He turned his head, looking at me over his shoulder withthe pillow tucked under his arm, and a smile slowly spread across his lips.“Well, since you asked nicely.”
His dimples glared at me, uncovering the little boy inside,and there he was:my best friend. He turned around, tossed the pillowback to the head of the bed, and let the jeans fall to the floor, revealing hisplaid boxers. He dropped down to his hands and knees at the foot of the bed,and slowly made his ascent back to the top. One arm stepped over my body, andhe worked his way up, up, up until his hands were grounded on either side of myshoulders. His eyes looked down at me, into mine, chest heaving.
“Hey,” he said on a whisper.
“Hi.”
“So, can I ask you a question?” His eyes fluttered down tomy parted lips.
“Yes.”
“What did you think when you first saw me?”
“Seriously? I was three.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. One dimple. “God, you’recute. You know what I mean; the second first time.”
My cheeks puffed around a sigh, remembering the jolt oflonging at that first glimpse of him at the grocery store, aged and muscled inhis police uniform. The heat working its way through my body, settling in mygroin.
“I thought you were okay,” I teased.
Full-on grin. Two dimples. “Bullshite!You thought, ‘Wow, that Patrick Kinney turned out to be one hot stud.’ Right?Tell me I’m right.”
I rolled my eyes with a laughing smile. “Sure, if you sayso.”
“Youwannaknow what I thoughtwhen I saw you?”
“You’re justgonnatell me,whether I want to hear it or not.”
He leaned closer, his breath hot against my lips. “Ithought, ‘She smells like ham and turkey, and God, I have never been so hungryin my life.’”
The laugh barreled through me, bursting from my lips. Myhand smacked against his bare chest, and stayed there, fingers flexing throughthe dark blonde curls.
“Oh my God, that’s so gross.”
“No, it’s you. I love everything about you.” His lips wereso close, soft and yearning to touch mine, and then he asked, “Do you rememberthe first time I sangthatsong to you?” He hummed again, looking at mylips, and said, “You remember?”
Of courseIremembered. I could never forget.
?
He first sang to me when we were eighteen.
After he had driven his old pickup to the edgeof town and parked in the moonlit darkness among the trees, crickets, andgentle waves. After the blanket was laid in the bed. After our mouths soughteach other for comfort and completion, and after we had given each other thesanctity of another first.
We laid under the summer stars, listening tothe gentle ebb and flow of the water against the shore, his arm around myshoulders, and my hand nestled in the fine hair on his chest. We knew ourparents would wonder where we were, knew they’d begin to worry with anotherpassing hour, but when I mentioned leaving, Patrick shook his head.
“Nah, not yet,” he said, tightening his armaround me.
The heated flush covered my throat and cheeks,assuming thathe was in search of another roll in the bed ofhis truck. I bit my lip with anticipation, eager to indulge again, to practiceour newfound activity.
“Oh, yeah?” I tilted my chin toward his faceand pressed my lips to his jaw.
“Yeah, just a few more minutes.” The wordsbottled up the fire in my loins, set aside for another day, and he added, “Iwant to remember this.”
“What? Laying in your truck on a dirty oldblanket?” I laughed, lifting myself up on an elbow to look down at him.
He shook his head. “You’retellin’me you don’t feel it?”
