“Come on, I’ll take you to mine and Claire’s gossip spot.” Jill wraps her fingers around my elbow and steers me to the back of the inn, leading me into the garden and through the deep arbor covered with blooming white roses. And though I was sure I explored every nook and cranny of the inn the first time around, I realize I missed the small table and chairs tucked away in the arbor’s shelter.
“Oh, wow,” I speak softly, afraid to disturb the almost mystical calm surrounding the corner.
“Right?” Jill leads me to one of the chairs and sits next to me, pouring lemonade from the pitcher waiting for us. I thank her and take a sip, almost choking with surprise when the alcohol floods my taste buds.
“That’s strong.” I cough a couple of times, grabbing the glass of water, also conveniently waiting on the tray along with the apparently not-lemonade.
“That’s a Yellow Daisy,” Jill informs me with an amused smile. “Gin, martini, Grand Marnier, and a secret ingredient.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I scoff and take another sip. “It is good once you take away the element of surprise.”
“It’s mine and Claire’s special drink,” Jill explains, tears welling in her eyes, and my heart breaks for her.
“I’m sorry you lost her. She was a big part of your life?”
“She was my sister,” Jill answers with determination. “You of all people should understand a bond like that.”
“I do.” I nod in agreement, forcing my mind away from the horrible scenarios this conversation is steering it to.
“How are you?” Jill asks out of the blue, refilling my cup.
“Okay.” I take another sip, starting to feel a bit light-headed.
“Andy tells me you were engaged.”
“Yeah, that was a while ago,” I tell her. “He was a good guy, but it just wasn’t it, you know?”
“I can imagine.” Jill smiles her mother-knows-best smile at me, and I shake my head.
“Jill, Andy and I… That’s over. You know that, right?” I look at her with all the sincerity I’ve been trying to force myself to feel.
“You’re worried about him,” Jill observes. “I can tell by the way you look at him. You see him, you always have.”
“I am worried, but that has nothing to do with us getting back together,” I clarify.
“He needs someone to remind him who he is.” Jill gives me a meaningful glare. “To show him that Lieutenant Andrew Atkins and Surfer Boy Andy can co-exist. That one doesn’t necessarily erase the other.”
“I don’t know if I’m that person,” I confess with a strained voice, pushing my drink away. “I’m not sure I ever was.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Jill leans forward. Her eyes seem almost full of animosity. “You’re not stupid, Phoebe. You must realize your presence will affect my son, so if you’re not here to help him, then you’re here to hurt him.”
“No!” I protest. “I would never hurt Andy. I want to help, but he’s shutting me out.”
“He’ll let you in. It’s only a matter of time.” Jill’s gaze softens.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up about us being a couple again,” I clarify.
“And I just want my son back,” she replies, her voice breaking as she wipes a stray tear from her cheek. I reach over and grab her hand, squeezing it, making a silent promise to do everything I can to give her just that.
Andy
“So, how bad was it?” I try to joke when Phoebe enters Claire’s kitchen, her eyes slightly glazed. She turns to me and blinks slowly, as if not entirely sure how to react to my presence.
“That wasn’t lemonade in the pitcher,” she finally declares. Looking down at her feet with a confused glare, she starts toward me, surprisingly stable on her heels considering how intoxicated she seems, and leans her forehead on my chest.
“Uh, what ya’ doing there, Phoebs?” I try to sound lighthearted, but the intentional contact causes a bout of warmth to spread through me, waking up those dormant parts I convinced myself I had abandoned in that small apartment in New Hampshire Phoebe and I shared during college.
“My feet are killing me,” she explains, struggling to reach back and grab her shoe. “But, I can’t stand on one foot cause your mom got me wasted on daisies.”
“Ah, the infamous Yellow Daisy cocktail.” I chuckle, clasping my hands onto Phoebe’s waist and lifting her onto the kitchen counter, enjoying the surprised squeak and the way she clutches my biceps more than I should allow myself. “You’re going to have some freaky dreams from the absinthe.”
“That’s the secret ingredient?” Phoebe’s eyes grow wide, and I nod, lifting her feet and removing her shoes. She looks at me expectantly, and it takes my brain a few seconds to register what she wants.
“I’m not giving you a foot rub, Curls.” I cross my arms over my chest, earning myself a pout.
“Why not?” she whines.
“Because we both know how those end.” With hot, scorching, brain-melting sex. Every time.
“Oh, come on.” Phoebe throws her hands in the air with a huff. “That was five years ago when we were together. It won’t have the same effect now, trust me.”
“I stand by my refusal.”
“Are you scared that I’m right?” Phoebe grins at me. “That you’ve lost your magic touch?”
“I have not!”
“Prove it,” Phoebe dares, and I glare at her for a good ten seconds before grabbing her foot and starting to press my thumbs into the pad. “Your ego always gets the better of you.”
“So does yours, or you wouldn’t be here now,” I retort, moving to her ankle, taking my time to loosen it before my fingers start pressing into the arch of her foot.
“Mmm, that feels good,” Phoebe purrs, her eyes fluttering shut and her head tilting back.
“Yeah?” My voice becomes low, my eyes focused on the column of her exposed neck. “And this?” I take her other foot and place her heels on the counter so I can rub both simultaneously, stepping closer to her.
“Perfect,” Phoebe replies breathlessly, her arm stretching out and her hand resting on my cheek.
“Still think I’ve lost my magic touch?” I lean into her palm, and she nods her head, her thumb stroking my cheek.
“I have no desire to fuck you, Surfer Boy,” she informs, but the way she’s looking at me makes it difficult to take her words at face value, and I can’t stop my feet from taking that extra step forward, running my hands up to her knees.
“That feels good, too,” Phoebe whispers, her gaze brewing up a storm inside me.
“We should stop?” It wasn’t supposed to be a question. “Before something happens that we both regret. You’re pretty drunk.”
“Meh, very tipsy at most.” Phoebe giggles, extracting her legs from my hands and bouncing off the counter, landing awfully close to me, her breasts only inches from my chest, her gaze fixed onto mine reaching straight to the deepest, darkest pits in my stomach. “I’m going to take a shower and a nap. I’ll call you in the morning?”