“There are some things I miss about life here,” I admit, turning to take in the tent. The kids are back, taking over the dance floor now. My heart nearly stops as I watch a little curly blonde girl grab a brunette boy’s hand and drag him onto the floor, trying to teach him the steps to a dance her mother and father are doing right next to her. I remember times like that. Back when we were all here. Back when we were still a family. Not just Mama and me, left on our own. Left to heal the rift without any help.
“You’d be surprised how nice it can be,” Meredith is saying, leaning against Joe as he loops one arm around her shoulders. “The quiet might seem suffocating when you first come from the big city, all that hustle and bustle. But give it enough time to get into your bones and…” She sighs, smiling. “You can really get used to a life like this. A slower life. A sweeter one.”
“Careful, honey.” Joe squeezes Meredith’s shoulders. “You’ll give the girl a cavity with all that sweet-talking.”
She elbows him, and I grin at their interplay. Which reminds me. I glance past them, but can’t find a clock anywhere in this tent. Still, my five minutes are probably almost up. “I’ll be back,” I tell them, and I don’t miss the telltale smirk that Meredith sports when I step away, toward the tent flap.
I have a feeling the two of them know what Grant was doing when he proposed that bet over the pool game.
Hell, most people here must guess. That only makes my cheeks flare hotter when I slip out into the cool night air and circle around toward the back of the tent. There’s a few people dotted across the grass back here, some smoking, others just standing around chatting, beers in hand. I weave between them, farther and farther away from the tent, until I recognize a familiar shape leaning against the side of the small farmhouse out beyond the little tent village set up for this party. That must be the Johnsons’ actual house. To my surprise, I recognize it. Well, not the house itself, but the porch out front with a big rocker swing on it, and hard-to-forget neon orange cushions. I’ve sat out here with Mama before, visiting.
“If you’re aiming for inconspicuous, this might not be the best place,” I call as I approach Grant. There are still plenty of people around us, chatting, hanging out. I can practically feel the gazes following us.
But when I reach his side, Grant just tilts his head toward me, a sly look in his eye. “Who said we’re stopping here?” He reaches out and slaps my ass before he walks away, past the house, toward the backyard. “Try to keep up. I only have an hour with you. I plan to make the best of that time.”
I jog after him with a huff. “Some of us didn’t plan on hiking through yards in our outfits for the night,” I protest under my voice as my heels threaten to sink into the muddy ground.
He heaves a sigh. Then, without another word, he scoops me up into his arms, even as I squeal in protest.
“I’m in charge now, Sasha,” he reminds me, his voice a low rumble against my chest, cradled as I am against his. “And you won’t deny me what I want, will you?” His voice thrums with promise, all the things he wants to do to me.
I have to admit that I’m getting wetter just thinking about it. “No,” I murmur, my protest subsiding as he continues pacing across the grass, far beyond the house. I want to ask where we’re going. The party isn’t in sight anymore, though neither is much else out here, alone in the moonlit fields.
But then he turns away from the grass, toward the edge of the lawn, where there’s a copse of trees, and my eyes widen.
There’s something in the trees. A squat little construction that’s hard to make out from here. Until we cross into the shadow of the canopy ourselves, and my eyes adjust to the dim. Then I recognize the outline, and my jaw drops.
There’s a tree house here. Not a little play tree house either, like the kind we’d goof off in as kids. This one is shaped like an actual house, only held about 15 feet off the ground, with a staircase leading up to it that winds around the trunk of the tree.
“What…?” I ask, trailing off as Grant starts up the steps without even breaking his stride.
“Airbnb,” he explains, as though that tells me anything. I blink at him. He laughs. “Johnsons make extra renting this place out. A lot of people come to this area looking for escapes from cities, you know. A rustic country experience.” We reach the door, and he shoulders it open easily. “A taste of country life.”