“I was. But after my grandfather died, Granny and I grew even closer.” I smile, the curve of my mouth wistful and wide. “My grandfather was great. He would walk into the kitchen while Granny was cooking dinner and get her to dance with him to whatever was playing on the radio. But he was a terrible dancer, which only made it that much sweeter.”
I laugh at the memory—one of many I had tucked away when my life hadn’t been a reflection of theirs. It feels great to have the memories again—a benefit of therapy.
I wipe at a stray tear, the result of laughing and the bittersweet pain of losing him. Of losing them both.
Troy squeezes my hand, and I smile at him, thanking him without words for bringing back the memory.
“Do you miss San Diego?” he asks.
“Sometimes. I loved it there when I was growing up. I loved taking Amelia to the beach and searching for shells with her. Just like Granny used to do with me. At least Amelia didn’t have to give it up when she moved to Seattle. When Craig and Grace visited me in Beckley”—my voice drops so low on the last word, I’m not sure Troy even hears it—“to ask me if they could adopt my daughter, I made them promise to keep taking her to the beach and look for seashells with her.” This time the pitch of my voice is normal, but the words come out rough, like wet sand between bare toes.
I blink away the tears and brighten my smile. We’re on a date. A first date. Men tend not to like their dates crying on a first date. Or on any date.
We spend the rest of our meal talking about beaches and Troy’s family and our lives growing up.
“You’re lucky having such a close family,” I tell him.
“I am. We weren’t always close. There were times when our fighting drove Mom nuts. When you have four kids, there’s always someone who’s mad at someone else. But we were there for each other when it counted the most.”
“Do you want a big family like that?” The question slips out before I realize I’ve said it. I hold my breath.
Troy’s eyes, warm like melted chocolate, hold on to mine. “I would love to have kids one day. And I would love to have more than one. It was crazy in the house with so many of us—especially when my brothers and I hit our teens—but it was a good kind of crazy.”
He doesn’t look away. And I suddenly wish I could yank back my question.
11
JESSICA
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
After dinner,Troy drives us to the beach where we first met. He leaves his suit jacket in the truck and rolls up his shirt sleeves, exposing his tanned, muscular forearms. He removes a blanket from the back seat and takes my hand. “I thought we could watch the sunset.”
“I would love that. I happen to love watching sunsets,” I add, as if it is our first date and he doesn’t yet know that about me.
The grin he flashes me almost has my panties incinerating. “I thought you might.”
We walk to the sand and slip off our shoes. We continue, barefoot, our fingers linked, and find a quiet spot on the sand away from another couple sitting on the beach. The tension that thickened the air between us in the restaurant has dissipated. It’s still there lurking in the recesses of my mind—How can I be with Troy if I can’t give him what he wants?—but under the brilliant orange-and-pink sky, with the water lapping at the shore and this handsome man by my side, it’s all too easy to forget.
Troy lays out the blanket. A lightweight cardigan covers my arms since the evening mountain temperature has dropped over the past hour, but it’s not low enough to chill my bare legs.
I sit on the blanket. Troy lowers himself next to me and pulls me to him. I rest my head on his shoulder and inhale the clean mountain scent that’s all Troy.
The sun is low in the sky, casting the world in a beautiful golden warmth. The lake ripples in the light breeze, disturbing the sun’s glow reflecting off it. It’s so peaceful.
I glance at Troy. His expression, full of longing and love, is breathtaking in this light. I wish I had a camera so I could capture the moment, but all I have is my phone camera, and it’s not enough for what I have in mind.
He lowers his head to mine, and our lips touch. My pulse throbs a quick-step in my veins, and I release a nearly breathless gasp.
My lips part, letting him in. My tongue craves to dance with his, to explore his mouth. To taste him. I cup his face in my hand. His stubble tickles my palm, so sensual, so hot.
The kiss deepens, and I whimper and moan. I don’t push him for more, even though more is what I want.
His hands remain chaste, his left arm pressing into my back and keeping me from melting into the blanket. His other hand rests on my face.
His hands might not be touching me like my body aches to be touched, but his tongue is another story. It flicks the roof of my mouth, thrusts and swirls, and I sink deeper into the kiss.
