Love Song(51)

I’m spent by the time the orgasm ebbs. My dick stays hard, though. He wants to go again. I don’t blame him. That was just a tease.

I suck in a ragged breath and push my hair out of my face before turning to shut off the water. When I turn back, the deck is empty. Blake is gone.





We act like nothing happened.

Maybe not the most mature approach, but it seems to suit both of us. I grill burgers and Blake makes potato salad, and we eat on the deck. And while I clear the table and do the dishes, she stays at the table, reading a book she checked out from the library.

“Any Darlie developments?” I ask after I’m done cleaning up.

She looks up, causing her high ponytail to swing over her shoulder. As usual, I’m dying to take her hair down. Even more so now that I’ve actually touched it. Now that I know how silky it feels between my fingers.

I lied to her this morning. I was going to kiss her. I was seconds away from kissing her senseless in fact. It was a miracle that I managed to resist the lure, but I’m glad I did. I stayed up all night writing because of that. There’s something to be said for blue balls and bone-deep longing.

Still, I need to stop placing myself in the path of temptation like that. I can’t afford any distractions right now, not when Tobey Dodson is going to be calling me any day to discuss my “new stuff.” So… I need new stuff. I need to write. To concentrate on the music and not the freckle-faced temptress who decided to crash my summer.

Blake and I can be friends. Friendship is safe. No pressure, no expectations, just sharing the occasional meal together, playing badminton—

Jerking off in front of her, mocks an inner voice.

All right. In hindsight, that wasn’t the smartest move of mine. But it was just a little slip. Sometimes friends pull their dicks out and come all over themselves while another friend watches.

Your coping skills are unreal, that voice informs me.

Fucking fine. I crossed a line, just like on Christmas Eve two years ago. But that ends right now. Friendship commenced.

“This isn’t a Darlie book,” Blake says absently, flipping to the next page. “I’m reading about the history of jigsaw puzzles.”

Of course she is.

“Explain?” Grinning, I flop into the chair across from hers and light a cigarette.

Blake shrugs. “I was curious about how puzzles got popular, so I found a book about it. It’s actually supercool.”

“Cool and puzzles aren’t two words that really go together.”

“Says the guy who was doing the puzzle before I showed up.” She puts the book down. “I just learned that the first puzzles weren’t even called puzzles. They were called ‘dissected maps’ because this cartographer in the 1700s used to mount maps on a wooden board and then cut along the national boundary lines to create geography puzzles. They used them in schools. How cool is that?”

“Again, not using the word cool correctly,” I inform her, but I sort of love how excited she gets about these random topics. And truth be told, she does make them sound cooler when she explains them.

Her phone vibrates, and she leans forward to check it. Her face brightens. “Oh, nice. Little Spencer sent me a link to the latest episode of their podcast. I’m getting a sneak peek.”

“Is this podcast just the two of them sitting around talking about ghosts?” I pause for a moment. “Honest question—are we sure these dudes won’t break into our house in the middle of the night and try to kill us in order to create ghosts?”

“Pretty sure. But if they do, I’ll make sure they kill me first to buy you some time,” she says graciously.

I snicker. “Thank you. I appreciate that, freckles.”

“And the podcast isn’t exclusive to ghosts. It’s about anything supernatural, really. And it’s just Little Spencer talking.”

“He talks to himself?”

Blake grins. “Well, he talks to the audience. But yes. Big Spencer doesn’t like how his voice sounds on tape.” She picks up her book. “Anyway, I want to keep reading. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Writing. I’m gonna hole up in the sunroom. Probably skip dinner.”

She raises a brow at me. “Is it finally coming to you? The song?”

“Starting to,” I admit. “But don’t get your hopes up.”

“Nah, I’ll get my hopes up for the both of us. Go get that song, Graham.”

She flashes me one of those unbridled smiles, and I force myself to look away because I have no willpower when she smiles at me like that.

We go our separate ways for the rest of the afternoon. I grab my guitar and escape to the sunroom at the side of the house. Fueled by a smile, I scribble lyrics and strum the melody I’ve been hearing in my head since we hiked to the sex tree. It’s got so much potential that I do something I rarely do. I pull out my phone and record myself singing it, then send the raw file to Cole for an opinion.

Because holy shit.

This song…might be good.





Later that night, I reward myself for a solid day’s work by swiping a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet. It’s my mom’s favorite and stupidly expensive, but I don’t think she’ll mind if I indulge.

Balancing a tumbler on my knee, I settle into a chair on the deck and gaze out at the quiet lake. A faint breeze carries the scent of pine and campfire smoke. Someone is having a fire nearby. But all I can smell is the sharp, warm burn of whiskey.