Page 62 of Stick Break
Charley beams. “Thank you, Mrs. Callahan.”
“Oh, please.” She flutters a hand in the air like she’s waving off peasants. “Call me Betsy.”
“Betsy it is.”
I nod. “Good night, Betsy.”
Her head whips around so fast I hear her neck crack. “Excuse me?”
I clear my throat, straighten up like I’ve just been yelled at for slouching at my desk. “Good night, Mrs. Callahan.”
She smirks, satisfied, and walks off with the kind of swagger only a seventy something year old woman in orthopedic sandals can pull off.
As we walk away, Charley sighs, dreamy. “I really like Betsy.”
“She’s nicer to you than me.”
“Probably because I’m teaching her great-granddaughter guitar.”
“You brought a salad. If I brought a salad instead of a heavy creamy casserole, she’d throw it at me and accuse me of cultural sabotage.”
“Like you’d make a casserole. You had oatmeal and pop tarts in your cupboard.”
I lift my chin, all indignant. “Fine, be like that and now I’m not going to make you my famous oatmeal, pop tart casserole. You’re really missing you.”
She laughs. “I don’t think I’m missing out on anything. At least…after tonight I won’t be.” There’s heat in her voice and my thoughts are no longer on pop tarts. “She likes you, Rip,” she adds. “She just wants to keep you on your toes and make sure you do right by me. She’s old fashioned and I think it’s sweet of her.”
I slide my hand around her back and pull her close. “What if I want to get off my toes, and still do right by you.”
A fine shiver goes through her, then a teasing look brightens her eyes. “Wait, you said casserole. Was that your safe stop word?”
I laugh. “I actually think we need a new go word.”
“Wasn’t that window.”
I adjust my pants. “Yeah, I just can’t seem to think straight tonight.”
“That makes two of us,” she says breathless. “Ever since seeing you in those water wings.” She playfully waves her hand in front of her face.
We reach the cottage, and I quickly open the door. She steps inside and I glance over my shoulder, gauging how far away Mrs. Callahan’s cottage is, and if she can hear us.
While you’re standing there, trying to figure out if Betsy is listening, I’m going to wash this marshmallow out of my hair. She steps into the bathroom and doesn’t shut the door behind her. Three seconds later, I find her bent over the tub, adjusting the water. She turns around and gasps when she sees me.
“How… Oh my God, Rip.”
She’s staring at me like I’ve sprouted a hockey stick—and, in a way, I have. Between my legs. I glance down at my very naked body, my dick standing at full salute for the girl who makes me forget the world even exists.
“What?” I ask, deadpan, trying to play it cool even though every cell in my body is vibrating with the need to touch her.
“You’re naked.”
“Am I?” I blink, mock-surprised. “Huh. So I am.”
She gestures vaguely at the air between us. “You were dressed three seconds ago.”
I close the distance, steam curling around us like we’re inside some ridiculous romance novel cover, and gently brush my knuckles over her flushed cheek. “Did I forget to mention I hold the title for fastest undresser east of the Mississippi?”
She chokes on a laugh. “Is that even a thing?”
