It’s my first glimpse of this side of him, the kind of alpha-y, this-is-my-woman, Tarzan ownership thing, and hell, I like it. I like it a lot.
Instead of letting him in on that fact, I enjoy the radio while he drives a few miles outside Crystal Cove to the nearest drive-in. We stop at a little diner nearby to order burgers, fries, and shakes—strawberry for me, chocolate for him.
It’s totally cliché.
And totally rad.
At dinner with Knox, I learn he’s about to enter his final year of college then plans to work for his father’s business, alongside his brother. He doesn’t ask about my parents, and I wonder if he knows something or if he’s just exceptional at reading people. I tell him about Grams, living with her until last year, and I think he reads between the lines that parents aren’t in the picture. When he finds out I like photography, he mentions a couple of hikes he plans on doing this summer in the Smokies and asks if I want to come along.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel some foreign squeeze in my belly at the thought of spending more time with him. I’d also be lying if I say this instant attraction doesn’t scare me a little bit, knowing it’ll eventually come to an end.
Instead of brushing him off, I push my fears aside and beam at him, readily accepting the invitation. What better place to utilize the skills I’ve learned over the last few years than the gorgeous Smoky Mountains? If I happen to snap a couple of pictures of Knox at the same time, well, that’d be bonus.
“You ready for this?” he asks when he parks and gets the audio set up for the movie.
Considering I’m not exactly sure what this is, I don’t know how I want to answer. But if it’s more of what came earlier, then yes. I am so ready.
Unlike on the way to the diner, I’m sitting on the passenger’s side of his car. The short drive to the drive-in, I was racking my brain, wondering if I should scoot, but I never did. Now that we’re parked, I’m thinking its time I move over when Knox’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Babe.”
I sure am getting used to that one-word moniker. I glance in his direction and see his left arm resting on the lowered window, his right arm stretched out across the back of the seat, and his eyebrows raised at me.
“Um, yes?” I ask.
“I’ve got long arms, but I can’t exactly hold you during the scary parts if you’re clear across the car.”
“Or you could come to me,” I say with a haughty tone I’m not sure I’ve ever used before.
His jaw twitches, and he glances at his legs then over to mine. “Seein’ as my legs are about twice the length of yours, I don’t think I’m goin’ to be moving over. Come on, Amelia. I won’t bite,” Just as my gaze falls to his lips, he finishes with, “Yet.”
After lacing my purse down on the floorboard, I smooth my skirt down and try to scoot across the bench seat as gracefully as possible. Apparently, I don’t move fast enough for Knox, because I’ve barely moved an inch when he leans forward, hooks his arm around my waist, and draws me to his side. He slings his arm along the back of the seat, tucking me into his chest in the process.
“Comfortable?” he asks, looking down at me.
I blink up. “Umm, yeah.”
“Good. Now, eyes on the movie. And remember, if you get scared, just squeeze me and hold on tight.”
It’s not long before I learn he’s serious about that last part. Or, well, kind of. So much for being about glad about the ice already being broken in regard to kissing. When Knox asked—rather, told—me we’d be going to the drive-in tonight to watch a movie, the last thing I expected was to actually watch the movie.
Yet here we still are, in his banging Ford Thunderbird convertible, with bench seats just like he promised. Top up, of course, for a bit more privacy for what I thought we’d be doing. Which wasn’t watching the movie.
Not that it’s a bad thing. Every so often, I feel his fingers toying with my hair. I try to keep my eyes glued to the screen, but all through the opening scene, I find myself glancing over to him, wondering when—if ever—he’s going to make a move.
He doesn’t, which turns out to be just fine. As far as slasher films go, this one surprisingly has me on pins and needles, to the point where one of my hands is clutching Knox’s denim-clad thigh, with my head turned slightly into his chest at sight of that creepy lunatic in a hockey mask lurking in the shadows and an axe slamming into the face of a pretty young girl.
Knox lets out a low chuckle and pulls me closer to him. “I’ve got you, babe.”
And he does. Oh boy, if the butterflies in my belly are any indication, he really, really does.
It’s a testament to the movie that I’m able to focus on it while pressed against Knox’s chest, our thighs practically pushed together, and his errant fingers brushing the skin on my bare shoulder every so often. Even still, I’m not sure if the goose bumps that keep arising are from the man beside me or the creep on the screen.
It’s ninety degrees outside and I have goose bumps.
Maybe I wasn’t wrong when I told Sunny it must be the heat. Every single touch, every single rush of his breath against my forehead, everything about this man has my body on fire and in chills at the same time. Like I have a fever and I can’t get heated. But at the same time, one kiss from him lit a match, sparked a blaze, and I’m praying for a firestorm instead of a slow burn.
My fingers continue to clutch the material of his shirt as the image of a serene lake fades to black, and Knox’s finger still run lazily across my back. I close my eyes, reveling in this moment.
“Babe.”
How is it that that one word seems to set me at ease? So aflame.
I glance up at dark, amused eyes.
“What’d you think?” he asks.
“Sunny was wrong. I think you’re more of a Paul Newman.”
His lips quirk up into a grin. “Not even gonna ask. I was talking about the movie.”
“Oh.” With great reluctance, I lift from his chest, releasing his shirt from my clutches. “Good. Creepy. And it doesn’t escape me that they were at Camp Crystal Lake and we’re at Crystal Cove.”
“Makes you wonder where they got the inspiration.”
I playfully hit his chest. “Don’t say that! I won’t sleep for weeks.”
“Something tells me you’ll be fine, catching up with those guys in your horror novel. Because, if you ask me, getting your dick chopped off at a gloryhole truck stop is ten times worse than an axe to the face.”
“I’m not sure I even want to argue the point. Not that I could if I wanted to.”
“Just trust me. Ready to go?”
I’d like to say no because I’m not ready for this night to end. At the same time, I’m wondering how delicately I can ask him in when we get back to my place without him thinking I’m a two-bit floozie—even if he makes me want to be. Heck, I’ve always kind of toed the line between wanting to be more Rizzo than Sandy, so why not start now, with him?
“Sure.” When I start to move over to the passenger’s side, Knox’s hand lands on my thigh and he squeezes gently.
“When you’re in my car, you’re at my side. Cool?”