Chapter 17Rayne

T

he following Tuesday, Gage slides into the desk behind mine. “Has Madame said what the big project is yet?”

“Not yet, but I hope it doesn’t involve a lot of—”

Madame Martine taps her ruler on the podium. “Vous attirez l’attention!” She looks more like a French storybook character than a teacher, her orthopedic shoes, long chambray skirt, and oversized cardigan channeling Mother Goose.

“Class, it’s mid-term project time, accounting for forty percent of your semester grade. You’ll need to work in pairs, of my choosing, to select a location in Paris, present a short history, create a backdrop, and lastly, my favorite part, prepare an authentic French dish. Transport me to Paris—the city of lights and love!”

She places a glass jar on the podium, pulls out strips of paper in pairs, and begins announcing partners. Jaycee matches early on with a girl she hardly knows. I hold my breath, hoping I get someone semi-decent. “Mademoiselle Davidson et…” Please let it be good. “…Monsieur Howard.” Yes!

He taps my shoulder, face lit up when I look back at him, and whispers in my ear, “I’m thinking this is the most action Madame sees all year. So… what are we cookin’ good-lookin’?”

I strum my fingers on my cheek, but it’s all for show. There’s no doubt in my mind what we’re making. “Tartes aux cerises.” He wrinkles his forehead as if leafing through his mental French dictionary in a desperate translation attempt. “Cherry pie,” I finally say.

“My favorite.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down as he says it.

“Of course it is.” God, he’s sexy. Though technically, I shouldn’t think it.

The rain freckles my windshield as I turn in the Howards’ drive the following Sunday afternoon. I’ve spent the better part of the drive feeling guilty about my less-than-honest conversation with Mama before I walked out the door, purposefully vague with a dash of accuracy and a dollop of evasion. She asked if I’d be working in approved “public spaces” such as dens, dining rooms, kitchens, and garages with absolutely no bedrooms—ever. Check.

She asked if the Howards would be there. Kinda check. They were away for the weekend but messaged their kids religiously each day at four o’clock. That counted, right? She asked if Preston and I would ever be there alone together. Nope. Preston’s at a study session at the campus library so it’d only be me and Gage. I’m honest on a technicality. She asked about the wrong brother.

If I’d told her the whole truth, she’d have railroaded it, and working on this project with Gage can’t be jeopardized. The grade is important. Time with him is more important.

Too often lately my wandering thoughts start off with something perfectly innocent, like a conversation with Preston, and then somehow meander into the forbidden fraternal territory. Images of Gage—his lips, his eyes, barrel into my mind like little wrecking balls that pulverize my flimsy pretenses. I picture him in my daydreams, never us, because that’d be what the preacher calls “lusting in my heart.” Mama always says if you’re thinking about it, it’s the same as doing it already. The Bible says so. The people in town think that, too. The last thing I need is to tick off the town and Jesus.

Gage stands in the driveway before the car is in park. He opens my door and grabs bags of groceries and craft supplies from the back floorboard.

“Quit! You can’t carry all that.” I get out and slam the door. He twists toward me and switches the plastic sacks into his left hand, a smirk on his lips.

“You doubt my strength?” He plunges his finger into his chest. “I got all this… and you.” I squeal as he hoists me up, circling my arms around his shoulders and burying my face into his hair as he walks up the sidewalk, through the front door, not stopping until we reach the kitchen.

His grip is different from Preston’s. Sturdier. Tighter. Every nerve ending lights up, fiery hot and frenzied, like a thousand lighters at a rock concert. I’ve been trying to avoid this mental situation and now here I am on some sort of physical tight rope. Forget lusting in my heart. Now my whole body’s yearning to break the rules.

“We can work in here. Want something to drink?” He drops the craft supplies onto the table and swings open the refrigerator door, sliding in the groceries and surveying inside. “Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Cheerwine?”

Mama never buys soda at the store. Besides the morning coffee, we have three options on any given day—milk, water, and sweet tea. She says soda rots your teeth. “Pepsi, thanks.”

He grabs two, pops the top on both and hands one to me. The fizz tickles my nose as I take a drink, the hot sweetness burning a trail down my throat, causing me to cough.

“You all right? Need mouth-to-mouth or something?”

Oh God, do I ever. “Went down the wrong way.” I pray he doesn’t see the redness burning in my cheeks.

