And for me, that goes down as another wonderful surprise.
I slide my open hand toward him.
“Do it again.”
~ ~ ~
Another hour goes by and the bar is still hopping. The song “Sex and Candy” by Marcy Playground comes from the speakers—and I wonder if there’s a “Marcy” out there somewhere that their lead singer wanted to bump uglies with.
The conversation between me and Dean flows easy—we talk about everything and nothing at the same time.
“If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
He frowns—and even his frown is hot. Possibly hotter than his smile.
“Damn, that’s hard.”
I don’t relent.
“Life’s most crucial questions usually are.”
He tilts his head toward the ceiling, exposing the enticing swell of his Adam’s apple. And there’s something so deliciously manly about it—I want to lean over and lick it.
But then he dips his chin, blocking my move. “Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits.”
“That’s not a song—that’s a whole album.”
“That’s my answer.”
I poke the curve of his bicep—it’s like prodding a warm, sexy, rock.
“That’s cheating.”
“Then I’m a cheater.” He shrugs. “Screw it.”
Later, we delve into each other’s souls . . . kind of.
“Tell me something you hate,” Dean asks, before downing his shot.
“I hate commercials where you have no idea what they’re trying to sell you until the end.”
His head bobs in agreement. “They suck.”
“What about you?”
“I hate people who drive in convertibles with the top down and the windows up. Like dude . . . pick a side.”
And he says it in such a serious, adorable way, I crack up.
Dean watches me, staring at my mouth, his eyes deep-water blue and enraptured.
“That’s a great sound.” He leans in. Closer and closer.
“What sound?”
He takes a curl of my hair, brushing it between his fingers thoughtfully. “Your laugh. It’s a beautiful laugh, Lainey.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. “I work really hard on it every day.”
His lips stretch into a full, chuckling smile. Then he grabs the bottle of vodka on the bar, tosses down a few bills and tilts his head toward the door.
“You want to get out of here?”
And I don’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
~ ~ ~
We shuffle across the back parking lot of the bar—holding hands, taking swigs from the bottle and giggling. Because alcohol is a time machine—it makes you young and silly.
Dean leads me up the steps to an apartment above a detached garage. “This is where we stay when we play at the Beachside Bar. But these days, Jimmy and the guys get hotel rooms with the wives and kids, so it’s just you and me tonight.”
He flicks on the lights revealing a small living room with a couch and television, and a tiny kitchen. It’s sparse, and void of any real personality, but it’s clean.
I follow him through the set of French doors that lead out to a balcony, with two cushioned lounge chairs and a hot tub that overlooks a dark, wooded lot.
I nod, smiling. “Nice.”
“I’m going to take a quick shower. You good here?”
I give him two thumbs-up. “I’m good.”
Dean takes out his phone, fiddles with the buttons and sets it on the table, leaving Amos Lee to sing “Wait Up For Me,” as he goes inside. And I soak it all in—the warm breeze, the way the moonlight shimmers on the trees, the smell of the ocean in the air, and the loose, languid feel of my bones.
Here, now, in this moment—life is really good. And when it’s good, it should savored, enjoyed. Celebrated.
A few minutes later, the song changes and “Boardwalk Angel” plays from Dean’s phone. I close my eyes, humming along, tilting my head up to the sky and spinning slowly in time to the music.
Until I feel him. I turn around and Dean is leaning against the door-jam, the heat of his eyes following my every move.
He’s wearing jeans—shirtless—his hair a damp, dirtier shade of blond. The muscles of his arms and chest are long and taut, all beautiful swells and shadowed ridges. Little water droplets glisten on his shoulders and I’m suddenly very thirsty.
“Hi,” I whisper, a little breathless because—wow.
His mouth does that sexy quirk thing.
“Hi.”
Dean moves forward, eating up the space between us and I step in into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands skim up my back, pressing me close, and mine slide down his arms—loving the warm, smooth feel of his skin beneath my palms.
And then we’re dancing. Swaying together to this slow song about the boardwalk and carnival lights and falling in love on a carousel. And there’s a sweetness to the moment—a magic and tenderness—that I just might remember for the rest of my life.
“This is a good song. John Cafferty and The Beaver Brown Band.”
I feel the chuckle that comes from his chest. “Most people would’ve said Eddie and the Cruisers.”