Chapter 8
That’s all I have to say about that.
Iawakenwithasmile on my face late Tuesday morning. I’d written four more chapters last night, had another go with Mr. Lemon, and fallen into a deep, sated sleep at about two in the morning.
Sitting up in my bed, I pull my laptop from the nightstand and open it up. After reading through the comments from Holly and Eden in the document, I make the necessary corrections and start on the next chapter.
This one is filled with funny friend-group banter, and I bang it out before lunch. I think a lot of the writer’s block I’d been experiencing came from indifference about this book, but now I’m thrumming with excitement. My characters are really taking shape, and the chemistry between them is off the damn charts.
Kind of like your chemistry with Reno Swain.
After my shower and morning routine, I dress in denim cutoffs with fringed hems and a lime-green tank top. The hill I’m hiking up today isn’t steep enough to require hiking boots—thank goodness because I don’t own any—so I slip on my black Adidas with bright-green stripes and then slide the adorable pineapple bracelet onto my wrist.
With nimble fingers, I fashion my long blonde hair into a pretty fishtail braid, thinking of Dad and Pops while I do so. When I was a little girl, Dad’s rough mechanic hands couldn’t manage more than a slightly lumpy ponytail, but Pops’s fingers were a bit more handy when it came to girly hairdos.
There was a braid craze in my elementary school in the nineties, and when I came home from school crying about my tragic, braidlessexistence one day, Pops picked up a couple of books on braiding hair from the library. Together we learned to do a simple braid and then a French braid before moving on to more complicated styles.
I send both of my fathers ahey, I’m still alive, hope you have a great daytext before heading down to the lunch buffet. While I’m in line, I meet and chat with Brittany and Melissa Richardson, a same sex couple who I learn live in Chicago. They’re adorable, walking down the line with their pinkies linked while they push their trays with their free hands.
Deciding not to eat anything too heavy since I’ll be doing some exercise—which I hate—I settle on a refreshing pasta salad with small chunks of veggies, Italian meats, and mozzarella. I try—and fail—not to search for a certain spicy-book-scene-inspiring hockey player when I stroll into the seating area.
I take a seat at a small teal table near the windows overlooking the main pool area. Not the nudey one, thank goodness, because if there werethingsflopping and bobbing on the other side of the glass, I would probably begin craving hot dogs, and I didn’t see those on the buffet.
Then, as if there’s an environmental shift of some sort, the air around me condenses and warms my skin, and I raise my gaze to the entrance of the restaurant.
He’s here.
If I’d said that out loud, it would have been breathy in that wanton hussy kind of way. Luckily, I’m playing it cool. Except for the goofy grin I can feel my traitorous lips performing.
His eyes scan the dining room, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s looking for me too. My question is answered when his scanning drags to a halt on me. I’m giddy. Especially when he smacks me in the gut with that panty-dropping smile of his.
He gives me a little head bob that says,I’m coming for you, baby.At least that’s what my lusty brain is imagining in his deep voice. In reality, it’s probably something much more benign like,I’m going to grab some lunch. Save me a seat.
Still.
In a valiant effort, I don’t watch Reno move through the line, instead concentrating on my food. Three bites of pasta and two sips of tea later, he appears tableside. He’s looking damn delicious in charcoal cargo shorts and a forest-green V-neck tee that molds to his torso like a second skin. His dark, curly hair is stylishly messy, with one piece that swoops down almost to his left eyebrow.
“Can I sit here, or were you saving it for someone else?”
I pretend to glance around the room before arching my neck back to look up at him. “Well, I was saving it for someone tall, dark, and handsome, but I guess you’ll do.”
Commencing Operation Flirty Pants.
He chuffs out a laugh and sits across from me, setting down his tray that holds a plate of grilled fish over cauliflower rice. “Are we still on for cloud gazing today?”
“If you want. It’s a good day for it.” I glance down at his dark-green shirt. “But only because you got the memo to wear green today. Otherwise, I’d have to leave you here.”
“Ah, are we going to be one of those couples who have to color-coordinate their outfits?” he asks, forking up a bite of his food. “I mean, not that we’re a couple or anything.” He blushes. Literallyblushes, and it’s cuter than a bucket of kittens.
“Oh, we definitely have to coordinate. Tomorrow the designated color is pink.”
“Because on Wednesdays we wear pink?” he retorts, and I laugh.
“A guy who getsMean Girlsreferences. I’m impressed.”
Reno brushes imaginary lint from his shoulder. “I’m a man of many talents.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a marvelously indecent rasp. “Were you a good girl yesterday, Juliette?”
Have freaking mercy.