“Just checking. I kinda need you alive to do this project with me.” He lays belly-down on the kitchen floor, now littered with paints and brushes, and pats the tiles beside him. “We can spread out down here.”

I join him on the floor, side-by-side, our shoulders lightly grazing and an unseen force sucking us together like attracted magnetic poles. If I stop fighting it at any point, I’m sure to go flying right into him. Dammit, Rayne, stop this. My relationship with Preston is a good thing, and he’s a good guy. So why can’t I quit thinking about his brother?

“So, for the project, I’m thinking…” Gage starts. My intense focus on his lips lulls me into a quiet trance. Pucker, pinch, straighten, and part. As they move with each syllable, I drift backwards into myself. He’s saying something about the project, and I should be listening but all I can focus on is the heat from his shoulder touching me and how much I want to run my fingers along the stubble on his chin and brush my cheek against the lettering down his abs. “What d’ya think?”

“About what?”

He shifts his eyes to me and frowns. “The project…”

Oh yeah, the project. “I’m thinking Montmartre. Not too touristy. More artsy. Cool lights and love, not that movie junk.”

He nods. “Yeah, that’s what I just said.”

Really? “Yeah, I know,” I stammer, looking down to spin a marker in circles on the floor. “Just agreeing with you.” Two days ago, Preston said I’d be a fool to do anything but the Eiffel Tower if Madame wanted lights and love. What girl could resist the fantasy surrounding it?

Me, apparently. I’m more Midnight in Paris—quirky, whimsical, nostalgic. Now Gage sits here regurgitating that exact logic.

“Awesome,” he says, holding up his hand for a high-five. “Let’s do this.”

Over the next couple hours, we paint our version of Paris’s original artist village across a series of three foam boards, complete with narrow streets, sidewalk cafes, and a string of Christmas lights stapled along the border to play up the eclectic vibe. But the best part is when Gage narrates a string of childhood memories from secret handshakes in the backyard tree house to frog-catching conquests. I love imagining him as a kid, how cute he’d be running around in overalls, dark hair scruffed up with skinned knees. But something about it hurts, too. It’s how he talks about his brother. The whole town loves Preston, but Gage idolizes him, and listening to his memories only makes me cringe.

When we finish, Gage props the boards in the corner of the breakfast nook and plugs in the light string. “Shut that.” He nods toward the yellow swinging door leading to the hallway, while he snaps the blinds closed. When he flips the wall switch, the lights spark life in our faux Paris scene.

We stand side-by-side in silence, except for the faint slurping of Gage gnawing his lower lip. “I don’t know, Rayne…”

There’s no way he isn’t satisfied with this. “What? I think it looks—”

“I don’t know how we won’t get an A,” he interrupts, grinning.

“I know, right?” He slides his arm around my shoulder, awkwardly side-hugging me as someone would a little sister. Maybe I’ve been reading him wrong. Maybe that’s how he sees me—his brother’s girl and, consequently, his pseudo-sister. Torture. My secret pining reciprocated with good ol’ sibling affection.

Maybe it can never be more. Saying it’s easy. Accepting it’s something else. There are moments I wish I’d met Gage first. This is one of those. My throat stiffens, difficult to swallow, and my abs knit together tightly. I hate that vomit sensation.

“Rayne?” Gage pulls my chin up, his blue eyes lit up with the happy golden flecks ringing the pupils. “We rocked this project.”

Is spontaneous combustion an actual thing? My spirit bounces around with untamed energy and threatens to burst out of my skin and blow my body to smithereens. I imagine dissolving into a pile of sooty residue at his feet in an instant.

I circle my arm around his waist, relaxing my head on his shoulder. His body is warm and inviting like the favorite pillow from my bed. “I could fall in love here,” I whisper to myself. He doesn’t need to hear it. I just need to say it. Let it out and expel the energy.

“What?” He leans down, his ear close to my face, his cheek closer, his lips closest. Two inches of air separate us, but it might as well be two miles.

“Nothing.” I slow my breathing, redirect, and drop my arm from his body. “We need to make those tarts.”

He frowns, then turns and walks to the fridge, holding the door open with his hip as he piles the ingredients in his arms. He kicks the door shut and shovels everything on the island’s granite top.

“All you.” Gage waves his hand in a circle over the food. “Just tell me what to do.”

“I think I can handle that.” I tweak his nose and pick up one of the canvas bags I’d brought.

With a wink, he laughs, “I bet you can.”

