And not one of those dreams ever included being a hot mess of sticky hair, fruit filling, crust, and skin so red with shame I wonder if it’ll stain me crimson for life.
Somehow, he’s still laughing, even as he brings me upstairs to the bathroom and fetches a washcloth from nowhere, wiping at my face.
But it’s not a cruel, arrogant, look-at-what-a-klutz-you-are laugh.
He’s too good for that.
It’s kind, as if to say, no big deal. Peach-flavored shit happens.
I’m a little less sticky when I grab the washcloth out of his hand and use it to blot at my face, trying to hide the tears, and failing.
“I...I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m such an idiot. I tried to do one nice thing for you and—”
“And?” he echoes, snatching the damp cloth from my trembling hand and gently blotting peach goo off my cheek. “Last I checked, it’s the thought that counts. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
“But you saw how clumsy I am!” I whine, tipping my face up to the ceiling.
“I saw you practicing one hell of a talent act,” he whips back.
For a second, I look down and glare at him, biting my lip. But the gentle, joking shine in his bright-green eyes is there to soothe me. Not taunt.
He’s always been the older boy, but he’s also mature beyond his years.
“Is this what you do when you go home to your fancy-schmancy dance routines?” he asks, that Oklahoma twang in his voice turning me to butter.
“You think I planned this?” Shaking my head, I smile anyway at how absurd it is. “You think I wanted to look like a total ass in front of you and your grandpa?”
“I mean...it’s a step up from the bees,” he says with a wink, referring back to the infamous time we met several summers ago. “And Gramps ain’t here. He’s in town today picking up jars for his honey.”
“Okay, but all that effort...I made it for you guys and I ruined it. You never even got a chance to taste—”
I flinch as he runs his finger over my cheek, wiping a small dab of peach off my skin. Then I watch in disbelief as he plucks it into his mouth, taking his sweet time licking his finger.
Oh my God.
I pull my messy hair over my face like a shield.
Bad idea, probably, when blushing this hard could set my face on fire.
“Tastes like summer to me. Sugary, sweet, just a little tangy, and...oh, wait a minute.”
I freeze in terror as he frowns, deep in thought.
“Yeah, I think it tastes just a little bit like an overachieving whiner who thinks I’m gonna send pictures of her peach-splattered face to her family, her friends, her teachers, all her future bosses, and every dude who wants to date her.” His eyes practically fuse with mine as he smiles.
“Idiot!” I snap, punching him in the arm. “Be serious. I’m trying to apologize.”
“And I’m telling you, there’s no need. Shit happens. You’ll bring over a new pie when you feel like it and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
Right.
Like it’s just that easy.
But the twinkle in his eyes insists it is.
“You’re the worst,” I say, grabbing the washcloth again so I can scrub away the smile I’m fighting. “I’ll never live it down. And what kind of man wants a girl who makes a mess like this? He’d probably be scared I’ll hit him in the face with a pie, sooner or later.”
“Plenty of guys, Peach. I promise you. You’re gonna make some dude ecstatic.”
My eyes dart up, fully expecting to see another playful and annoyingly gorgeous smirk etched on Quinn’s face.
Only, there’s not a shred of fun in those emerald fire eyes.
None of the usual clown sarcasm.
He’s stone-cold serious.
And I try to blame every last bit of the searing hot blood rushing to my face on the pie mishap as my seven minutes and twenty seconds to heaven expires.
That’s how long it takes for him to save me for the second of many times in my life.
It’s also how long it takes me to fall from schoolgirl infatuation to head over heels in love with Quinn Faulkner.
Nine Years Later
Life is a whole series of firsts.
The rush of a first kiss with an impossible boy on a sticky summer day.
The first disappointment of that damning B on a Euro history test your overachieving butt busted itself over.
The first time your adult self steps into a small town that still feels magical, even though you’re far too old for that kinda thinking anymore.
And then there’s your first time with goats.
“Come on, guy, why are you looking at me like that? It’s not like I planned on winding up a goat wrangler in Dallas, North Dakota,” I tell Owl, the huge black hill of a dog sitting next to me in the passenger seat. He’s looking at me now, turning away from staring out the truck’s windshield like my copilot.
Honestly, he is my copilot on this journey. The only one I can depend on when the time comes to turn loose a dozen bleating, horned eating machines on a couple overgrown acres.
“You know, I could be dancing on Broadway right now,” I whisper to the Tibetan Mastiff. “If it wasn’t for this bum knee...”
I glance at the dog. His big almond-shaped brown eyes settle on me, and he blinks lazily. Just once before turning his square block of a head back to gazing at the hills rolling by.
He’s not impressed.
Fair enough.
I’m not either.
Deep down, I think I always knew I’d fall short. A Spidey-sense warning me my dancing career wouldn’t last forever.
Heck, how many dancers are still tearing up the spotlight in their forties?
Trouble is, I’m not even thirty years old yet. I still had over a decade to go, and if I’d just gotten to Broadway...you’d better believe I’d have slayed.
“Wanna know a secret, Owl? It wasn’t my fault,” I tell him, mainly because this shaggy beast is the closest thing I have to a true confidant now. “It wasn’t even an accident. The bitch tripped me—on purpose.”
I get another dull look from him.
“I’m serious. Swear to God. Madeline Shafer. She’d make you lick salt in Death Valley if she thought she could get away with it. Fake blonde hair, long legs, and no tits.” I glance down at my own rather flat chest with a sigh. “I mean, meh boobs kinda come with the territory. I’ve done enough cardio for ten lifetimes.” I huff out a breath. “The fact that I’m almost up to a B-cup might be the only good thing about sitting on my ass for months.”
Owl’s big brown doggie eyes land on my hair. Probably because sitting on the seat the way he is makes him taller than me.
I feel like he should be wearing the seat belt, but I couldn’t figure out how that would do anything except get him tangled up and annoyed. He’s still staring at my hair with his meaty pink tongue flopped out as I touch my ponytail, making sure it’s intact.
“I thought dogs couldn’t appreciate bright colors? I’ll have you know I kept these pink highlights from my last big show. Jean-Paul swore I’d be center stage, but I guess Madeline talked him into other plans. I still can’t help but wonder if they schemed it together.”