Page 55 of Stick Break
“Char?” I ask, because the thought of her leaving in a few short days claws at something inside me.
“Yeah?” Her voice is barely a breath.
“You don’t have to leave at the end of the week.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of all the things we’re not saying.
14
Charley
“Ow. Ow. Ow!”
“I said I’m sorry!” I wince as Rip does a not-so-graceful hop around the living room like he’s avoiding hot coals. “Stop moving. You’re being a big baby. I just need one more dab.”
He glares at me dramatically over his shoulder, skin pink and angry across his back and arms. “How did you not get burned?”
I dip my fingers into the cooling salve and arch a brow. “Maybe because I didn’t dive into the water like a golden retriever after we fell asleep on the boat? SPF and swimming don’t mix. You have to reapply, but you didn’t.” He grumbles something unintelligible, which I take as reluctant agreement. “Come on,” I coax, holding up my fingers. “Just let me get right here?—”
With featherlight strokes, I smooth the salve across his bicep. His muscles flex under my touch, and even though I’m trying to be clinical about it, my stomach flips like a teenager with a crush.
“Mmm.” He lets out a low, appreciative sound. “Okay, that actually feels good.”
“Of course it does. I have magic hands.”
He arches a brow, clearly biting back a joke. “You’re right…you do?”
I shoot him a look. “Keep your pants on. We have a casserole party to get to.”
He winces. “Fine, but I don’t know if I can keep a shirt on. Everything feels like sandpaper right now.”
“Do you have something loose? Linen? Polyester? A toga?”
With a grunt, he disappears into the bedroom and comes back holding a breezy, lightweight shirt. “This one’s good. Should’ve worn it on the boat, I guess.”
I take it from him, inspecting it. “This is actually a sun shirt, Ripley. It’s literally designed to protect you from the sun. Why didn’t you wear this.”
“You were wearing a bikini under your dress. I don’t think there was enough blood left in my brain to make critical decisions.”
“Just be careful putting it on.” As he winces, I turn back to the counter and get to work tossing my salad masterpiece. Rip leans over my shoulder like a nosy roommate.
“That’s not a casserole. Mrs. Callahan is going to flip.”
I snort. “It’s a light refreshing salad, not a nineteen eighties potluck. Besides, you think she’d notice one missing casserole?”
“I’m the one who doesn’t want to go missing.” He mock shivers.
“I’ll claim responsibility for the salad.” I slice a cucumber and hold up a sliver. He doesn’t miss a beat, leaning in and biting it right from my fingers. A familiar zing shoots through me. It’s the second time he’s done that.
“You’ve got a weird thing for stealing food from my hand.”
“You keep feeding me like I’m a stray cat with a cucumber deficiency. What do you expect?”
“I expect manners,” I tease, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth before he can make another joke, he bites into it—and immediately juice squirts from the corner of his lips.
He blinks. I blink.
“That was... a juicy one,” I say, trying not to laugh.
