When she woke up every morning to clean the house, fix her father’s dinner, and work on a new idea for a blouse or a skirt, she thought of him constantly. Of the way he cupped her cheeks as he kissed her, of how it felt to have that long ridge of muscle pushing against her soft, wet places through his shorts and her pants every night. She’d smile, remembering the sweet, low rumble of his voice close to her ear, or the way his tongue tasted after he finished his glass of wine.
If she finished early and they had a little extra time, sometimes they’d walk slowly, from the back door of the kitchen to the Adirondack chairs where they’d talked the first night. She’d sit on his lap, and he’d hold her tight, his lips brushing her ear and neck as he told her about his day. Other times, they would sit on the dock beside her boat, his arm around her shoulders, their legs dangling in the brackish water as they stole a few extra minutes to kiss or talk.
Laire became familiar with the major players in Erik’s life: his mother and father, his sister, Hillary, and good friends Pete and Van, who each had a summer home on the northern Banks. She imagined they were a happy foursome playing at the beach or lounging by the pool, lucky Hillary the only girl with three handsome boys who’d met in kindergarten and graduated from high school together. Laire didn’t know a ton about Pete, and even less about Van, whom Erik mentioned only in the context of the whole group, but that was probably her fault, as she focused her questions primarily on his family.
His father, the governor, was ambitious and demanding, his expectations of Erik far more onerous than her own father’s of her. And his mother, Ursula, whom he called Fancy, seemed much more concerned with her social engagements and furthering her “reach” (whatever the hell that was!) than her son’s happiness. Piecing together the unspoken parts of his narrative, she gathered that Erik didn’t really want to be a lawyer and didn’t have strong political aspirations like his father. What he seemed to enjoy most was sports—playing hockey and lacrosse, tennis and golf, sailing and swimming. She had yet to learn what he wanted from life; she only knew that following his father into government service wasn’t his dream.
But these snippets of conversation happened between soul-shaking kisses that stole her breath and her heart, making her long for things that nice girls weren’t supposed to want without a wedding ring. She often found herself reconsidering Erik’s words from the night of their first kiss: If two people care about each other, it’s up to them to make up their own rules. More and more, Laire wondered if the all-consuming, first-thing-in-the-morning, final-thing-before-sleeping feelings she had for Erik Rexford were, indeed, love. How else could she explain the waves of aching longing she felt whenever she was away from him, and the sharp, sweet relief when he finally held her in his arms? If they did fall in love, what rules would she and Erik make for themselves? And would she be able to reconcile those choices against the person she’d been raised to be? Because she wanted more from him. Oh, God, every day, she wanted more.
On Friday night, Erik sat at the bar with a single red rose before him, and as he met her outside after her shift, he presented it to her with a grin.
Never having received a flower from a beau before, Laire raised it to her nose and inhaled deeply as he walked them over to their favorite chairs and pulled her onto his lap with a happy sigh.
“What’s this for?” she asked, looking up into his dark eyes with a shy grin.
He dropped his lips to hers in a sweet kiss. “It’s our one-week anniversary. We met a week ago today.”
She giggled, nodding her head. “I guess we did.”
“You had crabs, remember?”
“Oh, Lord,” she groaned. “You ever gonna let me live that down?”
“Unlikely,” he said, nuzzling her nose with his. “Though I am curious how you knew about that kind of crabs.”
“Ha,” she said. “Can’t live in a town that catches blues and not hear jokes about crabs from the cradle.”
He chuckled, brushing his lips against hers. “Makes sense, I guess.” He leaned his head on the back of the chair and looked at her. “So! I have somethin’ to ask you.”
“What?”
“Well, this is nice, you know? Meetin’ you after work every night . . .”
“Mm-hm,” she murmured, shifting in his lap to press her chest against his and thread her fingers through his hair. “It is.”
His lips were so close to her ear, they brushed her skin with every word. “But it’s not enough, Freckles. Not for me. I know you work most nights, but I was wonderin’ how you’d feel about spendin’ the day with me sometime.”
She froze. “The day?”
“Yeah. The whole day, until you have to be here for work. You and me. Kissin’ and sunnin’ and swimmin’ and . . . whatever else we felt like doin’.”