Page 52 of Taking It To Overtime

“I think,” there’s an audible click as she swallows, “you’re right.”

Her hand is in mine as I lead her down the small dirt trail toward the lake. I memorize the feel of each of her fingers, the soft weight of her palm, the rose and lemon scent of her hair. Beside me, Vera lets out a soft gasp of surprise and I wrench my eyes from her profile to see what’s caught her eye.

Spags exceeded expectations. He found the willow tree I mentioned, with my mother’s help I’m sure, and under the weathered trunk he spread a soft blue blanket. A short-legged table is in the middle, surrounded by the pillows off my parents’ porch swing, and in the open top of the wicker picnic basket I can see a dark green bottle and two long-stemmed glasses.

“Robbie.” Vera’s hand touches her mouth, her eyes shiny bright. If I could box this moment up and tuck it away forever, I think it could see me through to the end of my days.

She kicks off her shoes and I hand her onto the blanket, watching as she settles down and tucks her legs to the side.

“Did you do this?” she asks, and I nod.

“I had some help.” I take the seat next to her. Two swipes on my phone and soft music burbles out of the speaker tucked into the hollow of the tree roots.

“I recognize these pillows,” Vera says, thumbing the fringe along the one she’s using. A soft smile crosses her mouth. “Your mom?”

I nod again. “And Spags.”

“He’s a good kid. He worships you,” she says.

He doesn’t, really. Vic is his hero and I’m more than fine with that, but he’s got a good heart buried under a goofy outer shell. He’s growing on me. Like a particularly stubborn fungus.

I reach into the basket and pull out the champagne bottle, holding it off the side of the blanket as I pop the cork and the bubbles foam over the back of my hand. The liquid is golden in the sunlight. Cold over my skin. I pour it into two glasses and hand one to Vera.

“It might not be what you’re used to. But it’s decent.”

She doesn’t take the glass, her eyes boring into mine as if she can see the very depths of my soul. Then, with a slow blink, she leans forward and presses her mouth to the skin of my wrist, sucking gently.

“It’s delicious,” she says, leaning back as she licks her lips. She takes the glass from my hand and brings it to her mouth for a sip, a devious glint in her smile.

Every thought I had? Gone.

My cock aches, pushing against the front of my linen pants and I say a quick prayer to anyone listening that I don’t do something embarrassing like pop the zipper or come. And fuck me, but we could just go back to the hotel room. I could press her down into the mattress of either of our beds, lick my way down the column of her throat, connect the freckles that dot the soft skin of her breasts. Woulda, coulda, shoulda.

Vera’s gaze dips to my erection, and this time I don’t bother hiding it. No more crunching in half to disguise the tent I’ve pitched in her name. If she doesn’t know what she does to me by now… well, she isn’t paying much attention.

And besides, it’s not like I’m going todoanything about it. Not without her go ahead. A boner is not a guarantee of anything. We can have dinner, talk, and I can drive her back to the hotel before beating off in the shower. Like a fucking gentleman.

I sip my champagne; the bubbles popping on my tongue in bright bursts.

“I think,” Vera says, putting her own drink on the small table. “We should probably have a real discussion about what’s going on here.”

I nod and put my glass next to hers.

“I’m going back to Los Angeles at the end of the week.”

It’s information I already know, and it knocks the wind out of me all the same.

“And you’re going back to Quarry Creek.”

I nod.

“I know I’m the one who said we could blur the lines and have some fun,” she says, “but I’m also an idiot who sometimes goes after what she wants without thinking about the consequences. I don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

She’s ending this. Whateverthisis between us, it’s over. My stomach lurches.

“I think,” Vera continues, “we can’t keep it casual and we can’t pretend. Not with all the history between us.”

She’s right. We aren’t casual. Never were. Never could be.

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