky. Blurring the night with the day.” He shakes his head gently. “Can the light fight the dark? Can it survive?”
“Is that how you feel? Are you surviving the dark?”
He asks, “Right now? I’m living. For the first time in a long time, I’m living.”
“That’s surviving.” Looking satisfied, he comes back to me . . . back to me . . . and stares deep into my eyes. I can’t look away, especially when a smile crosses those full lips. “Can I have the blanket, Delilah?”
His request snaps me back to reality, and my eyebrows shoot straight up. “Oh, yeah, sure. Here.” I shove the blanket I was holding like a lifeline into his hard, brick-like abs. Peeking down, I can see the muscle beneath the button-up shirt, that six-pack calling my attention right to it.
With the blanket bunched in his arms, his eyes lower to my lips before he leans forward. “Oh my God, are you going to kiss me?”
He chuckles. “I was going to cover you back up since I saw goose bumps on your arms.”
Heat blooms through my chest and starts covering my cheeks. “Of course,” I say, shaking my head. “I was kidding.”
With the blanket wrapped around me again, he whispers, “Did you think I was going to kiss you?”
Still mortified, I jerk my head back. “No!” Yes. “Not at all.” Oh, my God! This is so humiliating. I was going to let him. Not just let him but kiss him back. I know I was. Oh, good gracious. Desperate much? Yes, I sure am.