“Oh, I have my plans for you.” I wag my finger in the air then pull out an apron from the bag. He clamps his eyes shut, scrunches his nose, and throws back his head, but I ignore him, looping the strap around his neck before stepping behind to tie the strings into a bow. My knuckles graze the ripples of muscles crisscrossing his back under the lightweight tee-shirt, and my fingers tremble, wanting to explore further, following the valleys down, until—

“I can pit the cherries. Can’t mess that up, right?” His words snatch me back to the present.

I grab the plastic clamshell carton and toss it to him. “I don’t know. How good are you at working with cherries?”

He turns the container over in his hands and checks out the red fruit. “Let’s just say I’m an eager student.” He glances up at me as he says it, and suddenly my mind is going places it shouldn’t, and my cheeks flame up again. This toeing-the-line, sarcastic back-and-forth we’re so good at is making it hard to concentrate on this baking project when all I want to do is have him demonstrate his skills.

“Good to know.” I smile like a fool because I literally cannot help it. I can’t force my cheeks down. He does that to me, and it’s getting harder to hide, so I do what I do best—change the subject. “I’ll work on the custard and the crusts, and then we’ll put it all together.”

Gage sits at the dinette table, reclined back on the legs of his chair and pits each cherry before tossing it in a bowl. I finish the rest, and once the tarts are perfectly prepared and packaged in the large clear-topped pastry box, we only have to clean up the mess.

I load the dishes into the sink, swirl soap across the top, and turn on the water until foamy bubbles peek over the basin’s edge. The mixing bowl, still sitting on the counter, has small clumps of custard around the bottom. I dredge my finger through the remnants and hold it out to Gage. “Taste test?”

“Heck yeah.” He walks over, leans down, and takes my finger into his mouth. His tongue slides against my fingertip, shooting an icy blast down to my toes. While his lips are still wrapped around my finger, he lifts his eyes and wiggles his brows in approval. “Ummy,” he says, garbled.

I giggle. “I think that translates to ‘yummy’?”

Gage grabs my hand then pulls back to say, “Finger-lickin’.” He sticks out his tongue and runs it down the length of my finger again just as Preston arrives.

“What’s this?” Oh dear God. His voice catches me off-guard, and I retract quickly from Gage, stumble backward and nearly fall over the kitchen barstool. Preston stands in the threshold, hand pinning the swinging door to the wall, eyes darting back and forth between me and Gage.

If I were a cartoon character, you’d have seen my heart imprinting through my shirt. It pounds in my ears. “We finished our project.” My voice registers two octaves higher under the influence of guilt. “Come see.”

“I didn’t realize you’d still be here.” Preston walks over and kisses my temple. I’m surprised he can find it because he’s looking at me as if I have three heads. Suspicion? Jealousy? Maybe my conscience kicking my own butt?

He looks over the boards. “Buildings? I thought you were doing the Eiffel Tower? Kinda misses the ‘lights and love’ mark, doesn’t it?”

I wince. It’s personal.

“It’s Montmartre,” Gage inserts, his voice low and tense. “Home of Degas? Artist headquarters?”

“Obscure. Maybe that’ll get you extra credit. What’s in here?” Preston takes the stainless-steel bowl from my hands and peers in.

“Vanilla custard for the pies. Try some.” I absentmindedly scoop up a taste onto my finger—the same finger Gage has just been licking clean.

Preston studies the sample, licks his lips and shakes his head. “No thanks.”

I jerk my finger back and wipe the remnants onto the bowl’s edge. Gage stands behind Preston, arms folded across his chest, looking as if the custard has soured in his stomach. Preston leans over the table and peeks in the pastry box.

“Looks good, guys. Y’all are done now, right?” Preston loops his arm through mine. “Let’s go hang out before you have to leave.”

I pull away and point to the sink. “I have to finish cleaning up and load this stuff into my car first.”

Gage steps forward and waves me off. “I got it. Go ahead with Preston.”

“You sure?” I search his gaze for any sign he wants me to stay. Nothing.

“Yeah.” He takes the bowl from my hands, drops his head and walks to the sink. I want him to intervene, insist I stay with him. He doesn’t. He lets me go to Preston without batting an eye. I guess this means it really has been innocent flirtation on his part, and if so, Gage and I didn’t enter any kind of forbidden territory, so that lusting in my heart thing is null and void.

I should be relieved. Only I’m not. I’m disappointed.