Happy Place(84)

“Was this your goal for the week?” I ask.

He bites the side of my neck. “Actually, it was to make it through the rest of the week as a perfect gentleman.”

“Occasional failure’s good for a person,” I say.

“Is it?” he teases. “Good for you?”

I push myself back into him, pleading. “Please.”

Wyn swears, grabs my hips, and turns me again, pinning me back against the wall and kneeling in front of me.

My joints seem to liquefy as he kisses the inside of my thigh, moves up to my center. My hips lift into the pressure of his mouth. His left palm skims up my stomach, the right moving around to cup my ass, angling me up to him.

I try to urge him back up me, but he stays where he is, the insistent heat of his mouth edging me closer to unraveling.

“Wyn,” I beg.

Goose bumps erupt over his neck. He murmurs, “Come for me, Harriet.”

I try to resist, to ask for more of him, but my body bows up. His name rushes out of me in a breathless plea. He drives me into a wave so heavy and dark that, for several seconds, there’s nothing but sensation. No woods, no cedar shower, nothing but his mouth.

When it recedes, I slump back against the wall, knees weak. Wyn rises and gathers me into him so that my chin rests on his shoulder. The hot water pours down us as he leaves a string of kisses down my throat.

“Thank you,” I say through the dreamy haze.

His smile blooms against my neck. “So polite.” He sways me gently back and forth beneath the water. “The others are waiting.”

“I’m not feeling polite anymore.” I tip my chin back to meet his eyes. “They can wait.”

“The air horn will start going any minute now,” he says.

“Waiting never killed anyone,” I say.

“I don’t know,” Wyn says. “I’ve felt pretty close to death this week.”

“Good point,” I say. “Waiting can be dangerous. We probably shouldn’t.”

His laugh melts into another groan. “Later. Let me buy you dinner first.”

“I’m a modern woman, Wyn,” I say. “I’ll buy you dinner. I mean, if I can afford your dinner now that you’re fancy.”

“You get me a gas station hot dog, Harriet Kilpatrick,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth, “and I’ll give you the best night of your life.”

I close my eyes, try to hold the moment still. It’s already slipping away. One more day.





30





REAL LIFE

Friday


WHILE MOST OF the Lobster Fest festivities are on the other side of town, the overflow has wound up here, at the salt-coated picnic tables on the graying Lobster Wharf, where coveralled lobstermen zigzag among the docked boats, the warehouse, and the walk-up stands.

Even after we’ve put in our orders, we’re waiting awhile until a table opens up near the band at the dock’s back corner. We slide onto the benches, and Wyn holds my thigh under the table. I set my hand over the top of his, trying to memorize this feeling.

Baskets of fries and crisp hot dog buns overflowing with fluffy lobster, heavily seasoned onion rings and fried haddock so soft that the plastic forks slice through it like it’s melting butter. Corn on the cob and tragic side salads loaded with red onion and sliced radish, and blueberry lemonade in red plastic diner cups.

“I’m going to go see how much the bar will charge me to add vodka to this,” Kimmy says, starting to rise.

“You might want to hold off on that,” Sabrina says, with a cryptic smile. I look to Parth, who gives a my-lips-are-sealed shrug.

With a delighted yet suspicious gleam in her eye, Kimmy sinks back onto her bench.

Wyn’s mouth drifts across my earlobe. It takes me a second to actually interpret what he’s saying through the barrage of fragmented memories from earlier: “You think she’s Postmatesing magic mushrooms to the table?”

I turn toward him, the ends of our noses almost touching. The globe lights strung overhead make his eyes glitter. “That or she’s taking us straight from here to a space camp zero-gravity chamber,” I say.

His hand creeps higher as he leans in. I turn to hear his whispered reply, but instead his lips meet the skin beneath my ear, a slow, soft kiss that makes me shiver closer.

Sabrina crumples a napkin as she stands. “Who’s ready for the next phase of the night?”

“Space camp, here we come,” I say.



* * *



? ? ?

WE FOLLOW THE residential street along the water. Even from here, we can hear the music coming from the festival on the far side of the harbor, along with the wharf band, like the two shores are opposite ends of a dueling piano bar.

Sabrina leads us down the long, skinny footbridge across the water, the sound of Patty Griffin’s “Long Ride Home” cross-fading into “It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me.”

“Where are we going?” Cleo asks.

“To fulfill a long-term goal,” Sabrina calls over her shoulder, picking up the pace. There’s an electricity in the air, a feeling of possibility.

Maybe it’s emanating from Wyn and me. Maybe every time our hands link, or he tugs me into his side or pulls me to a stop and presses me back against the guardrail for a kiss while the others keep walking, we let a little more charge into the air.