“Trent gave me a makeup kit for my birthday,” I explain.
One second he’s smiling and the next he’s raising his fine arched eyebrows. His eyes shutter, but then he grins briefly, with no trace of his former frustration, and he chucks my chin. “Looks like we need another evening at the Pier to color some little fishes.”
What is it about this guy wanting me without makeup?
He walks toward the door.
“Now that would be a travesty,” I say with a shame-on-you voice. “Almost as much of a travesty as eating my Versailles.” Though I admit, signaling to it, “I might eat the little bushes.”
“Eat the bushes? Alright.” He laughs mischievously.
The butterflies catch fire.
I groan and shove him back toward the door.
As I do, he steals one of my many bags of chocolates. “Hey!” I call, as he starts for the door. “You’re stealing my chocolates.”
He turns around and starts backing away slowly, facing me. “Come get them then.”
He raises the bag in the air a little bit and dangles it temptingly.
I rush at him and leap in the air, trying to grab the bag, but he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close—fairly crushes me to his chest—and pecks my lips again.
I start, jerking back from the shock of the touch of his lips, the renewed burst of butterflies in my stomach, which seemed to flutter up to my head.
He waits, watching me, his arm still around me.
His eyes are leveled on mine. His nose is nearly touching mine. We’re breathing hard. He’s not smiling; his eyes are very dark and serious. Watching me with caution and intense interest, he tilts his head, eyeing my mouth from another angle. “Is your boyfriend taking you out tonight?” he drawls out.
He waits there, as if preparing—debating, thinking—to kiss me for real. “Trent and I had dinner last night,” I say breathlessly, nervously pushing at his chest. “And I…have work early tomorrow. You really need to stop doing that, Tahoe.” I turn around and wipe the back of my hand over my lips shyly.
He notices, and to taunt me, he licks his lips with his tongue, his eyes shimmering in challenge.
“We’ll see,” he says mischievously as he walks away with the bag of chocolates, waving a peace sign.
He smirks adorably from the door, and I shoot him a dark glare, wondering if the chocolate is really what he’s stealing from me.
LITTLE MAN
Early August, it’s official. Rachel and Saint are having a baby boy. She’s nearing her thirty-fifth week of pregnancy, and although they’ve wanted to know the sex for a while, the baby’s position made it hard for the doctors to tell for sure. Well. The baby cannot hide his jewels any longer.
On my way to the Saints’ place, all I can think about is whether or not I’ll tell Rachel how confused I am about Tahoe and me. I want to tell her, but the urge to push him to the back of my mind—survival mode—is acute.
I walk into their place and follow voices to the second story of the penthouse and down the hall to the baby’s room. I pause at the threshold and take in the lovely décor. There’s a huge white crib and a dreamy white rocking chair, and artisan paintings on the walls of palm trees and jungle animals.
I stay still for a moment, silent for I don’t know how long, because inside the room I see Rachel, Saint, and…him. I arrive the same instant that Tahoe hands Saint his first lacrosse stick.
It’s short and wooden, and it looks old and worn.
“For when the little guy turns fifteen,” Tahoe slyly tells Saint as he maneuvers the stick in a swift lacrosse move. “He’s going to have to fight to keep the ball from me,” he adds with a menacing twinkle in his eye, his grin at full wattage.
The sight of Tahoe giving the lacrosse stick to Saint clutches at my heart so hard I almost have to put my hand on my chest to make sure it’s still beating.
“Gina!” Rachel calls.
All heads turn to the door.
Tahoe’s blue eyes flare when he sees me and I can practically see him straighten. His shoulders span wider. His muscles tighten. His fingers curl into his palms at his sides. His lips curve up in a smile. He looks almost like a tiger, one just woken up from slumber, licking his lips because he’s just been presented with a woman.
A woman he once called “succulent.”
I force myself to breathe and I smile and instantly go hug Rachel. “If I’d known the baby would have a stick already, I’d have brought the ball,” I joke to her, but instead I give her a tiny silver spoon, which was also my first.
“For luck,” I say, postponing the moment when I have to turn around toward the silent men.
But I finally work myself up to it. I cross the room to congratulate Saint, and when Tahoe looks at me, it seems instinctive for both of us, it seems natural, that we somehow hug each other hello too. I flush when his arms envelop me and he says “hello” in my ear.
“Hey,” I say.
I feel his lips graze the back of my ear after he speaks—accident or not?—and he steps back, watching me with those perceptive eyes of his as we ease apart. He looks like a dark prince of playboys today, dressed in gray sweatpants and a soft navy T-shirt, a duffel bag with lacrosse gear at his feet.
He’s going to a game, I realize, with a kick of excitement in my stomach. And true enough, ten minutes after we’ve all chatted animatedly about the baby, he excuses himself to leave.
“I think I should go to your game,” I cautiously say, then quickly amend when Saint and Rachel raise their eyebrows, “just so you win.”