“You go in first,” Hanna says. She’s standing stock still next to her truck, eyeing Gabe’s house warily, like it might bite.
We’re standing in the Wilder headquarters parking lot, having arrived in separate vehicles, but moments apart. We didn’t plan it; it just happened.
“We could walk in together,” I say. “Like we would normally if we arrived at the same time.”
“But this isn’t normally,” Hanna says. “The other night wasn’t normal.”
“Which part?” I tease her. “The part where you blew me on a blanket on my living room floor? The part where I made you yell my name with one finger? Or the part where we ate Ben & Jerry’s mostly naked and then I spread ice cream on your nip—”
“Shh!” She looks around wildly.
“Maybe we should just tell them,” I suggest. “Then you don’t have to worry about me being overheard when I wax rhapsodic about licking ice cream off you.”
She smacks me, hard, in the arm. “Shut up. Keep it simple, stupid. Take my word for it, when you’re done with me, you’ll be glad they’re not all up in our business.”
There she goes again, already writing an ending for us. “I’m not planning to be done with you any time soo—”
“Hey!”
We turn, a coordinated dance move, to find Amanda rapidly approaching from the house. “Quit arguing in the parking lot and come see Zara walking!”
“I’m not ready to think about this ending,” I tell her quietly, as we hurry behind Amanda.
She gives me a startled glance, and there’s vulnerability in her expression. A softness, a hopefulness, that sets off an answering echo in my chest. She opens her mouth, like she’s about to speak, but just then, Amanda looks back at us, and the soft expression slides right off Hanna’s face, replaced with something aloof and slightly mischievous.
And I realize: the Hanna I spar with in public—that’s a mask she wears. The real Hanna is the one down at the riverbank, the one chucking rocks into the water. The one turning pink because I bought her a gift, the one whose eyes went bright when the gift was for her and not just for the generic woman she was afraid she was to me.
I want to reach out and clutch her hand. I want to claim her in front of my sister and the rest of my family—in front of God, for that matter. But I know, because she’s put the mask back on, that she doesn’t trust me enough yet for that. And I can’t say I blame her. I don’t trust me. I don’t know what I’m doing or what I want from her or whether I have any right to ask it, given that a couple of weeks ago I was still thinking about sex in terms of ice cream flavors.
So, when Amanda turns away again, I content myself with giving Hanna’s shoulder a nudge with mine.
And if I’m disappointed that the glance she gives me is the mischievous one, the one that promises earthly delights later, and not the one filled with shy hope, I shut that disappointment down and content myself with what I’ve got.
Turns out it’s not that easy to keep your hands and eyes off someone you’re crazy about.
I accidentally intercept Hanna as I’m heading for the washroom and she’s coming out. She’s wearing the outfit from the first shopping trip. The body-hugging leggings and tank, and the drapey top thing—except she’s taken off the drapey top thing.
“Where’s your—sweatshirt-y thing?” I say, demonstrating my deep knowledge of women’s fashion.
“I took it off because if I’m not careful the long back part ends up in the toilet.”
I snort.
“That doesn’t happen when I wear tees and sweatshirts and hiking pants,” she grumbles, sweeping past me toward the kitchen.
I turn to follow her with my eyes, not bothering to be subtle about it because it’s just the two of us. She is all visible, scrumptious curves, and— “Are you not wearing any underwear?” I demand.
She smirks at me over her shoulder.
I grab her arm, turning her back towards me, tugging her closer. “Did you just smirk at me?”
“Possibly,” she says, freeing herself and teasingly backing away.
This brings up another important question. “Were you not wearing any underwear at work that day when Bear was there for the first trip debrief?”
“Were you looking at my ass that day?” Hanna asks innocently. “Were you looking at my ass just now?”
“You know I was,” I growl, reaching for it.
She darts out of my grasp and giggles. It is one of the best sounds I have ever heard. I want to make her laugh like a high school girl. I want to make her giggle, and also belly laugh and chuckle and roll her eyes at me and scowl and…
“Answer the question,” I say, stalking toward her. She takes a step back, but the expression on her face is still school-girl pleased.
