I watch as she drops her eyes. Shy.
“Talk to me, babe.” Tell me you feel it too.
“I just . . .” she starts, trying to find her words and settling back on, “I don’t do this well.”
“Do what?”
“This . . .”
I can’t take her shyness, so I hold her head in my hands, angling her to look at me when I finally admit, “Whatever this is, I want it. I just need to know if you do.”
My tone is intent because I know what I want here. Her eyes don’t move from mine, and I wait for her response. For anything. I put it out there, and now my heart is racing with nerves, uncertain of her response. Then finally, she gives it to me, and I wanna f**kin’ cling to her when she nods her head yes.
Keeping my hands on her, I guide her to me and kiss her. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want her, and when she slides her arms under my coat and around my waist, my heart finally starts to settle. I have her.
Her lips are cold and wet with rain, and I squeeze her to me. I move slowly because the thought of rushing anything with her, to quicken the pace of her touch, would be stupid. So I take my time as I graze my tongue along her soft lips, and when she relaxes, allowing me to take more, I pass her lips and taste the warmth of her mouth.
I’m relieved that she’s giving me this, that she wants what I want, but I’m anxious because I’ve never done this before. Never have I had feelings like this for anyone. Not even close to thinking that I could.
She presses her fingers into me, tightening her hold, and I keep my hands on her jaw, marking her as mine like some pathetic puppy, but I do it anyway.
She moves with me, sliding her tongue along mine—gently—without any sign of urgency, and I love that about her. That she would want the time the same way I do.
When I feel her move her hands out from under my coat and wrap around my wrists, I pull back and ask, “Should we get out of here?”
“Let’s stay.”
“Come here,” I say as I slide her on top of my lap, and she slips her arm around my neck, steadying herself on me.
“Can I ask you something?” she says quietly.
“Anything.”
“I never asked before because I didn’t want to intrude, but . . . where’s your father?” she asks with a hint of trepidation.
I don’t talk to anyone about my dad. Never have. I hide it, bury it, and mask it with vices that make it easier to deal with. But I know she’s hiding something too. I wish I knew what it was, so I go ahead and break off a piece of me and give it to her. “He died about ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she says and drops her head away from me—abashed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Candace, you can ask me anything,” I tell her as I lift her chin up. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t, okay?” I don’t know what else to say, but I do know I want her to start opening up to me.
“Yeah,” she breathes softly.
“My dad was an ass**le,” I tell her, wanting to be honest with her. “He drank way too much and was never around, but when he was, he was a total dick. So, don’t feel bad for asking, because I don’t feel bad that he’s dead.” I know my words come out hard, but they come out in truth.
She scans my face for a moment. She knows there’s more behind my words, but I don’t elaborate because what I just gave her is more than I’ve given anyone. So I leave it.
I clutch her waist and hold on to her when she looks over my shoulder and asks, “Is there a trail up there?”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty decent path if you want to go up there.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” she suggests, and I eye her leopard rain boots, asking, “Those have enough traction?”
Laughing, she says, “We’ll see.”
Stealing another kiss from her, enjoying the freedom of being able to, I stand and smile down at her before scooping her up and over my shoulder. This chick weighs nothing, and she begins to laugh as I haul her up the stairs. The giggles and squeals coming out of her are beautiful, and she never complains. I adore this side of her.
Chapter Twenty-one
After hiking in the rain for over an hour, I didn’t let the fact that we were rain-soaked stop me from taking Candace into Seaside to the Broadway Strip. We took our time, walking in and out of the shops and grabbing lunch.
We came home and had an early dinner before everyone said goodbye and headed back home. It’s just the two of us and my mom, so we’ve made no plans for the night. After Candace gets cleaned up, she makes herself comfortable on the couch downstairs, reading a book, while I take a quick shower.
I was surprised with how easygoing she was after our talk on the beach. We fell into the laidback feeling we have built up to in our friendship, but now there’s no more grey.
Toweling off, I throw on a pair of pajama pants and dry my hair. I hear my mom’s voice when I walk out of the room, and I start making my way down the stairs, spotting Candace and my mom sitting on the couch.
“No child should ever have to hear that,” I overhear my mom telling Candace and I ask, “Hear what?” curious as to what they’re chatting about.
As I walk across the room, I notice Candace’s splotchy face, and I know she’s been crying. She keeps from looking at me as she faces my mother, so I take a seat next to her on the couch and slip my arm around her when my mom answers me.