As I pull into the driveway, Lucy, who has been asleep with her head resting against the window, stirs.
She’s a good sport.
She totally could have bowed out of that trip, knowing she gets sick on the water, but she didn’t. I saw her go green when we first set out from the dock, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t complain.
I have to admit, I was rooting for her. Hoping she’d make it back to the dock without losing it.
I’m not the kind of guy who jumps in when there’s vomit involved, so I don’t know what made me leap to help her out. Just this wave of protectiveness. I couldn’t stand back while she was suffering. I had to do whatever I could to help.
This is another bad sign. I have done pretty much whatever I could in life to avoid feeling this way about people other than my family members. At least since Ceci.
“Luce. You, um, want the first shower?”
I watch her take a moment to figure out where she is and what the hell is going on. When she remembers, she makes a face and reaches for the soiled sweatshirt, which is folded in her lap. “You can have the first one. I have to grab my stuff anyway.”
I nod. “I’ll make it quick. If you text me when you’re ready to come over, I’ll head to the office.”
“You don’t have to do that. You’ve already seen me at my worst. Soaked and muddy. Barfing over the side of a fishing boat. Heck, you’ve seen me in my PJs.”
What Lucy doesn’t understand is that I like her at her worst. Not more than I like her at her best, because Lucy at her best is also a thing of beauty. Lucy at her best is long ringlet curls and glossy lips, silky clothes all buttoned up and waiting for someone to undo them. And Lucy at what she calls her worst is Lucy when she’s unsure. When she isn’t wearing armor and putting on a performance. When she might make a mistake, and you might see it.
But I don’t say any of that.
I say, “Give me that.”
She holds the vomit-y sweatshirt away from my grasp. “No.”
“Do you want to keep it as a souvenir?”
She glares. “It has to go in the wash. I don’t want you to have to touch it. Bad enough I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin it,” I say. “You temporarily soiled it. Give it to me.”
But she’s insistent. “Show me where the washer is, and I’ll put it in there so you don’t have to touch it.”
It’s easier not to argue—and it’s not like I want to touch it—so I let her follow me into the house. Buck greets me like I’ve been away for a year instead of just for a day, jumping up and licking me and butting my hand with his head. “Hey, buddy. Sorry I didn’t bring you today. Next time.”
He turns his attention to Lucy, giving her similar treatment, just a little warier. She smiles and scratches him behind the ears, the way he likes. He catches wind of the nasty shirt and tries to tug it out of her hands.
“No, bud,” I say. “Give me a sec, I’m going to let him out.” I coax him to the back fenced area.
I show Lucy through the kitchen and into the pantry/laundry room. She drops the shirt into the front loader. I point her to the laundry sink, and she washes her hands quickly and dries them on the towel hanging there.
“I’ll give you, what, ten or fifteen to take your shower?”
I nod, trying not to think about the last time I was in the shower with Lucy in my house.
She leaves, and I let Buck—who’s scrabbling at the back door—inside. He follows me upstairs and settles himself on the carpet outside the bathroom while I strip off my clothes and get in the shower.
For a minute, I’m content to rinse off the scum of the day, but once I’m clean and the water is falling warm over my skin, I think, What if…
What if she came up the stairs, and this time she didn’t stop and call out my name? What if she dropped her clothes on the floor outside the bathroom, slipped through the door, and joined me in here?
For a moment the fantasy is so vivid that my breathing stops. Her skin, satiny and warm against mine, the slickness of the water falling over us mingling with the slickness of her sex as I slip a finger between her legs. To seek her clit and stroke it. To find her wet heat and thrust into it.
This could become a bad habit, I think, as my hand reflexively reaches for my aching erection.
I make myself stop. I wash my hair and body, not lingering to stroke myself, even though the temptation is stronger than ever.
I pull on clothes and head downstairs, followed by Buck. I’m thinking breaded and fried, with lemon butter. I pull out the panko.
I’m squeezing lemons—the citrus fruit kind—when I hear her on the front porch. She hesitates at the door, and I can feel her trying to decide if she should knock or just come in. In the end, she knocks.
I open the door to find her carrying her shower caddy and a small tote bag. She’s wearing my robe and a pair of flipflops. Her bare legs are visible beneath the hem of the robe.
Does that mean she’s naked underneath?
The urge to reach out and tug that stupid blue terry tie is strong.
My restraint in the shower is now seeming like a really stupid choice.
Her eyes meet mine like she knows what I’m thinking. Like she’s thinking it, too.
Like she wants me to do it.
I’m reaching out my hand to grab the tie where it’s knotted. I’m going to tug her forward. Kiss her breathless.
Except Buck has insinuated himself between us and nosed into her crotch.
“Buck, quit it,” I say, grabbing his collar, trying not to laugh. Dogs, man. They are all id. I use my knee to push Buck out of the way, and Lucy slips around me and into the house.
Moment lost.
I follow her in, head into the kitchen, and call out, “Beer?” I come back into the living room with two and hold one out to her.
She waves the beer off. “I should probably have some food first.”
“I’ll start dinner while you’re in the shower.”
“Dinner—”
“It’s too much fish for one person.”
“Sometimes people ask, Gabe,” Lucy says, but she’s smiling. “Like, ‘Hey, I’ve got all this fish, wanna stay for dinner?”
“Hey. I’ve got all this fish. Wanna stay for dinner?”
“Sure.” Her smile gets even bigger. “You, um, know how to… cook?”
“I’m a thirty-five-year-old bachelor. I’d be pretty screwed if I didn’t.”
“You’ve got a lot of family. Including a sister who makes a mean lasagna.”
“Go shower,” I say.
Still smiling, she turns and goes upstairs. A few minutes later, I hear the shower running. I break a couple eggs and grate some parmesan cheese. Keeping my hands busy seems like a really good idea. I turn on some music, too, so I can’t hear the water running upstairs. That keeps me from wondering what she’s doing in there.
She comes back down when I’m dropping thin spaghetti into the pasta water and heating the oil in the pan to fry the fish. I’ve sautéed some garlic and red pepper flakes, and now I add spinach.
“Oh, my God, Gabe, this is amazing,” she says. “You’re amazing.”
“You’re not going to flatter me into liking your ideas for Wilder.”
She laughs. “You and your brothers will like the ideas for Wilder when you see how much money comes in.”
“My brothers and I will never like the ideas for Wilder.”
Her face falls, and I feel bad. The thing about Lucy is, she really believes in what she’s selling. She meant what she said when she explained how she’d try to find a way for us to build the business without sacrificing our vision.
I just don’t think it’s possible.