I back her up against the wall, then take another step, bringing our bodies together. The collision of her hip with my already-eager cock makes both of us groan. I tuck my hand into the back of her leggings and find the tiny triangle of fabric at the dimpled curve of her ass. “Thong,” I whisper.
Footsteps approach, and we jump apart. Jessa and Clark come down the hallway, take stock of us, and… grin.
“Did we interrupt something?” Jessa asks slyly.
I have a split second of desperately wanting to say Yes, and please go away so we can pick up where we left off, before Hanna says, “Just another fight.”
Jessa looks disappointed. “What was it this time?” she asks.
Hanna’s expression goes panicky.
“Hanna thinks we should… do a pizza-in-the-woods series using the Bear model. And I was explaining that the crust would be a nightmare. Imagine trying to clean flour and goopy dough off everything with a water bottle and leave-no-trace sink.”
Hanna raises her eyebrows, clearly impressed at my improv skills.
“Have to admit, I’m gonna vote with Easton on this one,” Clark says. The two of them continue on down the hall, leaving us alone again.
“That was impressive,” Hanna says. “Your bullshitting skills are legendary.” She doesn’t sound mad, but in some ways that’s worse. The mask is back on.
I know what she’s thinking. That if I could lie that nimbly to Jessa and Clark, maybe I’ve done it to her, too. “I don’t bullshit you, Hanna,” I tell her.
“I know you don’t,” she says, her voice gentling a bit.
I dip my head and press my mouth to hers. There’s a moment’s hesitation and then she opens to me, whimpering.
She draws back first. “We got away with it this time, but we probably shouldn’t push our luck, huh?”
“I want to push my luck so hard with you, Han,” I murmur against her hair, and am rewarded with her chuckle.
“Easton,” Gabe says sharply.
“Sorry, what?”
“Where’s your head? You were staring into space.”
Actually, that’s not true. I was staring out into the yard, where Hanna is playing a game of flag football with my brothers, a few of the girlfriends and wives, and my nieces and nephews.
Hanna is, on top of all her other excellent traits, a really good athlete. Quick-footed and a fast runner—as you would expect from a former college rugby captain—and…
And even though I’ve watched her run across Gabe’s backyard a hundred times before, it has never looked as tempting as it looks right now.
“I was… thinking about…”
I’ve really got nothing. Like, nothing.
Which Gabe can clearly sense. He says, “Never mind. Not fair of me to ask you a work question at a party.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” I point out.
“True,” he admits. “But Lucy has informed me that I need to break that habit.”
“Lucy is a good influence.”
“She is,” he says fondly, and then it’s his turn to follow his wife with his eyes as she runs down the field.
“I don’t mind, though,” I say. “Hit me.”
“I just wanted a download on what you think about the Bear workshops. Whether something like that could work for us. And I’m curious to know if you’re learning some stuff that could be useful for the business. I liked the TikToks you did this week. That side-by-side thing with Bear cooking and you flailing in front of a camp stove.”
“Duet,” I supply.
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure it was exactly the message we’d want you to send about your skills, but Lucy convinced me. She says we take ourselves too seriously, sometimes, and we should let your spirit of fun shine through more.”
“People loved that one,” I say. It got tens of thousands of views and kicked off more views of several others.
Gabe opens his mouth to say something else, but just then the football players swarm back up onto the deck, sweaty and laughing and congratulating or roasting each other, as necessary. Hanna crosses to us and drifts close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. I want to reach out, wrap an arm around her, and draw her to my side.
Buck trots up the deck steps alongside his people.
“What’s in his mouth?” Gabe demands. He reaches for his dog and pries his jaw open, removing—
“Nooooo,” Hanna and I groan in unison.
Everyone turns to look at me. Then at Hanna. Then back at me. Then at the piece of fabric in Gabe’s hand. It’s a scrap of well-chewed purply fabric.
“Your sweatshirt,” Gabe says to Hanna, just as Buck convulses, coughs, and heaves up a small pile of purple-fabric puke.
At my feet.