“You really are a worst-case scenario kind of guy, aren’t you?”
“No. It’s facts. I’m an optimist.”
I roll my eyes and I’m certain he knows. “Blah blah blah, facts.”
Davis seems to be mulling over another question. “What’s your fondest memory of being at the cabin with your parents?”
That one I have to think about for a few seconds. “I’m not sure it’s my fondest memory, but it’s the one that sticks out the most. Back when I was a teenager, my parents had this speed boat, and I would have friends come to the lake with us and obviously we would go tubing behind the boat. Well, my father is nuts and his main goal was to flip us off the tube by driving like a maniac.”
Davis chuckles as I tell my story.
“So I have my friend Claire along, right? And we’re on this tube called Big Bertha—and I can see that my father is barely paying attention as he’s driving this boat because he keeps turning his head around to look at us. Mom is in the boat spotting, but so was Dad even though he’s not supposed to be. Anyway, Big Bertha hits a pocket of air and a wave and Claire and I go flying into the air—she’s able to hang on but I go sailing into the water and my swimsuit gets jammed up my ass.” I’m shocked I didn’t get a concussion. “I shit you not, I was walking crooked for an entire week—and I’ve not been tubing since.”
Davis is quiet a few seconds. “Dang, I’m glad we didn’t take the speed boat out this weekend. Don’t want you reliving any childhood trauma.”
“Ha ha, thanks, I appreciate it.” He’s not wrong; it was traumatic! “What’s your fondest childhood memory?”
“I’m not sure. We didn’t have a lot of money and my mom was gone a lot, so...I guess my fondest memories were…hmm. It was a huge splurge to get ice cream. A huge splurge. I always got bubble gum and a scoop of blue moon.”
I nod approvingly. “Classic childhood flavors. I went with ice cream that had chocolate, if we got ice cream.” My parents did well for themselves, but Dad really wasn’t into spending money on meals, dining out, or tasty treats. Every so often, Mom could convince him to stop at a roadside ice cream shop along the highway on our way to the cabin in the summers, but he’d grumble and groan about it the entire time.
And he never got himself ice cream.
It’s no wonder that Davis helps support his sister if she’s a single mother—he was raised by one.
“I used to talk Penelope into doing the dumbest shit when we were young; my mom was always at work so we were left alone a lot—she couldn’t afford babysitters. So we’d ride cardboard boxes down the basement stairs and have sword fights with butter knives and once we had a yard sale while Mom was gone. Holy shit we got in so much trouble when I sold the lawn mower to some dude for ten bucks.”
“Ten bucks!” I gasp. “The guy should have known better buying it from a kid!”
“No doubt.” He sounds amused. “I’d question it if some kid was hocking a lawn mower on the side of the road, that’s for damn sure.”
“I’d at least give him fifty for it,” I tease. “Then I’d be able to sleep at night.”
“Fifty!” Davis cackles. “You’d still be stealing it!”
“I know, I’m kidding.”
His hand is on my hip, beginning a slow caress. “You’re funny.”
His voice is low and gravelly.
I swallow. “You think so?”
“I know so.” Up and down my hip that hand goes, singeing holes into my flesh through my jogging pants that have never once been jogging.
His voice is so terribly sexy.
My limbs go weak.
Still, I move closer, laying my head on the arm I have extended, fingertips brushing the headboard.
Prime position for a smooch on the lips.
“Juliet?” He says my name for the second time in the dark.
“Yes?”
“So, don’t judge me for asking this, but I’m a little confused and just need some clarification so I’m not jumping to conclusions…”
Oh boy.
“Okay…” My tone comes out as hesitant as his. I cannot imagine what he’s about to ask.
“Were you…are you…trying to…”
Oh shit.
He’s going to say it. He’s going to ask if I want to kiss him.
He’s calling me out.
I freeze like a statue, though his hand is still on my hip.
Deny it.
Deny, deny, deny.
“Are you trying to…” Davis is having the damnedest time getting the words out, his shyness tugging at my heartstrings. Gosh he’s so cute.
“Kiss me?”
“Am I trying to kiss you?” I repeat his question for lack of anything more brilliant to say: if I say yes, he might laugh. If I say no, he may not move in closer.
I feel like a teenager.